There are details he doesn't really wanna get into if he doesn't have to. Things he'd rather not say. Places he'd rather not go. Things he had to live through that he'd rather leave buried back out with the last of the crew that died. He got their dog tags and their names and that's all he could manage. No ports. No bodies. The few that lived long enough to be infected didn't need their families knowing about it.
No, just him. Just him. Golf hadn't even known. Better that he didn't- not that he'd remember now. Better to carry that and many little nuggets quietly.
Talking about it again- it's. Difficult. He's always kept it vague because that hell? That'd been a highly personal hell. Something that he'd never thought could be any worse until he arrived home.
Home.
Where he thought he'd be safe. Where he thought he could get a good meal and tea and see hsi baby girl, his wife again. To walk in his home and sleep in his bed and breathe the recycled air and simply be Leonard McCoy again. Instead of the home he'd ached for, the wife he missed and prayed to see, the little girl he'd wanted to raise more than anything- there was ash.
Ash. Pity. And the bottle.
News from kind lips cutting unkind things into his heart, bleeding him out all over the street in front of the blackened shell of his home. No survivors. All's lost. Legally deceased. Climbing out of that hole- he was still working on it. He still has his darker days even now with jojo home and by his side. THey both did. Days where they curled up under a quilt from the farmhouse and held holos of Joyce and tried not to cry. Told stories.
"...The house was gone." A beat, he crumples the paper from his sandwich slowly, voice low and ragged. "Joyce was gone. Jojo was gone. Lost. Hid in the Immune housing, my smart girl. Knew not to trust anyone."
Action
No, just him. Just him. Golf hadn't even known. Better that he didn't- not that he'd remember now. Better to carry that and many little nuggets quietly.
Talking about it again- it's. Difficult. He's always kept it vague because that hell? That'd been a highly personal hell. Something that he'd never thought could be any worse until he arrived home.
Home.
Where he thought he'd be safe. Where he thought he could get a good meal and tea and see hsi baby girl, his wife again. To walk in his home and sleep in his bed and breathe the recycled air and simply be Leonard McCoy again. Instead of the home he'd ached for, the wife he missed and prayed to see, the little girl he'd wanted to raise more than anything- there was ash.
Ash. Pity. And the bottle.
News from kind lips cutting unkind things into his heart, bleeding him out all over the street in front of the blackened shell of his home. No survivors. All's lost. Legally deceased. Climbing out of that hole- he was still working on it. He still has his darker days even now with jojo home and by his side. THey both did. Days where they curled up under a quilt from the farmhouse and held holos of Joyce and tried not to cry. Told stories.
"...The house was gone." A beat, he crumples the paper from his sandwich slowly, voice low and ragged. "Joyce was gone. Jojo was gone. Lost. Hid in the Immune housing, my smart girl. Knew not to trust anyone."