Chapter 2: In which we observe a night with Bordon in the early days of his 21st century transition, and his losing battle with homesickness.
Inspired by this prompt: Imagine your favorite historical figure hugging themselves as they cry silently in bed.
So yeah, super angsty if the prompt hasn't already tipped you off. Sorry about that. More humor may come in later oneshots, maybe.
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Major; or rather, former Major Bordon all but dragged himself into the new chamber he shared with Wilkins. He was exhausted... and yet restless as well. He felt that he had the weight of the entire world crushing his shoulders, with nothing to do for it but sit idle and watch. This was intolerable to Bordon, who was usually able to take charge and gain control.
That was not the case here. Never before had he felt so displaced, so... vulnerable.
The soldier's burly frame sagged against the bed after he laid himself down upon it. The damn thing was flimsy and light, every time he sank down upon the mattress he felt it would collapse! Some ways next to him, he could hear Wilkins snoring. Richard was not alone in this unwanted endeavor, but that brought him no comfort. He still considered himself alone, his family and the few friends he had were still long dead.
'Now if only I was!'
Richard heaved a great sigh as he turned in his postion, facing the wall and folding into a little ball of woe. As predicted, sleep did not come to him, as it has not last night, or the night previous to that. So instead, he slowly took out the contents of his memory and played with them, he desperatly clung onto every scrap of his family in his mind's eye. His mother, Rose, was very proper but loving. She always supported him, even with 'trivial' matters such as his violin playing. Bordon's sister, Margaret, was a sweet girl who looked up to her older brother and essentially had him wrapped around her finger. Oh, how she wept when he left England to fight in the colonies! And his father... a firm and rigid man much like Richard himself, he passed on the importance of calmly carrying on no matter what.
Yet... even now that his father wasn't here, Richard gradually felt tears well up in his eyes the more he thought about them and he couldn't help feeling that he has failed. He was a hardened soldier, he does not cry! It was too late however, for the dam has already broken and moisture dripped down the side of his face. Wonderful. To stop now would be impossible, and he was far too weary to try anyway.
'No one will know. As long as I don't wake up Wilkins.'
Strangely enough, that alone brought him just a bit of comfort as he hugged the blankets tighter to himself and buried his face in them. Richard no longer pretended to be in control, no longer remained strong just for show. For now, he didn't have to. Every ounce of sorrow and vulnerablility made its presence known: in each tremble of his body and each tear that escaped his tightly shut eyes. His shaky breaths, suppressed sobs and nearly-muted whimpers were among the loudest noises in the room. The only other contender was Wilkins' snores. At least it seemed the former captain is not a light sleeper.
Time passed at an unknown rate for poor Richard Bordon as he finally released his pent up misery. It felt like a good few hours to him; this was among one of the longest nights of his life. Eventually though, his eyes did dry and his arms became limp and numb from clinging so tightly to himself. The lack of sleep these past few nights took its toll, and Bordon, with his face still buried in blankets, finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
I know, I know. I'm a terrible human being! I either make humor at the expense of a character or I make angst at the expense of a character! But... such is the way of writing. I will apologize to Bordon for bringing him to the 21st century but not for making him cry. He's suppressed it for a little too long and that's hella bad.