His head burned and throbbed. Not a temperature burn, though he did keep placing the back of his hand to his forehead to make sure he wasn't getting a fever. More like after you've gone through a strenuous workout and your muscles just scream for you to stop.
He thought that was a rather good analogy though. Certainly, having your entire view of the world and what's possible turned on its ear was a pretty good workout for your brain.
He knew he was simply thinking for the sake of thinking, blocking out everything around him. For if he did not, worry began to creep it's way into his mind about anything from Simmons safety, to that of Corby, but never to his own. It just simply never crossed his mind.
Corby yawned, breaking the trance he'd forced himself into. She looked better... well, except for the thick dried blood on the back of her head. That had to be hurting her.
The thought forced him to bite his lip. The scene flashed before him again, and he still felt the pulls of guilt on his mind. But why?
It's not like, direct or indirect, he hadn't caused someone pain before. Sure he'd never pushed someone into the poor house, he stole only from the rich and those that could still afford whatever they wanted, but it was still a little irksome to him. Was he really that soft? Was he not the one who'd-
He couldn't bring himself to finish that thought. It hadn't been his fault. The courts proved that beyond doubt. He'd been in the right. I need a distraction.
He looked up before the tears could form, catching the end of a hurried conversation between Corby and the fire woman.
"...you soon, I promise!" The fire woman turned and ran off toward the stairs then, and he could have sworn that he saw a slight tremor shake her. Must have been his tired eyes playing tricks on him. But from her voice something had to be wrong. I'll figure it out later.
By the time he'd turned back, Corby was gone and cold air was crawling into the living room from the slightly ajar door.
He pulled it open slowly hoping it wouldn't squeak and disturb whatever she was doing, which it did not. The tattoo of the rain on the house and the wind rushing through the trees created a serene background music to the swirling clouds above.
But once he caught site of the falling rain, the dark sky, all he could think about was the sound of the sniper's gunfire. Of Simmons' urgent firm voice. Of the flash grenade exploding and of Simmons' own shots ringing through the trees.
Suddenly he couldn't tell if the wetness of his skin was from the dampness in the saturated air or if he had indeed begun to sweat. He stood just behind Corby, who seemed to be thinking deeply about something. But what, he could only guess.