Tim, despite all his training and all his instincts, does not choose fight over flight, in this instance. He doesn't want to attack, he wants to get away. He's unused to other people being around when he wakes up from his nightmares, and so his immediate reaction to the contact is to jerk back. But Matt's grip is firm and so Tim's hands ball into fists instead, tense and trembling.
His heart is slamming against his rib cage and he's looking at Matt like he's not really seeing him at all. All he can see is Matt's body, dead eyes, a bullet through the head. Dead before he even knew what hit him.
He might be sick, honestly.
Matt's talking. Tim squeezes his eyes shut until he sees bright colors blooming on the dark insides of his eyelids, until he can't see the crosshairs or the blood or the bodies anymore. And he listens to Matt's voice through the echo of the gunshot, and though he can't quite get a handle on what the other's saying, it's the sound itself that starts to ground him.
It's just a little, like one root in the ground, but it's something. His breathing is shaky, unsteady, catching in his throat regularly. There's smoke in his mouth and blood and gunpowder in his nose, and his jaw is clenched just as tight as his fists. He does not open his eyes, but he focuses on Matt. The Matt that's here and real and alive and talking, not the Matt that's still and dead in his dream.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-01-16 10:10 am (UTC)His heart is slamming against his rib cage and he's looking at Matt like he's not really seeing him at all. All he can see is Matt's body, dead eyes, a bullet through the head. Dead before he even knew what hit him.
He might be sick, honestly.
Matt's talking. Tim squeezes his eyes shut until he sees bright colors blooming on the dark insides of his eyelids, until he can't see the crosshairs or the blood or the bodies anymore. And he listens to Matt's voice through the echo of the gunshot, and though he can't quite get a handle on what the other's saying, it's the sound itself that starts to ground him.
It's just a little, like one root in the ground, but it's something. His breathing is shaky, unsteady, catching in his throat regularly. There's smoke in his mouth and blood and gunpowder in his nose, and his jaw is clenched just as tight as his fists. He does not open his eyes, but he focuses on Matt. The Matt that's here and real and alive and talking, not the Matt that's still and dead in his dream.