Caleb Michaels (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greatamazingfeelingsboy) wrote2020-01-16 08:07 am
greatamazingfeelingsboy) wrote2020-01-16 08:07 am
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mid-Jan
The rest of the day is a blur. They get Michael back to Ocean View, and Caleb lets Alex take over from there. He doesn't want to leave Michael's side, but he has to. He needs to check in with himself. It's been too long, and he doesn't know what to expect, and he can't let this shit overwhelm him when he's trying to sleep, or he'll never fucking sleep.
He tells Alex and Michael that he'll be back later, that he has something to do, but he doesn't tell them what. He doesn't want Alex to feel any more guilty about this than he already does.
He goes back to his apartment, and he stands still in the middle of the main room as he feels the last threads dissolve between him and the rest of the world.
Physically, he's okay. His body is exhausted, and he's getting a headache, but he recognizes the whys and the hows. He's hungry, but that's nothing new. It's the rising bile in his throat that sets him on edge, and suddenly he's overwhelmed by the fear/panic cocktail that's been hiding under other people's emotions.
He barely makes it to the bathroom in time. He drops to his knees on the hard tile floor, hands clutching the edge of the seat as he empties the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl. The retches turn into wracking sobs when his brain starts helpfully replaying the day.
He'd infiltrated an evil scientific lab. He'd been present — an accomplice — while Alex had shot people — killed people — with military precision. He'd felt their emotions cut off abruptly and rip from his body. It'd been a nearly physical sensation.
He'd seen Michael, strapped to a table, lying helpless and cut open, his insides displayed on a screen for study. He'd felt terror like nothing he'd ever known. Terror, and guilt, and rage, and the steely determination brought by years of training.
Caleb doesn't know how long he stays there, sprawled awkwardly against the toilet. Tears slide down his nose and drop off into the water. His ribs hurt from puking, or from crying, or maybe from both. His head is swimming, pounding now. Again, he has no idea the full source. It could be an empathy hangover, or it could be from puking, or it could be from crying.
He wishes Adam were here. He wishes Clint were here, or Rosie, or Alex Stern. He needs something good, something calm, to cling to.
* * *
When he wakes up, he's somehow sunk into the space between the cupboard under the sink and the toilet. His neck and shoulder twinge from the uncomfortable position. His head is stuffed and muzzy, his face itchy from dried tears. The toilet stinks, and he realizes he'd never flushed after puking into it.
He does that now, then closes the lid so he can use it to push himself up off the floor. Everything hurts. He pulls his phone out to check the time. It's late, after midnight. Fuck. He'd been out for awhile.
He washes his face, brushes his teeth, then shuffles out into the kitchen. He needs to eat something, and he needs water. His head is pounding. He texts Clint and Rosie to let them know he won't be in school for the rest of the week.
His stomach twists anew when he realizes how bland and blank the text is. How similar it is to the one he'd gotten from Michael's phone. He adds a few more messages — I'm okay, just need to take care of a friend. Could you grab my homework and shit? — then pours himself a water, pops a Hot Pocket into the microwave, and sits heavily on the stool at the counter.
That's when everything comes rushing back, and he finds himself crying again, like a fucking loser.
His life is so fucked up.
The rest of the day is a blur. They get Michael back to Ocean View, and Caleb lets Alex take over from there. He doesn't want to leave Michael's side, but he has to. He needs to check in with himself. It's been too long, and he doesn't know what to expect, and he can't let this shit overwhelm him when he's trying to sleep, or he'll never fucking sleep.
He tells Alex and Michael that he'll be back later, that he has something to do, but he doesn't tell them what. He doesn't want Alex to feel any more guilty about this than he already does.
He goes back to his apartment, and he stands still in the middle of the main room as he feels the last threads dissolve between him and the rest of the world.
Physically, he's okay. His body is exhausted, and he's getting a headache, but he recognizes the whys and the hows. He's hungry, but that's nothing new. It's the rising bile in his throat that sets him on edge, and suddenly he's overwhelmed by the fear/panic cocktail that's been hiding under other people's emotions.
He barely makes it to the bathroom in time. He drops to his knees on the hard tile floor, hands clutching the edge of the seat as he empties the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl. The retches turn into wracking sobs when his brain starts helpfully replaying the day.
He'd infiltrated an evil scientific lab. He'd been present — an accomplice — while Alex had shot people — killed people — with military precision. He'd felt their emotions cut off abruptly and rip from his body. It'd been a nearly physical sensation.
He'd seen Michael, strapped to a table, lying helpless and cut open, his insides displayed on a screen for study. He'd felt terror like nothing he'd ever known. Terror, and guilt, and rage, and the steely determination brought by years of training.
Caleb doesn't know how long he stays there, sprawled awkwardly against the toilet. Tears slide down his nose and drop off into the water. His ribs hurt from puking, or from crying, or maybe from both. His head is swimming, pounding now. Again, he has no idea the full source. It could be an empathy hangover, or it could be from puking, or it could be from crying.
He wishes Adam were here. He wishes Clint were here, or Rosie, or Alex Stern. He needs something good, something calm, to cling to.
When he wakes up, he's somehow sunk into the space between the cupboard under the sink and the toilet. His neck and shoulder twinge from the uncomfortable position. His head is stuffed and muzzy, his face itchy from dried tears. The toilet stinks, and he realizes he'd never flushed after puking into it.
He does that now, then closes the lid so he can use it to push himself up off the floor. Everything hurts. He pulls his phone out to check the time. It's late, after midnight. Fuck. He'd been out for awhile.
He washes his face, brushes his teeth, then shuffles out into the kitchen. He needs to eat something, and he needs water. His head is pounding. He texts Clint and Rosie to let them know he won't be in school for the rest of the week.
His stomach twists anew when he realizes how bland and blank the text is. How similar it is to the one he'd gotten from Michael's phone. He adds a few more messages — I'm okay, just need to take care of a friend. Could you grab my homework and shit? — then pours himself a water, pops a Hot Pocket into the microwave, and sits heavily on the stool at the counter.
That's when everything comes rushing back, and he finds himself crying again, like a fucking loser.
His life is so fucked up.