deadlyhairpin | Reincarnation AU (For intheashes)

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Reincarnation AU (For intheashes)

Dr. Byeong-Lee Kim was good at his job. Which, considering the lack of support and funding he normally received, was a bit of a miracle, in of itself. Add into that the additional factor that, sometimes, he felt as though he were the one going crazy, and he was walking, breathing proof of a higher power. Not that anyone would know that last fact, of course. Billy didn't get to be a well-respected psychiatrist by airing his own dirty laundry around for people to look at.

Hypocritical? Maybe. But he'd felt for a good chunk of his life that he was meant to help people. And as long as he was still able to do that, he wasn't about to do something stupid and throw it all away.

Which was why, this morning, instead of doing what should have been the smart thing and cancel all of his appointments, he was instead sitting behind his desk and typing out notes on his computer. Sipping at the coffee his administrative assistant had brought him. Humming to himself. Anything other than thinking about that damned dream he'd had, last night. The same one he'd been having all week that he didn't understand and couldn't seem to get away from.

A man on a horse, beside him. A strong cigarette getting passed from hand to hand. Stolen kisses. Locked doors. Bullet wounds and the sound of breaking wood as something precious fell. Broke on the ground below. A man laughing beside him. 'Wherever I go, Billy goes'.

"Dr. Kim," the assistant interrupted, knocking on the door. "Your first appointment has arrived."

Byeong-Lee looked over his notes and found the paperwork he needed, glad for a distraction. "Send him in," he said with a wave, making some preliminary notes on the record. Planning his questions.

'I knew you'd come back.'

He lets out a small groan, rubbing at his eyes hard with the palms of his hand. "Stop it," he grumbled to himself, trying to will the dream away. Why? Why was it so vivid? Why could he seem to feel it? Remember it as though he'd been on that horse, himself? He groaned again and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to just push it all away. He had work to do. People to help.

"Retrouvez votre bonne nuit," he reminds himself quietly.

And then looks up, ready to start whatever the day had prepared for him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It was like clockwork really. Go on deployment. Come back. Go to the shinks. Go back to deployment. It works. It's worked since the day he had forged his parents signatures on the permission to join up a year early. Sergeant First Class John G. Robeson has been in the Army since he was 17. He's been over seas more than he's been at home, always volunteering to go over, always eager to get back out there. Anything others than staying home. When he's away, when the bullets are flying, he can't think about those days when he swears that he was someone else in his own body. Like he's not quite him.

It's always right when he wakes up after particularly vivid dreams. Dreams of a huge house in a state he's never lived in. Of cannon fire and the smell of smoke and powder that sound nothing and everything like the IEDs and mortors. The feel of strong arms around him and the brush of a thin mustache. The sounds of a bell and rapid fire. Falling. A flat deadpanned look but a sparkle in onyx eyes. That's funny.

When he's at war, those things are only a whisper to what's happening all around him. But when he's home, he can't seem to get around it. It's always there, back strong as ever. And so he volunteers again and again has to go to the doctors to get cleared to go back so soon.

He's done this so long that he knows just what to say to them. He knows what to tell the Docs and what not to. He can do these wellness visits in his sleep. He's already prepared when he walks into the office to plop himself on the couch to get started. He usually starts off with a friendly "Hey Doc, been a while, you miss me?" But it's not the usual doctor. They must have moved them around while he was overseas this last time.

Instead of Doctor Smith, there's another man in his place. A man that makes him start a little. A man who looks so familiar. John knows he's never met this man before, but it feels like he's known him all his life. So instead of his usual friendly banter, he just stares, slack jawed. "Have me...met before?"

It's strange. But he knows the voice the minute it cuts the air. Byeong-Lee's head snapped up, expecting the face to be someone he's known for years. Someone he's known his whole life and just now reconnected with at long last. But the man standing in the doorway, though familiar looking, is not someone that he knows. At least, he doesn't think he does. But apparently he's not alone in his experience.

