#thatsmyhead

@thatsmyhead

Orion was alone. All by himself for the first time in forever, yet he could remember the last time he was on his own all too well. He was younger then, and swifter on his feet. He hadn't been running away for long when a multitude of dirty hands grabbed him everywhere and stuffed him into the trunk of a monster car. He didn't even know who his adbuctors were but he distinguished a word among the cacophony of voices that made his hair stand on end : blood bag.

The trunk of the car opened right before he fainted from the heat. Overwhelmed by the chanting crowd all around him that pushed and shoved him, he hardly paid attention to where his abductors were taking him.

"Up !" he heard over and over again and up he went while others pleaded to stand on the same platform as him. He wanted to stay down, while those who begged to rise remained unheard by anyone else than him. Worse, the ones who for some reason were allowed on the platform kicked the others out as if there wasn't enough space for all of them.

He didn't know what blood bag meant, but he soon learned that he couldn't be one.

He was strapped to an operating table and palpated in too many places while boys painted in white cut off the blond-gray fuzz on top of his head and his facial hair. Children on the ground surrounding the table played with hair balls.

“Tender? Of course it’s still tender you drongo!”

Goose was angry, not punching mad but certainly heavily dissatisfied. And he was taking it out on the two inch gash on Max’s temple, scrubbing away with the alcohol-soaked rag in an attempt to eradicate any bacteria that lurked within. Goose got mad as easily as he was satisfied. Most varieties of anger drifted away in minutes. But this wasn’t a mild inconvenience. Wiping blood off his partner’s face at eleven o'clock in the morning was a day ruining thing. Hell, maybe a week ruining event depending on how the rest of the week went.

This is causing Goose a great deal of internal strife and it’s visible. He runs a hand through his hair and miserably groans. He should have noticed something was wrong with Max but it was hard to tell. He was always himself, reserved, quiet, perhaps more distant but the guy got like that sometimes. He was so hard to read. One would assume they could hear their only companion’s thoughts after such a lengthy stint of time but Max had only gotten more confusing since he’d met him.

How was he supposed to know? Goose was the one who did most of the talking, gesturing and screaming.

“Bashed, mate, bloody bashed.” Goose stretched out, battered back making an awkward crack. The red-orange son had only just started to peak over the dunes and hills, distant winds blowing the sand around and sending a hollow-type echo noise. He didn’t want to wake up, sleep was never restful enough out here and he wanted all the sleep he could get. His body was doing its best. The horrendous abrasions that had oozed plasma and blood hours ago had started to form big hard scabs that would no doubt itch for weeks. He was a tough bastard.

Annoyed by the sun and Max’s rude awakening, he sat up. Or tried too. His sore bones and tight skin immediately protested and he flopped back in the sand, rolling onto his stomach to get a better look at his reunited companion. Max. The same Max. Older, a little bit more scarred but the same MFP officer’s lunch he used to steal. Cathartic.