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Van could swear that this path led to where the galley was. Up on a higher part of the ship, just above the mess so that food could be sent down when it's ready. What stands before her is a room of bunks. Not hammocks, bunks. Bizarre. She really could have sworn that this is where the galley was. With slow steps she walks back down the stairs, turning her head left, right.
Comfrey is sitting on a barrel on the deck with Onion. They look just like they did back in the hay day. Like… exactly like they did. What? That can’t be right. Van forces her eyes to close for a moment, feels the world lurch, and then opens them. Comfrey and Onion are there, they have clearly aged since the golden age of aviation. A rumble sounds from Van’s throat - she didn’t mean to make a sound.
Finally she finds the galley, finds her husband. He looks normal and right. He’s making something that smells amazing but that could be anything he cooks. Van settles in the corner, just watching. If she could help she would, but it’s hard with tentacles for a hand. And a generally fucked up hand for a hand. Bert treats it like any other time Van would linger. He hums happily, taps his utensil in a little rhythm while he waits for the food to cook.
“You alright today, lovey?”
He asks, and Van smiles. She knows he doesn’t understand the whalesong, not like Monty does. But it is nice that he asks and tries to hold a conversation regardless. Nice that he does not run to get Monty to translate the second she tries to convey anything. It is nice that he has treated her almost completely normally.
Van lets out a low murmuring whalesong, in her mind she knows she is talking about her headaches. Bert listens to the tone for a long moment, turning to look at her.
“Still those headaches?”
She loves him so much. She’s seen him sitting with Monty late at night getting pointers on the tone of the whalesong, the duration, the flow. Van had never doubted him in their marriage, but nothing could ever confirm that he was the right choice more than this. More than the effort he puts into knowing her.
Van nods her head and Bert frowns, beckoning her over to him. Quickly she gets up, all too happy to obey the gesture. In part because she feels comfort in others having control, but mostly because it is Bert. He just opens his arms, letting her pull herself in for a hug. They have all learned to not touch her without her initiation in most scenarios. Van knows she’s jumpy now, knows she can get aggressive. She doesn’t mean it.
There is a reflection on the pot sitting on the stove. Distorted and warped around its rounded surface is Van’s face. Van knows she has four sets of eyes, so why does the pot only reflect two? Knows her hair is wet yet in the reflection it is perfectly windswept and dry. There is no pallid tone to her skin, no gaunt hollowness that they were trying to remedy. She looks younger, no crease lines between her brows from being forever furrowed in the sun. No crows feet next to the two eyes reflected.
She reacts before she can think, tentacles extending to slam the pot to the ground. The nice smelling soup Bert was making spills everywhere and Van yelps as her tentacles are burned by the metal. She pulls back and away from Bert who jolts at the crash. What the hell. What the hell? Van quickly skitters into the back corner of the room, tucking herself into a cabinet.
Bert is waiting outside the cabinet. He is telling her it’s okay, that he knows she got spooked and didn’t mean it. Just wants to have a look at her injuries. This is all so confusing. Everything has been confusing since Katur. Van doesn’t like confusing. Her tentacles hurt. Her head hurts. It always hurts now.
These flashes of the past do not leave, do not get worse, they are just an undeniable fact of Van now, it seems. Sometimes it is simply seeing double of a person, their past version and their current version. Other times she will see reflections of herself through various points in her life - though most often it will be around the point of their third flight on the Zephyr. Others she will see the ghost of Haunch on the deck, set up in sickening deja vu.
The worst part of it is that it becomes increasingly hard to tell what is now and what was then. Perhaps all of this had been her seeing the future? Perhaps she’s just gone mad. She will navigate this second Zephyr wrong because she sees it only as the first. She will try to speak in a conversation that happened decades ago. She will say outdated callsigns, will see opponents of the past, will think that all of this is good again.
No one realises all too quickly because it is hard to communicate, even to Monty. Her whalesong would be so disjointed in her panic that it would be impossible to decipher, and for those that couldn’t understand it then it was even worse. Monty could parse some words, some phrases, but it would make him look all the more confused.
Today Haunch is on the deck with Comfrey, Onion, Sylvio and Monty. Onion is passing his cherry tobacco cigarette around to any takers, Van sees Haunch take it. Walking over she stands beside him and tuts at him inhaling it greedily.
“Save some for me, Haunch.”
Monty’s head snaps to Van, his mouth open with deep rooted confusion. What? She just wanted a drag of the cig, nothing she hadn’t done before.
“Van, who are you talking to?”
There is a dual sound to Monty’s voice. Young and old. Joyful and concerned. The corners of her vision blur and fuzz. Her head feels like it’s being stretched and elongated before snapping back like an elastic band. Surely it’s obvious who she’s talking to.
“Haunch, obviously.”
“Haunch is dead…”
What? Van squeezes her eyes shut. The world lurches again, like she is being pulled through space and time. Like her body is being torn to tiny pieces and reconstructed. Upon opening her eyes she sees that Haunch is not there. She had been talking to open air. The others are all older. The correct age for the current time, Van reminds herself. She thinks. Maybe. What even is the current time anymore? God she’s lost it.
“She’s talking to Haunch?”
Comfrey asks worriedly, and Van watches Comfrey worry her lip. Blurring vision, fuzzy edges. Countless iterations of Comfrey speaking all at once. Everything blurs further for a moment. When her vision clears there is one Comfrey, the current Comfrey. Van is sitting down. When did she sit down? The world spins slightly.
Monty is crouched before her, Comfrey stood just behind him. There is a metallic hand propping up her shoulders. Onion, not behind her because he knows she will freak out. People being behind her is terrifying, the light air of movement, air of breath, air of voice. Her head hurts. Top set of eyes blink. Bottom set of eyes blink.
“You back with us?”
Monty asks in low imitated whalesong. Van’s eyes snap over to him before nodding timidly. There is one Monty, the current Monty. No deja vu. Monty offers her a gentle smile that is strained with the weight of a deep worry.
“Are you seeing things a lot?”
“The past.”
Van watches as Monty nods slowly at her words. He doesn’t translate for everyone else yet, and she’s thankful for that. Her tentacles roil and cover herself a bit as she sits steady on this crate. Monty purses his lips and thinks.
“How long have you been seeing it? Since we got you back?”
She nods again, thankful to finally have a way to communicate this without the broken words. Monty watches her with gentle eyes, not studying her. Not yet. Just watching. Van takes in a big breath with her mouth, then exhales through her nose. Monty’s hands join Onion’s on her shoulders as he rumbles a soothing whale song.
“We’ll figure this out. I promise.”