Blinking, he tries to think about every place he might have known this man. But he's coming up with blanks. Looking over his file, even the name seems deeply unfamiliar. Sergent John Robeson.

'That's not his name," his mind provides. 'That's not the name you knew him by'.'

He shakes it off. He's had thoughts like that before. Alien, foreign thoughts that cripple him every now and again when he sees something or someone. It had taken a lot of work to get them managed, but now it's like he's starting from scratch again. All because of this strange man, standing in his doorway.

He's not going to lie. "I...feel like we know each other. But I can't place where." He shrugs a shoulder and gestures toward his chair, needing to get on with his work before he spent the whole day staring at this sergeant (and, terrifying enough, he was pretty sure he could do it). "Have a seat," he offered. "Maybe as we talk we can figure it out a bit better."

Byeong-Lee can't take his eyes off of him. So familiar. Yet not. But that voice. He'd know that voice anywhere. It's like a puzzle piece slotting into place and soothing something raw inside of him that he hadn't even known about. But the puzzle is all grey. For now.

"Sergeant John Robeson. My name is Doctor Byeong-Lee Kim. I'm taking the place for Doctor Smith. Are you ready to begin?"

Edited 2016-10-22 15:35 (UTC)

It's the beard, probably, or lack there of. They have to keep shaven in the army, but there are times that John would stand in front of the mirror and a much older, sun beaten face would stare back at him for a moment. He would leave the shaving cream on his face, in the pattern of the hair he had seen in those flashes for moments too long and think that once he got out, if he ever got out before mandatory retirement age, he might give it a shot.

Now though, he's trying to rack his brain to dredge up where he knew this man. Could it be from a previous deployment? He'd had so many now that they all just sort of run together in a big mess. He feels like an even bigger idiot for just standing there, staring like if he stares long enough something will happen. Some bolt from the blue, some sign from God, something to explain how and why seeing the doctor fills him with such a deep sense of nostalgia.

It takes him even longer to realize he had been told to sit down. In his head, he swears he can hear this man, so familiar, whispering into his ear, telling him to just breathe. Just breathe with him. The owls weren't coming tonight. It's just them and he was safe. The small echo of what feels like hundreds of years ago rattles around his brain as he plops himself down, leaning his forearms heavily on his knees, a little glad that he isn't the only one to feel this.

He still doesn't speak for another moment. His brain has latched into the man's name. Byeong-Lee. Bi...Lee...Billy... Shit, he needs to stop getting into his own head like this. Last thing he needs is for the Doc to stamp his file as unfit for another deployment.

"...I guess I'm just used to Doc Smith, but I'm all ready to go, Doctor Kim. You can go ahead and ask your questions." And a part of him, for once since he started getting these wellness checks, almost felt guilty for the fact that he was going to end up lying to this doctor as much if not more than he had to Smith.

Dr. Kim smiles in a way that belays the thoughts going on in his mind. The more John is talking, the more he's sure they know each other. Somewhere. They have to know each other from somewhere. Somewhere that John would have occasion to speak French. Because he knows John speaks French. He's not sure how, but he knows he does. That strange, foreign language he'd almost missed his pre-med requirements for in college as he took class after class, trying to become fluent. He was, passingly. But even after he learned the language, it had never sounded right to him. Never quite sounded like he thought it would. But he still had no idea why.

'Maybe,' his mind supplied, 'You should ask him to say something'.

Byeong-Lee shakes his head, dismissing the thought the moment it comes, even if that might look strange to his current client. He needs to get a grip on himself. Before John walks out and reports him as having some sort of breakdown. Who would come to him, then? He just needs to...concentrate.

Taking a deep inhale, he keeps his smile pasted on and starts to dive into the job at hand.

"Right. So, I see from your record you've been to a few of these, so far. I'll try not to bore you too much."

He takes out a notepad and puts John's name on the top before holding it at an angle that the soldier can't read.

