For half a day, perhaps, he felt strangely light, loose, floating buoyant as in salt water, riding the rise and fall of the waves, optimistic, maybe, a little. It's been a while since he's felt like he could do anything, go anywhere. Like what he did and said meant anything.

Jordan wears a lot of masks. He's looked under them, recently.

He sleeps, worn down after everything that happened on the mission, everything that came after.

-- after the funeral, they go home, and she eats lightly and grows thin and gets sick so much more often --

-- all her hair falls out, and they bring brightly colored scarves because even now she has her pride, even now she is being as strong as she can --

-- he gets in trouble for throwing the CD away, because Tia wanted to keep it and now she's going to have to track down a new copy, he's grounded for two weeks even though he told the truth and he really doesn't care, it doesn't matter, nothing does --

-- there are three headstones in the plot now, and he looks at the fresh dirt, looks at the space for a fourth, wonders how long it's going to take --

-- it's a way out, it's an end --

He lies in the dark and stares at the ceiling and feels the air pushing down on his chest like a weight, feels the dull cold echo of grief curling back up under his ribs where it lives and wonders if it feels less heavy than it once did, than it ever will. Harrison doesn't snore, quite. Jordan listens to him breathing in deep sleep and feels no less alone for his presence and carefully does not look at the foot of the bed where he knows he is not sitting, hollow-eyed and dressed in white.

He should, he thinks exhaustedly, be more concerned about the fact that not waking up doesn't sound so bad, sounds like resting. He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and listens to the soft silent hiss and rumble of Ferros sleeping until he slips back into unconsciousness, between one breath and the next, without noticing.