[ Mike doesn't like to think of the things that kept him going during his time with the Hand. The sense of purpose is still buried deep, like a splinter he can't get out now infectious and aching. Poison in his blood. There's a small war between his head, his heart, and maybe his soul.
The blood on his hands didn't bother him before. It does now, but not near as much as it should. That he knows. Sometimes pleas wake him up in the dead of night and the smell of blood in the air. Other times it's his brother's voice. Or Frank's hands on his skin.
He thinks when they had Italian ordered in that it was the first time he laughed in a while. Barely a chuckle but something about the taste was just right. With the right person as well.
Frank doesn't sleep well either, he's noticed. Mike isn't sure there's anything he can do for that. Or if he's crossing some line to try. So he doesn't. ]
The change in air pressure.
[ At the very least. He reaches up to his chest, rubbing idly at the scars from the sai. Alexandra said if she could take them from him, she would have. A testament to the failure of those who claimed to love him, she called it. ]
no subject
The blood on his hands didn't bother him before. It does now, but not near as much as it should. That he knows. Sometimes pleas wake him up in the dead of night and the smell of blood in the air. Other times it's his brother's voice. Or Frank's hands on his skin.
He thinks when they had Italian ordered in that it was the first time he laughed in a while. Barely a chuckle but something about the taste was just right. With the right person as well.
Frank doesn't sleep well either, he's noticed. Mike isn't sure there's anything he can do for that. Or if he's crossing some line to try. So he doesn't. ]
The change in air pressure.
[ At the very least. He reaches up to his chest, rubbing idly at the scars from the sai. Alexandra said if she could take them from him, she would have. A testament to the failure of those who claimed to love him, she called it. ]