Central is in the woods.
He can't remember how he got here, why he's running, but he smells smoke and hears ringing so he's running, feet skidding on the leaf litter and tree branches slapping into him.
There's gunshots somewhere in the trees, and he thinks he can hear … screaming? He knows those voices. He remembers those voices. He's alone.
Central is on the floor. There is smoke choking him now, fire burning around him. He's staring, frozen in a half crouch in the doorway to the bridge, because a Muton has just rushed the Commander and slammed its gun across their head, has picked them up, has laid its eyes on him.
His hands are shaking when he fires at it, and he misses. The Muton charges at him. He ducks, as if that's going to do anything, yelps as he's slammed back to the floor. He's alone.
He's at the shadow dealer's house. Shaking and cold and sick. He hasn't found the Avenger yet, hasn't found the Shens yet, is alone and alone and alone and alone. Shady knows this.
Shady hurts him.
The world is dark.
He's cold. That's the first thing he knows. He's cold. The world is moving too slowly. He's strapped down? He can't move.
Central tries. He kicks, he screams, he bites at the inhuman hands until they move to jab something into his neck and then he knows nothing except that he is alone.
When the world comes back, he's being held down against the dark wood floor of Shady's house. Human hands this time, and he is kicking and screaming for help, but the drugs are kicking in and he knows he's running out of time. He's alone here. He's alone. He's alone. He's alone.
He's alone.
He's—
"Wake up!"
He opens his eyes, still thrashing, jaws snapping at the air. Someone is touching him then, gingerly leading him back to the mattress where he lies on his back and heaves breaths.
He remembers now where he is (the Templar HQ, in a bedroom) and how he got there (sleeping with Geist's right hand Jeriah). He lets out a long shuddering noise through his lips. .
Jeriah is looking at him, eyes soft. "Are you alright?"
"No," he says, and his throat rasps. "No, I'm not."
"Can you tell me your name? What date it is? Where you are?"
"My name is John Bradford and it's … it's…" His heart is racing. He can't think over the thundering.
It's 2015.
(The base is burning.)
No.
It's 2020.
(Shady is—)
No.
It's…2029? 2030? 2031? He can't remember exactly, but it's one of those.
What did the Commander always say, always do when either of them got triggered? Something they learned and taught him. Some grounding exercise. He can't remember the specifics— look, touch, smell, feel. Something about the current surroundings. And breathing.
He tries to do what he can remember, because they'd want him to try.
He can see Jeriah, who's saying something that Central can't hear over the blood in his ears. He sees a desk and a chair, his sweater and an unlit candle.
A breath.
He hears his own breathing— heavy and ragged and scared scared scared. He hears Jeriah murmuring something about safety. Ha.
A breath.
He feels his weight against the bed. The cold air against his skin. The softness of the blanket. Well, more of a scratchiness, really.
Jeriah is sitting quietly, watching him with sad eyes. "Can I touch you?" they ask. "Would that help?"
"No," he says. "Please don't."
"Ok, I won't. Do you want anything? Water, light—"
"Sweater, please."
Jeriah sits up, reaches over and grabs the sweater off the chair, gently dropping it into Central's lap. He fumbles with it, trying to put it on, but his hands are shaking so much.
oh no! what's wrong! what happened!
"Nightmare," he says.
oh…usually I make sure those don't happen. I think. I'm here, I'm here! I'm gonna help!
"I'm never taking you off again," he says, and fails a third time to get it over his head.
"Do you want help?" Jeriah asks.
"Yes," Central says, and he wants to cry. Jeriah softly helps him realign the sweater and properly pull it on. The sweater hugs him tightly, and he rubs a sleeve between his trembling fingers.
"Any better?" asks Jeriah.
He does not answer. His hands are wandering for his flask; he finds it, realizes it's empty. That will not stand. He makes to stand up. Jeriah stops him without touching him, by raising an eyebrow.
"Empty," he says, shaking the flask at them.
"I'm not leaving you by yourself," Jeriah says as Central gets up. They stand, putting back on clothes as they go, and he allows them to take the lead.
Jeriah takes Central down the hall and around a corner, and down another hall. As he walks, he takes deep breaths, feels the weight of his own body as he follows the Templar into what he supposed is their take on a bar - there's a lot more seating areas then he's used to seeing.
Jeriah pauses at the bar side. "What do you want?" they ask.
"Whatever's the strongest," he says, and hands the flask to them. He sees Jeriah frown but they take it anyway and turn away from Central to the shelves along the bar wall.
he knows too… it's not good.
I'm not good, he thinks back, and whatever the sweaters says to that is lost as Jeriah hands him back the now full flask. He takes a hesitant sip, feels it burn on the way down, tips his head back and downs a third of it in a few large swallows.
