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Summary
He lets himself have this. No screaming claxons or short orders over the commlink in his ear. In his head. No hushed casket, no Covenant ripping through the bulkhead, no acrid taste of cryofluid buildup in his throat.
This is his thirty-seventh Sunday since the Office of Naval Intelligence let him leave the Rehabilitation and Reintegration Program to start his life and it still feels like an illusion. This luxury of civilian life. Things like him do not have Sundays.