"Let's start at the most basic. How are you doing, lately? Since you came back from deployment, at any rate?" He looks back at his file and makes a small note before any response is given. "I'll let you know now, I expect a better answer than 'fine'. I don't think extrapolating a bit will be a problem for you."

Which...is true. He doesn't know how he knows its true. But it is. But, still. He's just met this man. He should have no idea how talkative or not he is.

"Sorry," he mumbles, the smile fading a bit. "Just. Ignore that. Go on."

At least he's not the only one staring. That, at least is something. It's driving him to distraction, trying to put his finger on the pulse of where he's met this doctor. Each instance comes up short and he's left questioning himself more and more. It's even harder each time he looks too hard at the man behind the desk and thinks that that wasn't where this man was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to be sedentary, trapped behind a desk all day. He's supposed to be moving, smooth, fluid, graceful, a shadow right next to him. A shadow with those slim hips brimming with knives. It makes him almost want to get off the couch and walk over to peek, to see if that belt is there. It's a stupid thought though. Of course it's not.

He huffs to himself and lounges a little more. There's an echo of another man there. That somber stately lean that takes up far too much space, making him look more important than he really is as well as more open and friendly. Only one arm moves to drape across the couch and it feels like all the world like someone should be leaning up against it. He ignores that feeling for the task at hand.

"You're not wrong." He says after a moment. "I have been to more than just a few of these. I know the drill, doc." He's about to give his well rehearsed answer when he's told to actually extrapolate and for a moment, he just stares, before he's laughing, a rich warm guffaw that fills up the room, just as it had done far too long ago in those rare occasions that he could actually laugh.

"Doc Smith warmed me all about you didn't he. Bet he left you a note that said 'this one won't shut the hell up, even when asked nicely'. Sad to say it's true and it'll take more than my allotted hour if I really get going." He's avoiding the question though. Outright avoiding it. For the most part.

"But I really am fine. Everything is just like I remember it from last time I was back. I feel great. I sleep great." He doesn't, but he knows what to say and he knows how to make it sound believable. "Everything is great. Except for the food, but what can you do, hmm? Army food is army food, no matter where you go. "It's all great." He pauses a little, and anticipates the fact that the question always comes. If it's so great, then why do you want to go back so soon? So he's just going to head it off. "It's just...a little boring, you know. And there are still guys over there. Guys like me that I can help out. I heard there was a unit going over in a couple weeks and I was going to put in for it. They have a slot for me open and I'm ready to go back. They get someone whose been there already and already been trained. It's a win win all around, don't you think so, Doc?"

The truth of the matter is that Dr. Smith gave Byeong-Lee precious little in regards to John. His notes said, rather succinctly, that he was a career, liked deployment to cut the boredom of day-to-day civilian life, had no real warning signs present, and should be recommended for whatever tour he'd inevitably sign up for, next. And since Dr. Smith was very well thought of in the field, Byeong-Lee had no real reason to doubt any of that. Indeed, all of his notes, so far, had seemed to be right on target.

So he doesn't understand why, right now, he's so confident that John is lying.

He makes a few notes on his paper and hums to whatever John is saying. His eyes dart up at the preemptive answer to the question he was about to ask next. John knows this game. And he knows how to play it. But there's absolutely nothing to indicate that he's being less than truthful, so Byeong-Lee is absolutely boggled by why he's so suspicious of every single answer he receives.

Humming again, he plays back what he's heard, so far. Textbook perfect answers. Just what someone would want to hear from a soldier that was both good at their job and eager for more; he's sure there's a line of people just waiting for his stamp of approval to get their claws into this little war machine. Put him out on the front line and watch him take the enemy down.

He looks over the records again and back at John. And the suspicion is growing, still without any just cause. But he knows it. Knows that John is lying through his teeth. He's not sure why or how but he knows it as concretely as he knows his reflection. Most days.

Distantly, he's almost certain he can hear an owl, hooting.

"How are the nightmares?" He hears someone ask. It's only a second or two later that he realizes it had been him. Which is strange. Since that question was supposed to be 'Do you have nightmares' and it's much further down the list.

