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2014-Oct-03, Friday 06:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreams_dont_dieHe's not sleeping well.
He tells himself it's the narrow, unfamiliar bed, the room that's too small, too sparse after years in the captain's quarters on the Andromeda Ascendant. Or maybe just the way the Enterprise haunts him with its subtle and not-so-subtle wrongness in comparison to everything he's used to. Even being unsettled from being trapped on the planet, from how close poor planning had come to killing him.
Not the nightmares. Not the presence of Telemachus Rhade disturbing feelings he'd thought he'd buried long ago. Not the sense of futile helplessness to be stuck here, now, with no cause, no purpose. Not the aching sense of missing everything he'd known and loved, not just once over, but twice.
He misses Andromeda like a physical pain. Whatever the rules might say, since the two of them came out of the black hole, she's been all he's had, all that gave him meaning, purpose, the tangible connection to the world he's trying to rebuild. More than that, she's been his adviser, his closest friend, his partner in a way nobody who hasn't experienced it can understand.
He misses her like he misses Sara, the High Guard, the world he used to take for granted. He's been barely coping with those losses since he found himself 303 years in his own future, with nothing left of the world he'd known but the Andromeda.
Now even she's gone, and in those moments when he can't sleep, even Dylan has to wonder if that's just one loss too many.
Tonight, rather than let himself be alone with those thoughts, he's in the bar, in his High Guard turtleneck, still wearing his insignia as a futile reminder that he's still a captain. Even here.
He's been drinking rather a lot, but one of the things about being a Heavy Worlder is that it takes a hell of a lot to get drunk, between the huge muscle mass and the accelerated metabolism.
That's not stopping him trying if the glass of spirits he's got in front of him is any indication.
He tells himself it's the narrow, unfamiliar bed, the room that's too small, too sparse after years in the captain's quarters on the Andromeda Ascendant. Or maybe just the way the Enterprise haunts him with its subtle and not-so-subtle wrongness in comparison to everything he's used to. Even being unsettled from being trapped on the planet, from how close poor planning had come to killing him.
Not the nightmares. Not the presence of Telemachus Rhade disturbing feelings he'd thought he'd buried long ago. Not the sense of futile helplessness to be stuck here, now, with no cause, no purpose. Not the aching sense of missing everything he'd known and loved, not just once over, but twice.
He misses Andromeda like a physical pain. Whatever the rules might say, since the two of them came out of the black hole, she's been all he's had, all that gave him meaning, purpose, the tangible connection to the world he's trying to rebuild. More than that, she's been his adviser, his closest friend, his partner in a way nobody who hasn't experienced it can understand.
He misses her like he misses Sara, the High Guard, the world he used to take for granted. He's been barely coping with those losses since he found himself 303 years in his own future, with nothing left of the world he'd known but the Andromeda.
Now even she's gone, and in those moments when he can't sleep, even Dylan has to wonder if that's just one loss too many.
Tonight, rather than let himself be alone with those thoughts, he's in the bar, in his High Guard turtleneck, still wearing his insignia as a futile reminder that he's still a captain. Even here.
He's been drinking rather a lot, but one of the things about being a Heavy Worlder is that it takes a hell of a lot to get drunk, between the huge muscle mass and the accelerated metabolism.
That's not stopping him trying if the glass of spirits he's got in front of him is any indication.