"I get afraid. I fight. I--" He hates that every time he wants to explain, he has to consider that not everyone knows what happened during the war. It's a little difficult to imagine that for Lark, his service is as abstract as the Napoleonic War is to Tommy.
"I know some, yes." His schooling had focused on the flashy heroics of the
flying aces. Later, Lark learned about foot rot, about how bloody and
difficult and different trench warfare had been. He hasn't read about the
War in years but he doesn't want to make Tommy leave the personal things
aside to explain. This is about Tommy, needs to stay focused on him.
"We went down into the earth, underneath the trenches. We dug tunnels into enemy territory. Loaded them with explosives, if we got close enough. Sometimes, the enemy would dig right into our own tunnel."
In daylight, he has no trouble explaining this. But Lark can draw his own conclusions about the claustrophobia, and the fear, and the absolute agony of being yards underneath the earth and having to fight for your life with no way out. There's no way for anyone who wasn't there to truly understand, anyway.
Lark stands, and though he's been curious a long time about the rest of Tommy's quarters, the circumstances of the tour make it hard to feel much excitement about it. Especially since the questions have to start now, and he's sure Tommy won't like any one of them. Especially when the withdrawals really hit.
"I'll only ask once or twice more after this, but it's important to keep informed, on both ends. How are you feeling about it all right now?"
He shrugs, before he pushes open the doors to the rest of his cabin. "It has to happen," he says, dull, "but it's daunting." He's scared, but if he's honest he feels better now. He has some methods and techniques, and he knows what will happen. He's not going into this blind.
He pushes open the doors, then; shows Lark the offices to the sides, the betting tables, the chalkboard. Then he goes upstairs; skips the other rooms completely (he only does that on his lowest days, when he needs the comfort of his family) and goes directly to his own bedroom.
Lark pauses a half-step to just take that extra breath of air around those closed doors, so he has an idea of what's inside. Nothing alarming.
He follows him to the bedroom, and pauses there beside him, taking in everything he might need to know later. Even if they won't use this room, probably. You never know. "Is it all right if I bring by supplies you'll need? If we do it a little at a time, no one's going to have questions."
"I mean water, I mean fluids to keep your electrolytes up, soft foods."
Nothing too difficult to gather, but they'll need a lot, if he remembers
right.
"...Is she why you don't want to do the recovery in here?"
"Alright," he says, and then he looks away from Lark. Inevitably, his eyes land on the mantle. It's wallpapered and decorated, calmly, nicely, but there's such tired hate in Tommy's eyes that Lark must get half the picture from that alone.
"No," he says, because in the end they'd only had the one night together once and it was at her place. Nothing about this room is about Grace.
He hesitates before answering, because war is one thing, but hearing things, seeing things, it's quite another. One more secret he's giving over to Lark, and he does so with an exhausted sigh. "At night I hear the picks and shovels of the enemy against that wall. Sober or not."
Lark looks around the room, thinking abut that. There is a very good chance Tommy will face that wherever he ends up, once the drugs start purging out of him.
"And the opium is the only thing that has helped?"
Tommy knows with complete certainty that he will, and he almost feels bad for Lark. He's going to fight until he has no nails left, if it gets bad enough, and that's not something someone who had offered to help should have to deal with.
He doesn't owe him the answer, again. But he shakes his head, looks at the curtains. "She helped."
If nothing else, Lark is used to the fight. He's seen a dozen wolves through their first change, which is traumatic enough, but Lark always picks veterans and outcasts who have plenty of agony already. They fight. He wins, and he licks up their blood after, and he'll do the same for Tommy.
This is the long climb over a mountain. What comes after is a grueling stretch of facing the things that keep him up at night, and Lark can't help that, not in two weeks. Not during withdrawals. But he'll tell him the rest as Tommy gets stronger, take him through it hurdle by hurdle.
Tommy's answer, though, makes him curious. He'd asked that Lark not let Grace be his hope or give him any sort of comfort through this. And yet, she helped.
"Tommy." He follows after him, but bites back the questions for now. He needs to get Tommy through this, and that needs to be the focus right now. Grace, the woman who helps but isn't allowed to help, will wait a week or two.
"Did your parents, anyone, make you something when you were sick? A soup, anything?"
He goes back to the kitchen and sits down heavily in the chair he'd vacated earlier.
