Chapter Text
The nightmares, he thinks, are the worst part.
He doesn’t have them often. Hell, most of the time Skip takes control of the mind while they’re asleep anyway, using it like a playground to fuck around and find out in, and Norman gets to watch like being on the set of a movie he doesn’t have the script for. And it’s fine, he thinks, most of the time.
But Skip does not have control of their dreams tonight, because he’s just as exhausted as Norman is. Getting jerked around in a hot exit does that to them, apparently—who would have guessed?
Still. Just because nobody is sitting at the controls doesn’t mean the playground doesn’t get used, and Norman doesn’t have the same control over their dreams as Skip does.
And so, hopped up on painkillers and expecting nothing out of the ordinary, he closes their eyes to rest.
There’s a hand on his shoulder.
He knows that hand. He thinks he likes that hand. He thinks that hand is touching him for a reason—he’s looking at something, out across the water, though he couldn’t say where the water is or what he’s even looking for. But the hand is there, heavy and pressing, and Norman—
And Norman—
He’s never seen the stars up close. He’s never left Kansas, in fact, not in any way that matters—a hop into the atmosphere when he was a kid is one thing, but it doesn’t make him a spacer, and there’s a hand on his shoulder pressing heavy and hard and Norman—
And Norman—
You’re gonna take the fall for this.
The words echo, layered over themselves a thousand times. Norman has a glass of champagne in his hand; it goes from a light apple brown to radioactive green—
(—he knows that green—)
—the glass shatters, but Norman cannot see anymore through the blinding pain. It hurts. It hurts, and he screams, and—
Skip jerks them awake, trying to wrestle the controls away from Norman for a moment, but it’s futile. Norman doesn’t give it—he stumbles away from his bed, collapsing onto the metal floor, his chest heaving—his hands are scrabbling at his chest as if he’s trying to reach in and claw something out, and he can’t fucking breathe.
Skip tries for the controls again, and Norman can’t even begin to tell him how bad of an idea it is through the rush of panic.
The hands move to his face, as if he can reach in and tear Skip out that way.
(He knows Skip. Skip’s an alright guy, for a slug.)
(Norman can’t breathe. There is no hand on his shoulder. It still weighs heavy.)
(Norman has known a pretty good amount of “alright guys” in his life. Skip is one of them. The hand is another.)
(Norman can’t breathe.)
This time, Skip doesn’t give him a choice, and Norman feels the way his control over his own body falls away. It’s not the first time, and he’s certain it won’t be the last, but he doesn’t like it this time. He tries to fight it as hard as he can. It’s just…well, Skip’s gotta better control of his brain than he does, and…
Sorry! Sorry, just—we’re breathing, okay? You feel it? In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. See? We’re gonna focus on that for a minute.
Get out of my head —
Skip doesn’t listen, which a more awake Norman would probably be grateful for; right now, he still tries to fight, tries to wrench his hands back up to his face, tries to put his fingers through his sinuses or his eye sockets to get inside his own skull and find Skip and tear, yank, kill—
Skipper, focus. Deep breaths. In, two, three, four, hold, two, three…
It takes them the better part of an hour for Norman to stop fighting Skip. They keep kneeling on the ground next to the bed—Skip, he realizes, is afraid of letting them move, in case Norman takes the chance at control and ends up hurting them worse. And even after he stops fighting, Skip stays, their mind cautiously quiet and blank as he waits for Norman to say something.
Sorry, he manages eventually. Skip very, very gently releases his hold on Norman’s voice. “Sorry.” His voice is raspy. Painful. His hand twitches like he wants to rub it, but Skip panics and locks them down worse—which is fine. It makes sense.
It still hurts. He pulls away from the front for a minute—but Skip blocks that too, clearly still concerned about whatever set him off in the first place—
Skip. Please. I’m okay now.
He can feel Skip’s disbelief, but at least Skip lets go this time. Slowly, of course. Always slowly.
The first thing he does is flex his hands, stretching them slowly. They’re stiff—and no wonder, because Skip had them in fists for that whole time, and he may not be tapped into the pain systems but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t retain the information. Norman stretches them, then stares at his palms, then lifts his head to stare at the door to their room.
Thank god he’d had the foresight to ask Margaret for a private room. Could he imagine having to deal with this in front of the crew?
I’m sure they’d be glad to help, Skip points out.
“It’s not about whether they’d help,” Norman replies, swallowing hard. “It’s about them still seeing me as a monster at the end of it.”
Nobody thinks you’re a monster, Skip insists immediately.
“Okay then,” he replies, slowly shifting to his hip so he can press to his feet. “Not a monster. Just weak and pathetic.”
Skip scoffs at that too. A memory surfaces, drowning out the echo of weak and pathetic he’d started to latch onto—a memory through Norman’s eyes, but one he was not present for. Barry—Nyne, he thinks. The one with the pink hair. He was crying in a hallway, and he’d looked so angry that Norman dared approach him—
Not Norman, he realizes. A memory through his eyes, but one Skip is sharing with him intentionally.
Nobody will think you’re weak or pathetic for crying, Skip says, and he uses the memory as proof. Look.
Norman shuts their eyes, but he doesn’t pay much attention to the memory. It’s there, of course, but—he lets his mind venture further back, to poke at the dream he’d had—
Skip shuts that down. What do you think you’re doing?
“Nothing,” Norman replies immediately. Defensive. “Just—shut up.”
Why are you—are you trying to make yourself panic more?
“I told you to shut up.” He’s on his feet now, only steady because Skip is helping him. “I’m gonna go shower or something.”
