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Hot breath hits steam coated glass, making no difference to what already sits. Hands press against a cold countertop, attempting to hold the weight of a tired man. Vic needed the shower - it was a good restart, if not a waking call. It left his body aching more than before, a dizziness taking over.
He breaths again, trying to focus on the solid ground below him, something he had picked up for his old teacher. Early sunlight dripped through the window, casting a strange golden look to the mess of the room. The color was … unfamiliar to the reporter, usually he would be under fluorescents, working away. The change wasn’t unwelcomed, just easy to dislike.
He tries to assure himself that this will be fine . He can go home after getting his notes back to the station. The rest he can work on during his actual shift.
“Just make it to lunch. All you’ve got to do, Sage.” Another heavy breath leaves, this time accompanied by the retrieval of a towel. “You’ll be out of there by then, if not you can just leave.”
The fabric was once soft, but after so long it's become less so. It takes a bit before it’s discarded - by then the fog has cleared and he’s left seeing his own reflection.
It takes too long to recognize himself.
Everything in him wants to say it's just because he's usually dressed - that his hair isn't usually flat but he knows it's more. A bruise is forming over his eye, and blood has dried in his mouth. Marks he doesn't remember shine back — icy eyes tracing every imperfection, every little bump and scratch.
“Where did those come from?” he knew , realistically. They were from fighting, but he doesn't remember being hit. The eyes settle - staring at their own reflection.
They're tired and a weird grayish-blue. When did they lose their shine? He wonders if anyone else has noticed. There's a crack in the color - a small line of dark . It mimics a scar against his neck - long and thin. Had that always been there?
His hands wander, ghosting old marks from a time he can’t place. He catches the familiar sight of torn knuckles. Those were less of a surprise to the rest, they still stung from the soap. Freshly scabbed from a too long night, he makes a mental note to wrap them before leaving.
He’d forget.
He always forgot. It was lucky they were kept out of frame - he knows he wouldn’t let them try to cover still sore skin.
Something about seeing himself makes him feel sick - it’s not from disgust . The man knows he’s seen as attractive - a discomfort, maybe. He can’t help but keep staring, trying to play memories.
This one was from… it’s hard to put it anywhere. Oh, but this one was definitely from Santa Maria . It feels wrong… was it from somewhere else? Why couldn’t he remember something that looked important?
Hands press against the flesh, trying hard to put places to wounds. Memories to their echoes.
It hurts .
Why does it hurt?
What did he do ?
It’s hard to focus on the solid ground - his body feels too far away. He desperately tries to grab the counter again as he sways, it's not much help. The cold should be grounding him, but it's warmed up by now. It feels as far from him as the floor.
He blinks slowly, eyes readjusting to the poor lighting of the bathroom. His back is pressed against a still damp floor, it takes a moment for it to register.
How long had he been out?
His head hurt. His body hurt - it always did, it seemed. Slowly, he pulls himself to sitting, checking quickly for any injuries.
His breath falls heavy as he tries to fight off an encroaching dizziness. His hands are flush to the linoleum beneath him.
He's tired . Maybe they won't notice if he stays back today.
He hopes so.