( He's not good at being a victim. It's not in his nature, but god damn it if it doesn't seem to keep happening lately. This isn't what he does, he's supposed to be on the other side of this equation. He's supposed to be the one protecting people, and that sense of failure will inevitably set in once this whole thing is over. It'll uncurl in the background of his mind, take root, and slowly grow.
For now, he can barely think with the surface level brain, let alone anything deeper. It's taking just about all he's got to keep moving, one hundred percent of his trust going to the guy navigating him — enough so that he doesn't even look, question, try to take the wheel, devote what little of his operating power he's got right now to anything but moving — and trying to breathe.
Never mind his leg or his head, fuck if his chest doesn't burn right now.
For the second time tonight, an explosion rings through his ears. They go stumbling out onto the lawn, onto cool grass and open air. The flood of oxygen is a curse and a blessing — it sends a vibrant rush of alertness to his foggy brain, but it also sends him into a coughing fit.
He peels himself away from Geralt's side, so he can half-collapse on his knees, spasming his way through chest-rattling hacking so violent it leaves him gagging, choking, heaving, one strong breeze away from flat-out vomiting up nothing.
For a pathetically long minute, that's straight-up all he's capable of. )
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For now, he can barely think with the surface level brain, let alone anything deeper. It's taking just about all he's got to keep moving, one hundred percent of his trust going to the guy navigating him — enough so that he doesn't even look, question, try to take the wheel, devote what little of his operating power he's got right now to anything but moving — and trying to breathe.
Never mind his leg or his head, fuck if his chest doesn't burn right now.
For the second time tonight, an explosion rings through his ears. They go stumbling out onto the lawn, onto cool grass and open air. The flood of oxygen is a curse and a blessing — it sends a vibrant rush of alertness to his foggy brain, but it also sends him into a coughing fit.
He peels himself away from Geralt's side, so he can half-collapse on his knees, spasming his way through chest-rattling hacking so violent it leaves him gagging, choking, heaving, one strong breeze away from flat-out vomiting up nothing.
For a pathetically long minute, that's straight-up all he's capable of. )