He blinks, unsure of himself, but his instincts are alive. So he trusts them. Trusts a voice that doesn't seem to be entirely his own to get to the bottom of this strange mystery.

"Worse? Better? How many hours are you able to sleep?"

He's waiting for the next questions. He knows them by the number. Thing about his hobbies, if he's been eating well, a million other deeply personal questions before he ever gets to the sleep question. But there it is, too soon. And it's not the right one. He's been doing this so long that the changing of the question actually shuts him up. He was about to continue to ramble amicably. Instead. his mouth snaps shut and he fixes the doctor with a slow shocked expression.

How did he know? John had never told anyone. He always bullshitted his way through that. He never spoke to anyone about the nightmares. He never let anyone know that sometimes he jolted up, in the dead of the night, covered with sweat, certain that he had fallen from a great height. Or maybe he was talking about the vivid waking dreams, when he would space out, between fire fights, and he would feel that the battle buddy that was next to him was the wrong one entirely. It was the wrong man who lay next to him, laying down suppressive fire. It was the wrong person watching his back while he took careful aim.

And those were the old dreams. They were interspersed with dreams of Kandahar or Mosul. Of convoys exploding and his brothers in arms dying. Sometimes even those got hazy and the desert sands become a bloody cornfield and when he wakes up, he can't remember for a moment who he is.

"I...what?" He's so thrown off but he quickly recovers. "It's fine. I get more than enough sleep." He feels guilt, again, deep deep shame for lying to this doctor, when he's so easily lied to so many others. He unconsciously picks at a wrinkle in his fatigue pants. It's another echo, another small gesture that he picked up from somewhere he can't remember. "I go to bed on time. I wake up on time. No problems at all."

"You're lying."

And he has absolutely no proof for that. But every nerve in his body is telling him its true. That wherever this man was, demons followed after him. And if he was eager to go back off to the war and add more to his bank, it was only because he thought that the sound of gunfire might silence the screaming for a bit.

He has a phantom need to reach into his coat and pull out a cigarette. Which is strange, because he's never smoked. Not really, anyways. A joint, here or there, just to take the edge off after one of his dreams. The feeling of being high so deeply familiar that, even the first time, he'd felt at home with his mind floating away from his confused, anxious body. The only problem had been that he felt as though he needed to share. There was no one ever with him when he smoked, but he had to stop himself countless times from handing the joint off to whatever imaginary friend he'd apparently made up, beside him.

Something tells him that John would happily share a smoke with him. He can almost imagine his face, haloed with smoke. And that seems familiar, too.

"Look," he starts, trying to get through this with some modicum of decorum and professionalism. He's not sure how he'll be able to, though, because every five seconds, his brain seems to take him someplace else. "You don't want to be here. You want me to stamp that you're fine on this little piece of paper so you can go back out to the action. And the only way that's going to happen is if you're honest with me. Alright?"

His face is carefully neutral. No more fake smiles. No more bullshit.

"How are you sleeping?"

That look. The look on the doctor's face is so familiar. It cuts right though him. He knows that look. It's like the man knows his every tell, every proof that he was dancing around the truth and wasn't at all amused by it. He's never felt so guilty for lying to a person in his life. His body stiffens and he slowly draws himself in so that he's no longer spreading himself out.

"Your right about that. I don't want to be here. I...don't belong here." It feels so strange to say, but he really does feel that. That he doesn't belong on American soil, with no wars to fight. But more than that, he feels like he doesn't belong in this world. This time. Like a man that's been born a century too late.

He takes in a long breath and sighs, frowning. He needs the doctor to sign off. He doesn't think he can handle not being in the fight for very long. "First of all...I'm not crazy. Just so you know. Everyone has problems sleeping now and then. It's normal, right? So, yeah, I haven't been sleeping well. Got used to the sounds of RPGs going off at all hours of the day and night. Sleep like a baby through enemy bombardment, but over here, it's just too quiet. So, I don't sleep." Because in the silence of peace, he can hear those sounds he claims to be able to sleep right through.