Okay.
Norman waits, but Skip does not leave, not even when Norman prods him, trying to push him back.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” he says.
I know. But I don’t want to leave you alone.
“What do you think I’m gonna do?” Norman laughs, still annoyed, but resigned. “Hang myself by the shower cord?” he asks dryly. He grabs their shower caddy, checking to make sure Skip hasn’t switched out their soap again—
That’s not funny .
Skip’s conviction almost trips him and Norman has to steady himself against the desk, his heart suddenly hammering in their chest. He feels Skip immediately pull back, but the damage is done—Skip may insist he’s not weak, but Norman knows he is, because he knows how he gets every time he has one of these damn nightmares, and strong words make him flinch—he’s much better at hiding it with everyone else, he’ll be honest. Barry Syx and Margaret Encino yelling at him don’t have the same effect. They don’t have the same kind of seniority rank; he doesn’t answer to them necessarily. Conversations with them are just that—conversations. But Skip doesn’t quite have a voice that isn’t Norman’s, except his internal monologue has shifted lately, and Norman’s not sure if it’s Skip’s fault or his own.
He’s trying to find his own voice, and most of the voices Norman knows are from the Brigade. One of them was bound to have this effect—and especially right after a damn nightmare—
Skipper, I wasn’t—deep breath—
“You take over my body again and I’m putting a bullet through my skull until I find you,” Norman hisses, his eyes shut tight. He feels Skip wiggle against his brain awkwardly, then he quiets, watching like a scared dog or something. Norman puts both hands on the back of the chair, leaning over it, taking open-mouth breaths for a moment before he slams his fist against the desk and pushes up. He runs his hands through his hair, pulling it out of his eyes; then he stands, staring at the corner of the ceiling, until the buzzing in his brain finally quiets again. “Shut up.”
Skipper, Skip says gently. I’m sorry. His voice has changed slightly—he sounds a little like one of the Barry’s, actually, and he wonders if this is only going to make it worse. What…like, what did I do? So I don’t do it again?
“Just shut up and you won’t do it again, that’s for damn sure. Now can I take a fucking shower in peace?”
Skip presses the memory of his words from just a moment ago—hang myself by the shower cord—and Norman sighs loudly.
“I’m not gonna fucking—I’m fine.” He pushes back much harder this time, much more intentionally, trying to push Skip into a tiny box and sequester him away—it only partially works, because Skip comes right back, but he stays on his side of the consciousness instead. “I’m fine,” Norman repeats much more calmly, and Skip stays intentionally quiet. “You hear that?”
Yeah. I’m sorry.
Their shower is slow going. Norman’s stiff from his breakdown, not helped at all by Skip flinching every time he reaches in the direction of the shower head. It’s clear he’s trying to control it, but he’s not distracting himself. He’s using Norman like a television. And that means he’s on edge, because Norman sets his caddy next to the shower head cord and has to keep grabbing the soap from it, and Skip keeps redirecting his hand just enough to knock things over, and—
“Cut it out,” Norman snaps after the fourth time. “Will you? Jesus Christ.”
“Huh?”
He freezes. He didn’t know anyone else was in here, and—
“Nothing,” Norman says, then, “Talking to Skip.” And then, “I’m not crazy.”
Nobody responds for a second, just long enough for Norman to wonder if he really is going crazy, and then he hears a very small huff of laughter.
“Ah…no, Cap, you’re not crazy,” someone says, and then someone whispers something he can’t make out. “Everything okay? Sound kinda stressed.”
One of the Barry’s, he gathers, and he assumes the second voice is the other one. The first voice is getting closer now.
(There is no hand on his shoulder. It weighs heavy.)
“I’m fine,” he says sharply. “Had a nightmare.”
“We wondered,” the other Barry says—he can only determine that because the voice is further away. “Not like either of you to be showering this late.”
“Well,” Norman replies. “We are. Was that all?”
“What was it about?” This time, the voice is much closer, almost outside the stall.
(There is no hand on his shoulder.)
(There is no hand on his shoulder.)
(Norman has to check anyway, putting his hand there to make sure the only expanse of skin is his own, and he drags his nails down his collarbone to ground himself.)
Skip pokes him carefully, but Norman pushes him away, annoyed.
“Brigade,” he says, his voice short. “I’m not in the mood for passing around fuzzy feelings about them. Can’t a man get some damn privacy?”
“We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” the closer Barry says. He hasn’t moved back yet. Norman sighs again, then peeks his head around the curtain to see Nyne standing not too far from the shower entrance, politely looking away but clearly there if Norman needs him.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Skip,” Norman says. Nyne blinks over at him, seemingly surprised; over his shoulder, Norman can see Syx awkwardly pretending to fold a towel. He’s not looking, but he’s clearly listening.
“Okay,” Nyne says, shifting. His arms are crossed over his chest; sans armor, both of them, their muscles are bulging out, and Norman is reminded once again that he’s the weakest person in the room.
Not true, Skip supplies. I couldn’t stand against them. You might actually stand a chance.
“I,” Norman says pointedly, “do not want to talk about it. Now leave me alone.”
He yanks the curtain shut, pretending like his heart isn’t pounding in his chest.
(There is no hand on his shoulder. He touches it, and there’s a new sensation where his nails had drawn blood, so he scratches over them again until Skip pulls his hand away.)
The Barry’s talk for a moment, then one of them—Nyne, probably, but it could be Syx—clears his throat. “If you change your mind, let us know, okay, Skipper?”
(There is no hand on his shoulder.)
(Norman doesn’t respond.)