Unrestful nights are something Archer was, unfortunately yet without a complain, accustomed to. For over a decade, he has been running, pushing himself to the edge. He'd have rather had the unsolvable exhaustion than unproductive hours. Idleness invites haunting memories and thoughts. Those demons have never done him any good. Of late, though, there have been significant changes in his life, of which was too much extra time on his hands. He had to go through the painful metamorphosis of being person not an asset. He had to become more than the skills he has, things he is capable of. It was fucking frustrating and frantic and fantastic all at once.
One of many differences he has discovered, is that the unbearable sleeplessness has become tolerable. He detested the recurring nightmares and the night times he had to stay awake. He used to occupy himself with some mindnumbing tasks; cleaning and organizing his weapons, training, for fuck's sake, he even tried knitting, the result of which was more of unrecognizable balls than gloves or shits.
But staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, Archer didn't feel need to divert his attention to something else than his thoughts. He agreed with most of his psychiatrists' conclusion that he is a walking talking embodiment of anger issues and traumas. But being a fucked-up didn't feel that shitty anymore. He felt okay. None of his problems were solved nor could he make amends for his mistakes. Regardless, his hopelessness and the incurable, congenital bugs he is programmed seemed okay. Maybe, he was okay. He wondered why.
The slurred sleeptalk from his side drew his attention. Archer shifted his head to see Victoria taking possessing of his arm as a pillow. He wondered what the fuck she was dreaming about, because he thought he heard cussing. Curious person, she was. Of all people, of all the men she could win, she took the ragged heart of his, figuratively. Archer still didn't get why the fuck an organ that pumps blood to one's vessel is such a popular symbol of love. But he knew this much-- she would get annoyed if he asks that. He decided to put that question aside. Maybe it's because you're most likely to die when you lose your heart, he pored. You give someone the power to decide your life and death. That sounded like a great idiocy in his head. Only fools would give away their life for someone else.
But then Archer realized that he had already done it before, and most likely would do the same again and again. He was one of the godfuckingdamn fools. That should anger him, but it didn't. It was quite alright. The countless times he was brought down by the life, taking shots and bleeding out. To be strong, to be unbroken, he had fought the battles alone. Everyone is here for themselves, and everyone should fight on their own-- that's what he thought. He was wrong. No war is won by a soldier. He may have forgotten that simple principle over the years. And if he has to choose his comrade for this warfare called life, from these idiots called people, he would choose Victoria Brightman. It's her he wants by his side, the one he would entrust his life.
"Victoria," He called her name, whispering, almost inaudible. He touched her cheek by the hand of the pillowed arm. She tossed about, cursing something. That gave him a crooked smile. "You're a fucking bitch. Nevertheless, I need you."
"Now give me my fucking arm. It's getting numb."
