⋆ ⭒˚.⋆ HAIL MARY.

He said that that coming home from war is like... it's like traveling from another planet. And then when you come back, you can't tell if everything is different than it was when you left it, or if it's you, if you're the one that's changed.

she can't help but smile at his reaction. it's the paradox of her existence. she both knows and she doesn't. so much information is stored in her mind - secrets, lies, dreams, memories. but all belonging to someone else. it requires her to interpret, to add the context that is missing in so many cases. so much that she often feels like she is making things up, spouting bullshit. but she isn't and somehow that makes it so much harder.

❛ right. you're like a walking kaleidoscope. everything's all— ❜ evidently this wasn't something he planned words for because his hands just shoot up, fingers waggling as wrists rotate in alternating directions, his head on a rhythmic swivel before returning to center on the axis of his neck. he wouldn't call it quite regret that immediately sets in, but certainly an awareness that what he just did isn't necessarily the normal way to share understanding of a topic. ❛ maybe with less of the weird guy doing hand signals in your peripheral, but i think i get the idea. i see the vision. ❜ he's proud of that one, evident from the impulsive hitch upward at the corners of his mouth, laughing simper making way for the tiny crinkle in his brow as he waits to see on which side of the fence the joke will land. he doesn't think he can wait, breaches the silence before it can last more than three seconds.

there's a tenderness that wraps her cold, futile fingers. a heat that makes them twitch in ryland's grasp her lashes flutter tiredly like beaten wings of a butterfly taking shelter from a storm, trying to flick away the beads of rain that are akin to drowning, and she's drowning still in heavy, ineffectual exhales; rasping, insufficient inhales. the wings would tire. she's running out of time. but his touches are a lifeline, he pulls her closer with every ministration, as his lips pass her forehead and his voice swathes at the flux of fog in head.

the groan of protest is an unexpected intrusion to the noisy breaths that scrape at her throat, when she feels her body shift and her chest press into ryland's back. her head falls heavy on his shoulder, the weary breeze of her breaths tickles past her lips into his neck as her brows twitch into a specter of a scowl, and it deepens when it's his strain that breaks through the dither, when she feels the ache pressed into her arm and her fingers twitch helplessly, a huff lands behind his ear as she tries to keep her lids upheld a little longer to see anything of him. but her fatigue is overpowering, and the little energy she has left can't go into anything besides breathing. keep breathing, keep breathing.

her toes barely drag into the floor and it's only because of his awkward tilt, her weight feels like it would slip off his shoulders any second now. each step is a rattle, her frame jostles and her lids flutter wide before falling slow over her eyes again, a sheet whipping in the growing windstorm. she tries to listen for him, to him, at least. his grip on her wrist is so tight it can't be ignored, and she realises the faint smell of him makes her already churning stomach turn a little but at least it's not falling on blunted senses. all this movement is helping. she almost lets out a discernable oh ! when ryland sets her down, the thud pushes a little more than her own effort of air from her lungs and she blinks furiously ahead at the blurring beams that stick out of every corner and surface and hard line, visibly her face twists and her eyes close as the mechanical arms hover too close for comfort. she tries to look for ryland again.

she wants to pull away from the grinding clacks as they make her skin crawl, the discomfort surprising in how clear it is to latch onto and yet everything else lingers a struggle. a pinch at her wrist, a press to her index finger. it's when she feels the straps move around her head that's when she panics, tries to wrench herself away when her breaths hit a hard surface and suddenly feel trapped inside her mouth. it's only when she manages to focus she realises it's ryland, hovering over her, his fingers delicately moving her hair away. oxygen. yes, she needed that, and he held the all too big and suffocating mask in his hands and she has to trust that this is what she needs. so she buries the panic, keeps still as her eyes squeeze shut and lets him press it snug around her mouth. the suffocating feeling is actually a much needed heaviness, gentle and warm air pushing past her slack lips and forcing its way into her airway that she has no choice but to breathe in with the push, breathe out with the reprieve.

her breathing stops becoming a nascent effort, and becomes a compliance to the mask, to ryland's voice. there's no other choice but to breathe, nothing else to do but to breathe. so she does, over and over, her lashes flutter to his touch as her fingers once again lay limp between his but try to tighten with each deep breath she allows into her lungs. her lids remain shyly fallen over hollow hazels, don't see his eyes as they try to find her in the rubble and bring her back to him. every passing touch is a beckon, against her forehead, her neck, her helplessly pretzeled legs as he straightens them out of a surely uncomfortable position, if she could even feel it.

it feels like years pass. lara doesn't like the state of suspension she finds herself hanging in, unsure of the time, of her mind, of her hands — her hands, she can try to focus on first. one of them is occupied, tangled in the intimate netting of ryland's fingers. so she feels for herself, the shape and out line of each of her own fingers as proper circulation returns to them, her body's state of alarm finally receding. her fingers do more than twitch, they curl, settle into the valleys between his as the pads of fingers press into his knuckles. it's still an airy hold but it's a hold, she's holding onto his hand. one hand down.