Jeriah is watching him quietly, hands folded over each other on the dark wood of the bar. "Does it help?" they ask finally, and there is no criticism, just the lilt of curiosity and concern.
"Makes things shut up," Central says.
makes you forget, says the sweater. Its presence in his mind is an aching sadness, a desperate want to help and yet to be so very limited.
He doesn't say anything, just takes another drink. "Usually would give me nightmares," he says after he swallows. "But that doesn't happen anymore."
"Tolerance? Forgive me, I don't know much about… drugs," Jeriah says, looking away with a slight redness to their ears.
"No, they've stopped because of this." With his free hand, he pulls at the collar of the sweater.
"What is the story of that sweater, anyway?" Jeriah says. "It's psionic, obviously, but I thought only living things could be psionic."
Central explains, about how he lost the sweater and how the aliens took it, and how he recovered it again, and about the times it's saved his life, and all the while Jeriah listens, nodding and "oh"-ing and "hmm'-ing in all the right places.
When he's done, he hesitates.
you should tell him.
"Is there something else?" Jeriah asks.
"Do you know what animism is?" Central asks in return.
Jeriah furrows their brow. "Sometimes a religion," they say, "sometimes a philosophy… the idea all things have energy or spirit, even those not 'alive' by human standard."
"Exactly," says Central.
"Are you an animist?"
"Sort of. Not religiously. It's complicated," Central says. "The point is I talk to things and they talk back. Not audibly, and not usually in human speech patterns— usually it's just energy responses or emotions or—"
"You talk to the sweater, then?"
He nods. Jeriah nods back. "And it talks to you?"
"Yeah. I mean, it always did but now it like can literally talk. Like, here—" He shoves a arm at Jeriah. "Touch it, ask a question, it'll answer telepathically."
Jeriah closes their eyes, murmurs something he can't hear. When they open their eyes again, there's a pleasantly surprised smile on their face.
"What did you ask?" Central asks.
"I asked if it enjoys being a sweater," Jeriah says.
and I said I do!
"And it said it does," Central says. Jeriah nods again.
"Have you told Geist about this?" they ask.
"Yeah, he knows," Central says.
"He'll want to study it," Jeriah says, and it sounds like a warning almost.
study?
"Learn about you," he says to the sweater.
but I don't want to leave you. look what happened.
He gets a feeling it doesn't mean just recently, either. He takes a drink. "We'll discuss it," he says.
"You and Geist or you and the sweater?"
"All of us. Better everyone's on the same page."
"Geist will be awake soon enough," Jeriah says, "but perhaps you'd like to try to get more restful sleep first."
Central goes to argue no, but he yawns instead. Jeriah smiles gently, and moves to exit the bar. Central follows, and when they return to the bed, he hesitates before lying down next to Jeriah.
The Templar looks up at him, blinking dark eyes. "Is something wrong?"
"Can I ask you to do something?"
"Surely whatever you're requesting is not to be so anxious looking over; we did already have intimate relations earlier," Jeriah says.
you did what?
Central looks away, shuffles his feet a little. "God, this feels so vulnerable to ask, which is stupid given we literally fucked not ten hours ago, but could you… hold me maybe? While we sleep?"
Jeriah, lying on their side, opens their arms. Central clambers into the bed and finds that if he just lets his body do what it wants, it curls into Jeriah's chest. He feels the Templar slowly wrap their arms around him.
"Is this good?" they ask.
He closes his eyes, exhales. "Yeah," he says. "It's good."
"Sleep well," they say, their breath warm against the top of his head. They gently rub his shoulder, small little circles in the blade with their thumb, and he feels his body relax.
When they convene with the rest of the squad and Geist at breakfast in the morning, it's no surprise to Central that Jeriah offers to come back to the Avenger with them. For a moment it looks as if Geist will object, but then Jeriah whispers something in his ear, and then he is nodding, looking a little somber.
Central doesn't ask what Jeriah said. Not on the way back, and not when they reach the Avenger, and not when he finds the Templar in his bed again and again.
He's found something stable. He's not alone. And if this only is happening because Jeriah pities him, well, that's ok. He's not good, remember?
you are good, hums the sweater.
He's curled into Jeriah's chest again, on some indistinct December night a year later. He thinks he likes Jeriah much better. Volk was never this soft, this tender. Not that he should have ever expected that from the Reaper of all people but…
you still miss someone.
When they're in the thick of it, Central is not seeing Jeriah. He wonders if the other ever notices. He's not exactly subtle with it, stumbling over what name to cry and biting back whimpers of a title that the Templar does not have.
we'll find them, the sweater says.
He likes Jeriah, Central thinks, but not even they are enough. It will never be enough, until he knows for sure.
So he'll keep looking.