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The blast clears and James shakes his head, willing the screeching within it to clear alongside the dust in the air. Automatic inventory of body parts. All the ones he arrived with are present and accounted for. Fingers can move - even the one he's definitely broken on landing. Vision - acceptable if a smidge blurry. Hearing - hearing. It's all a high pitched wail in his head.
Panic.
Followed by the body clamping down into training instilled so deep it can't be forgotten. This was why the officers beat it into them. Deep enough it can't be forgotten. He breathes. Holds. Breathes again. Rinse and repeat.
Objective? Get up. Get moving. Get away. Get safe. Find the rest of his team.
His team. They're… he doesn't remember. The ringing is too loud to think. He's starting to shake, too. Nothing's bleeding so it shouldn't be shock. Maybe. Everything is wrong and the wailing won't stop. There's something on his arm, wrapping around.
He throws it off, and there's a muffled curse.
"Don't touch him."
Tasha's voice. She doesn't belong here. Can't be here.
"Jamie? Open your eyes for us."
Something else touches him and he swings. Connects with a dull thud.
"I did tell you not to touch him."
Tasha again. Which means he's not there. He's here. He's. Oh shit.
Forces eyes open and they're on the kitchen floor. A chair is overturned. Something wet is all over the linoleum. He doesn't have the brainpower to care what.
"There you are, dumbass," Tasha teases. "Got all your bits?"
"mmhmm," he grumbles.
His body's coming back online, and with it the burn of nausea in the back of his throat. He lets it pull his jaw down. Let's the rush of chyme past his lips, hears the splatter as it hits the floor where he's still only just barely conscious.
Damn seizures. His neuro decided to change out his meds. Because insurance. It's not been fun. Steve says they can cover the old stuff out of pocket. He's just about ready to agree with him.
"You're so gross," Tasha tells him, even as she reaches forward to wipe the slime from his chin and roll him to his side away from it. Tiny hands, but sure of themselves and strong enough to do what he needs.
Today that's to scrub at him with a rough paper towel and tug him up to sitting. He leans into her, trying not to look at Steve's wounded puppy face a few feet away. He loves the man. But sick and a little lost means he wants his sister. Even if she tells him he smells and that he owes her for this.
He nods, closes his eyes, drifts into a postictal sleep on the kitchen floor - head on Tasha's shoulder and safe at home where the heat and the sand can't come for him again.