the other's laid on the slab, half fallen off and already feels heavy as the blood pools to the tips of her fingers that become cherry red bright. she pulls on her arm first, a hidden twitch of her lips behind the mask as she heaves her forearm to will her elbow to bend and she feels the rubber edges of the mask as they press welts into her face. her face that's clammy still but no longer cold, warmth pinches at her cheeks and spread to every feature. lara's fingers curl over the cup of the mask and cradles it for a moment as her mind wakes up to her current situation. the fog thins with each breath that washes out her lungs and fills them anew with clean air. the ache of her chest is not gone, her head still pounds like the inside of woodworker's shop, the dull aches become sharper and brighter and it's easy to focus on them to remember where the rest of her body is.

lara is suddenly too aware of an ache in her side and tries to angle herself, a heel dragged back against the hard surface to roll herself over to her other side, her knee curls higher to eke out a little relief at another ache that demands her attention at her hip. she remembers the fall now, remembers pin-balling onto rocky platforms before landing on her oxygen tank. she remembers the glaring alarms. she remembers running out of air. she doesn't remember much else after that.

so she focuses on what she knows. she's holding ryland's hand, an oxygen mask is strapped to her face. which means she's in the medbay. she's back on the ship. she feels like shit. lara's brows tug into a more vigorous frown as she tries to will her eyes to open and this time they do. it's not a half concerted effort, they flutter wildly and eventually she registers the medbay around her. her head is a little propped onto something as it tilts up a little, her hold on the mask falters when she looks up. follows the path of their linked hands and finds his face. she smiles, or she thinks she smiles, behind the mask as her hand hold his tighter. she spends a moment longer to look at him, and even though she smiles, she also frowns. he looks like shit too.

lara's free hand rises off the slab somehow to land inside the crook of ryland's elbow, grasp as tight as the hand intertwined with his. he's wearing his eva suit. her mind is still playing catch up but she would know how that material feels with her eyes closed. underneath her bruised ribs and inside the simmer of her chest, she feels her heart beat louder and stronger against its ivory cage.

❝ you came for me. ❞

her voice is hoarse and muffled behind the mask. and it's alien to her, but it doesn't deter the fact she's put together, it doesn't balm the burn of tears as they pool at the corners of her eyes. her thumb moves inside the crook of his elbow as she tries to turn her head to look at him. really look at him. god, she's exhausted. but she's daring and she dares to lift her hand from his forearm to touch his cheek. the pads of her palms land heavy and the effort to keep her arm held up is herculean but her lip trembles behind the mask. he left the safety of the ship and brought her back. and he looks worse for wear for it, but he did it.

of course he did.

her breaths come easier now, so much that she feels irritated at the push of air that demands her deference to it. she wants it off, at least for now. but she can't deny that each deep breath pries a faint memory to the surface, even as they play like wet painting smudged over in the haste of their happening. lara manages a hum that drawls on exhausted and she blinks slowly and her fingers tighten again on ryland's fingers, his cheek. she braces for impact, but the effort, she finally realises, manageable now. she can manage a few short sentences as she tries to piece together everything.

it is the beginning of a stumbling slope, and he watches cautiously and with taut heels ready to spring should she need help, as first her hands then face shed lifeless marble for something more receptive, reactive. ryland finds he's holding his breath, doesn't amend this once he's become aware of the fact in case it somehow breaks this spell he is watching happen, wants to see where it ends or if this is just a brief lapse of motion. she stirs further and he nearly stands, hunched forward at the edge of his seat with his free hand hovering, first in case she tries to take the mask off, then in alarm as she begins to turn, lest she roll onto the floor entirely.

it is only when her eyes open, when she takes in the world around her in a daze, when she follows the linked cord of their arms and finds him again, that his hand falters, going from cautious spotter to an upheld wave. his fingers slowly curl in and become a fist that drops to his lap, the smile that paints his worn face weak and mostly tinged with concern than any palpable relief. that comes slower, a transfusing realisation with each new breath she takes, with every touch and movement and meeting of their eyes, their minds.

she's awake, she's really awake. i have to race to remind myself this still isn't anything concrete, that her head is most likely a wreck and that she probably won't remember anything of this, but it's the most lucid i've seen her since this whole ordeal began. i might be picking at scraps, but a guy's got to cling onto something.

everything he clings onto snaps like a loose thread when she speaks, her words a rasp but still able to be translated, to wander through his synapses and set them alight. he feels the emotions well up and lets himself be carried away with the flood of it, his mouth fighting a losing battle between keeping that smile firmly maintained and shaking violently. the tears don't sting, but feel like a release in fact of something that has been dormant for hours, an acknowledgment of turmoil that can finally disperse, if only for a little while. he loves her immeasurably, thinks his chest might become concave from the pressure of it, ribs crushing inward with the weight and force of something that rivals a black hole. he nearly lost her. he came for her. was it enough ? maybe she is surprised, an uncharacteristic streak of mettle in a man that otherwise succumbs to stagnancy, but even a broken clock is right twice a day.

