Far Too Cathartic

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! Stop it, N****, stop!

T's head pounded and it took just about everything to get onto that sofa. Jesus Christ this was bad. He felt Dillon's arm wrap around him as he began speaking in a soothing tone. T's hands went over his face, yet another person for him to lean on, yet another crutch. He appreciated it though.

"I'm-I'm good-man I'm-I'm-I just," God damn this stutter, all that speech therapy and for what? T wanted to lash out at himself for being like this, but in that moment he knew Dillon wouldn't have wanted that, he'd want T to take it easy, like he should he supposed. Still, he couldn't help but try and make sense of everything.

"I just-gotta,"

Despite the obvious urging that was bound to ensue, T lurched forward. At the time Dillon was speaking to Dr. Pauling and hadn't immediately noticed him. Leaning downward, T grasped desperately at the floor, feeling his target fall over before finally clasping it in his fist. He undid the top carelessly and raised a cold water bottle to his lips, before drinking it down with zero regards of spilling. In fact, once the bottle was about half empty, T stood, minding the couch, took a step forward, and simply let the water pour onto his face and run down his chest and back.

"OoooOOhh, SHIT!" T shouted, once again ignoring the other people in the room, apparently the relief was far to cathartic too be expressed in anything less than expletives.

He looked at Dillon who had only now just turned around and bared a shocked expression on his face that T figured he himself couldn't have caused. No, it was the Doctor. T heaved and blinked once slowly, his face receding from exhaustion to stoic calm.

"What'd he just say?" T said as calmly as he could manage, pointing toward the doctor. He frowned slightly as he did, his shirt was drenched now, from equal parts sweat and water, and his mask was sticking to his neck. He'd take them off later.

"You said something about a...bomb?"

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