"Mushroom broth," he says after some thought. "And milk with a drop of whiskey." That was a long time ago, though, and the thought makes him sink further into his seat.
"Mushroom broth." He nods, committing it to memory, wondering if someone has a recipe or two. The milk he won't use; dairy and withdrawals is an explosively bad combination.
"The day, two days even, before you're ready to start, I want you to drink water. A lot of it. Two liters, more. I'll give you something to drink the day before to try to stop the leg pains and short breaths. Do you have anything you need to know? Things you want me to do?"
"When you're not huddled over a bowl, then, I'll call her." It could be
weeks before that happens, but hopefully Tommy will be stable again sooner
than that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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No music, then. Even songs without vocals could be bad, depending on how this goes.
"Have you had flashbacks before? Long ones?"
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"Tell me what happens when you have them. What you see, what you do in the real world."
He doesn't want to spend the next week, weeks more like, having to wrestle Tommy down.
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"Do you know what tunnelers did? During the war."
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"I know some, yes." His schooling had focused on the flashy heroics of the flying aces. Later, Lark learned about foot rot, about how bloody and difficult and different trench warfare had been. He hasn't read about the War in years but he doesn't want to make Tommy leave the personal things aside to explain. This is about Tommy, needs to stay focused on him.
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In daylight, he has no trouble explaining this. But Lark can draw his own conclusions about the claustrophobia, and the fear, and the absolute agony of being yards underneath the earth and having to fight for your life with no way out. There's no way for anyone who wasn't there to truly understand, anyway.
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Lark listens, focused tight on him, calculating the best move: how much to try to shield Tommy from while he recovers.
"Is it okay to open this place up before then? Get more light, more air?"
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"I suggest making sure there are rugs down." He leaves it to Tommy's imagination why that might be. "But wherever you need to be, I'll go."
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"I'll show you the house, now. Before."
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"I'll only ask once or twice more after this, but it's important to keep informed, on both ends. How are you feeling about it all right now?"
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He pushes open the doors, then; shows Lark the offices to the sides, the betting tables, the chalkboard. Then he goes upstairs; skips the other rooms completely (he only does that on his lowest days, when he needs the comfort of his family) and goes directly to his own bedroom.
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He follows him to the bedroom, and pauses there beside him, taking in everything he might need to know later. Even if they won't use this room, probably. You never know. "Is it all right if I bring by supplies you'll need? If we do it a little at a time, no one's going to have questions."
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"I mean water, I mean fluids to keep your electrolytes up, soft foods." Nothing too difficult to gather, but they'll need a lot, if he remembers right.
"...Is she why you don't want to do the recovery in here?"
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"No," he says, because in the end they'd only had the one night together once and it was at her place. Nothing about this room is about Grace.
He hesitates before answering, because war is one thing, but hearing things, seeing things, it's quite another. One more secret he's giving over to Lark, and he does so with an exhausted sigh. "At night I hear the picks and shovels of the enemy against that wall. Sober or not."
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"And the opium is the only thing that has helped?"
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He doesn't owe him the answer, again. But he shakes his head, looks at the curtains. "She helped."
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This is the long climb over a mountain. What comes after is a grueling stretch of facing the things that keep him up at night, and Lark can't help that, not in two weeks. Not during withdrawals. But he'll tell him the rest as Tommy gets stronger, take him through it hurdle by hurdle.
Tommy's answer, though, makes him curious. He'd asked that Lark not let Grace be his hope or give him any sort of comfort through this. And yet, she helped.
"You don't want her to be a touchstone for you?"
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"I told you, she can't-- not yet. She can't be that for me until..."
He clenches his jaw, and turns away from the room, starting back towards the stairs.
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"Did your parents, anyone, make you something when you were sick? A soup, anything?"
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"Mushroom broth," he says after some thought. "And milk with a drop of whiskey." That was a long time ago, though, and the thought makes him sink further into his seat.
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"The day, two days even, before you're ready to start, I want you to drink water. A lot of it. Two liters, more. I'll give you something to drink the day before to try to stop the leg pains and short breaths. Do you have anything you need to know? Things you want me to do?"
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"When you're not huddled over a bowl, then, I'll call her." It could be weeks before that happens, but hopefully Tommy will be stable again sooner than that.
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