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Barry Berkman had had a crazy day but if he left it at that then he wouldn't be able to talk about everything else, wouldn't he? And he couldn't do that right now. His eyes throbbed. The spot where he'd been stabbed in his back stung--even if Fucches had said over and over again that he had patched him up
(with superglue no less)
and honestly? Barry was shocked that he hadn't broken his nose. Or his ribs. Or like, an arm or something. Because his body felt worse than it had in awhile.
He saw the car that he was supposed to get into. He could see Fucches in the front seat, and his friend was mouthing something at him, his eyes wide and bloodshot, hands still fucking glued to the steering wheel because of course they were. Barry thought he saw that little demon girl or whatever she was supposed to be in the passenger seat next to Fucches too. And the police were there, running into the store that had just been fought in, and there must've been newscasters or something because--
Barry Berkman closed his eyes and heard the helicopter blades. The ringing in his ears. And he heard nothing else.
He could stop and try to block this out of his mind. He could crumple to his knees and hit his forehead until he could focus on the mark the pain left rather than these thoughts--
Albert Nyguyen, best friend, an easy crooked grin and a hand sturdy on the shoulder--the feeling of the never ending sun beating down on those same shoulders, sand blown hot in eyes--the thick smell of blood, so much blood, seeping through violently shaking fingers--
if he was alone, if this was someplace else.
If he wasn't in a CVS parking lot. Wearing a hoodie he'd thrown on this morning. With Monroe Fucches yelling at him to get in the fucking car.
He took a deep breath, and listened.