The singing smell of rubber and toasted leather fans against your face as you slip a pair of boots off a wooden shelf. Don watches from the corner, his arms crossed at his chest, rising and falling with deep, gusting breaths. He glows brightly, almost swelteringly so. His eyes strain on the ground.
"Did you find your size?" he barks.
"No," you snap back. You plop to the concrete ground, littered with pale dust. You undo the flat waxed shoelaces, listening to the aglets hit the rubber sole of the boot as you slip them on. The shoes lightly crush your toes, so they go back on the shelf.
A strained gruff comes from the corner.
You grab a half-size larger pair and try them on. A beautiful fit. You waltz over to Don, your abandoned pair now in your right hand. "I'm going. Thanks."
"I'm sorry."
He doesn't mean it, and you both know this to be true. You turn without a response, leaving him in the storage room. The night air ruffles your hair as you step outside. After his response at the beach, Don simply just wandered off in a stupor of rage, erupting with explosions of nitro. He yelled a multitude of profanities, but his unclear annunciation made all his comments unheard. You just watched his rampage, only departing to the Leviathan when he came back, brimming with heat and fire. He just snapped at you to follow to get your shoes.
"Dude, please..." Don's voice trails after you, and his footsteps rumble closer.
You pick up the pace to your room, feeling something start to stir within your chest. All this lust, this infatuation...for what? To be treated like a punching bag for this maniac?
"Wait." Don's hand soothingly slips over your shoulder, halting your escape.
You whip around, thrusting his hand away. "Why do you care what I think about you?"
Don deflates a bit, his shoulders sinking and posture decaying. "You are my advisor. I've never had one of those before."
"The hell does that have to do with anything?" You choke back a sob. You are a military trained.
"I..." Don rubs the back of his neck. "I don't..." To your surprise, his fingers leap to his mouth as a small wail escapes him. He scratches at his chest. "Sorry. I'm cutting back, uh, the nitro. I've been, um, I don't know. I...I like you, Y/N. Like I feel you are someone who listens to me."
"You don't listen to me."
"I know. I've made a mistake. A big fucking mistake. I'm just...just...hold on." Don places his hands on his hips, turning his attention toward the shuffling waves rolling down to the end of the horizon. "I don't feel that this role has been clear about your responsibilities. This is a role that I wanted to find someone strong for. Someone who just kept people in line. But The Machinist...she added some expectations. She wanted to give me someone who can reason with me. Be the middleman between me and the people I need to speak with. Someone who is able to talk where I can only yell.
"I remember meeting you a couple times at the Rig. You were always in charge of the nitro, making sure the machines are working. Do you remember those times?"
"Yes."
Don would have a weekly voyage over to the facility, checking on the production facilities and asking for updates. When he would inevitably meander to the lower levels of the rig, where the bright nitro pumps reside, you and him would chat about the science of the chemical. Don would ask about where it comes from, how it interacts with his body. You would always answer in a professional manner, not making any hint that you watched him with lustful eyes. It would excite you when he would chat away. He never fully understood the ins and outs of the Rig, but his genuine fascination was enough.
"I liked you. I liked how you spoke," Don continues. "You never seemed afraid of me, which I liked. You just didn't really seem to care that I was...Don. You just talked to me like how you talk to everyone else. Just a person. Not some lunatic!" Don breaks down into a flurry of sobs, his tears rolling out from under his mask. They are an odd color, as if tinged with pink lemonade.
You snag his arm and pull him up the stairs to your bedroom, pushing him into the cold darkness. You flip on the light and shut the door behind you, slicing off his gaudy sounds from any ears unfortunate to hear.
"Don, what is the matter?"
"I went too far," Don wails. "I lost sight of what I wanted and just let this," he gestures to his body, filled with looping tubes. "take over. I wanted the strength to protect people, but this shit fucked with my head! And everyone just went with it!" Don buries his head in his hands, his fingers shaking as they try to dig into his masked temples. "And I just decided to take off a small dose because it was making me, uh, have problems. But now, the clarity is coming back. What the hell is happening? I feel like I've been in a void for months."
You nibble on your lip as you listen to him spill his soul. You sit on the bed, and Don stares softly at the spot next to you. You scoot over a bit, and he settles down awkwardly beside you.
"Sorry," he whimpers.
"Stop saying that."
"Sorry."
You lean against the footboard of the bed. "I don't know what to say about all this. I was brought on as general, not advisor. And not therapist. I'm not trained to provide therapy. I can listen, if that is what you want me to do. I'll need some time to process this shift in responsibilities before I am ready to keep going. I might not want to keep going. I just know you are going through...this, but I don't know how much I can help you."
Don nods contemplatively.
"I would appreciate it if...we can have a meeting with The Machinist and Scarr. Or just me and them. I need to know what they want me to do."