❛ of course i came for you. ❜ their glossy gazes match each other and the deluge sweeps his lashes when her hand rises to find him, really find him, head inadvertently bowing to lean into it as his cheeks develop rapid streams, rivers, tributaries. his idle palm finds her elbow, forearm, wrist, keeps her there and offers a plinth for her to lean on as he scoots himself closer. there is still caution in his proximity, the sting of his leg and the shipwreck of her body still welding itself back together, but there is also promise of improvement that he wants to feed into, stoke the flickering flames of. then she asks him the inevitable, something he had dreaded innately but never lingered too much on. the need to recollect, to retell. he doesn't want to go back there, thinks speaking of it alone might tempt its clutch back in, add insult to injury and reveal another issue they hadn't been aware of that will now impede them. but she asked him, so he must.

❛ you had a fall. in the tunnels, i think . . . maybe some sort of collapse ? it happened so fast— ❜ he has to remind himself to keep it accessible, make the information bite - sized for what is likely a rusty comprehension, squeezes her hand without realising. ❛ your oxygen tank got damaged. and with the atmosphere being what it was . . . well, i wasn't sure you'd get back in time. ❜ there is a justification in there, as if he needs to explain himself for his actions, as if she might scold him, his glances suddenly inconsistent with the lick of shame, his thumb worrying over her skin. ❛ so . . . i found you, brought you back. i, um, had to leave behind the anaesthesia machine. and i think some of your climbing equipment's gone. ❜ this seems retrospectively irrelevant, a checklist of things lost when she remains here, in front of him, found.

it shouldn't strike her as much as it does — the curve of his smile, the shape of his mouth around words that send her heart racing — but each little rylandism serves as another blow to remind her that she'd have to be without him for some time. each time he visits, the leaving only gets harder. if she were to unpack this in any sort of remotely healthy and self-actualized way, she'd realize what this meant. hell, she already knows what it means.

but it's far easier to bottle up feelings than to speak truth to them. especially when there's an impenetrable wall protecting her heart from anything that might make it shatter like it did before.

when he turns his gaze on her — impossibly blue and filled with a feeling she's sure are reflected back in her hazels — that stone wall starts to crumble to nothing more than rubble. brooke tries to keep the moment light, tries to turn this all back to a tease, but she catches the way his eyes flick to her lips — only because hers meet his on their way back up from a very similar destination.

she should know what's about to happen. she's danced this dance plenty of times — has probably even choreographed it — yet it still comes as a shock to her system when their lips meet. her heart hammers in her chest, drowning out the flight announcements droning on over the loudspeaker.

it doesn't feel like a goodbye. it feels like a homecoming.

and yet, when they finally pull away, her head is spinning and all she can think of is that all she can do right now is say goodbye. he's off to the other side of the country and she might very well stay glued to this exact spot until he returns.

" you're going to miss your flight, " brooke finally speaks, words tinged with that signature rasp of hers. even through the sadness, there's no shaking the smile off her lips, dimples deepening against flushed cheeks.

i don't know what i expected. this isn't a movie ( if it was, i would've turned it off out of sheer boredom after the guy took an age to do anything about his feelings ) and i'm not just going to sweep her into my arms, and maybe i should have said something instead of just going for it like a lunatic, but the damage is done. oh god, it's really done.

❛ my— ? ❜ everything pertaining to anything outside of the last thirty seconds has swept clear by him, and truthfully he's a little dazed that these are her first words — not ' what the hell was that? ' or ' did you just kiss me? ' or god forbid, ' gross '. he might have known how to handle those, accept his faults and apologise profusely, but this deviation has him nothing short of flabbergasted. maybe she's trying to change the subject. maybe this is best never mentioned again and tidied under a particularly unsightly rug. maybe she's saving him some embarrassment here and he should be grateful she's being so considerate.

thank you, brooke davis. my mind is thoroughly fried.

he clears his throat, his hands suddenly stranded on the shores of her shoulders, an embrace that was so easy now something he is painfully aware of. she speaks again and she looks at him with such . . . such what ? he can't fully parse it but it kills him regardless, heart torn asunder and fingers tightening in the fabric at her back, letting go. he should go. he doesn't want to leave.

❛ yeah. uh. ❜ he's never been great with translations. ❛ but— i'll see you soon. before you know it. ❜ he wants the earth to crumble up and swallow him, wants the flight announcements to come to a pinpoint silence and cancel everything for just a second, wants to kiss her again and wants to pry his arms off her before they become unwanted. he wants answers but doesn't ask, in case he doesn't like what he hears.