He looks down at his hands for a moment before forcing himself to continue. "And yeah, sometimes I dream I'm in the wrong uniform, but dreams are weird. They're just dreams." As he talks, he waves one hand a little in an airy dismissive gesture.

' You slept fine when I held you. When you knew you'd wake up and find me, there. Waiting to chase the ghosts away.'

The thought is loud. Loud enough that he almost feels like he'd said it aloud. But he hadn't. He couldn't. He was trying far too hard to make sure his lips stayed sealed to any more of these strange, alien thoughts. Even if, in the case of the nightmares, they'd been correct. God, what was going on with him? What was happening, today? It had never been this bad, before.

"I understand what you're saying," he says honestly. Because he does. He has a closet full of cowboy boots to prove just how much he understands. "But dreams often try to tell you something. Things your conscious mind isn't ready to understand."

He keeps his face neutral, but Byeong-Lee's eyes soften as he puts down the notepad. Saying without words that this was off the record.

"Tell me about your dream."

His dreams are trying to tell him something? John wonders if this doctor is like some of those that psychoanalyzed things and decided that it's all about his mother or some ridiculous shit like that. If he is, John is going to get off that couch right then and there and find a different doctor to stamp his paperwork. However, a part of him doesn't think that's what it is.

He has to trust someone sometimes with this. It's going to come out eventually. Why not here and now and get it out, so that when he's overseas again, it won't bite him in the ass. Still, he kneads the legs of his fatigue pants for a second. He hears the sound of the clipboard clack on the desk and his head jolts up a little.

"The dreams?" He takes a breath. Which ones though. He has so many. Probably the safest one. He doesn't need to tell this man about those other dreams. The ones of warm starlit nights, camping in the desert. The ones of him crawling over to share a bedroll. Of strong, calloused fingers on his bare hips, of his hands braced on a firm chest, back arching as he shifts and bounces, so full and so full of love. "Oh...yeah... the dreams."

John shifts a little, suddenly very uncomfortable. "I'm in the treeline. Ahead of me, there's units and units of troops. I've set myself a little sniper nest. The rest of them, they're going down into the cornfields. They're going to hide down in there and wait for the cannons to pass." As he speaks, his hands start to clutch his pants legs. He's shaking a little and he doesn't know why. It's almost like he was there. Like he had really really been there. He closes his eyes a moment and takes another breath. When he speaks again, his voice has a little more of a Southern accent.

"Someone's fixed a bayonet. Don't do that, you fool boy, they'll see you. The Yanks'll see you... They're bringing around canons. I got to do something. I don't have orders to fire yet. All those boys are going to die. The canons. They're firing the canons. Oh Jesus..." His shaking hands go up to cover his face, gripping into hair cut regulation short. "It's like fish in a barrel. They never stood a chance. They want me to hold fire. Not to give my position away yet. I can't. I can't let them die." His breathing is quick and straining. "I ignore orders. I take the shot... Then I have to move. Reload. Shoot. Move. Reload. Shoot. Move...It's all a blur after that. Just bodies. Blue. Gray. It doesn't matter." The smooth accent slips away back to it's normal cadence. "It's all a sea of red by the time I wake up."

His hands drop from his hair and his eyes open again. There's the slightest pleading in his eyes. "I...I'm not crazy. I promise I'm not." The idea that this will deny him his little stamp is actually a bit terrifying. This is the sort of thing you get kicked out of the Army for.

Byeong-Lee recognizes a break with reality when he sees one. He's seen it so many times before. And he knows just how to handle it. How to make sure John comes out alright and has the tools he needs to cope, in the future. He has the professional response ready and prepared, just waiting for use. But that's not the path he takes.

Instead, he's out of his chair and kneeling in front of John, staring up at him with dark, steady eyes. His hands reach for John's and hold tight. His eyes don't blink.

"Breathe," he says in a way that feels familiar. Like he's said it before. Like he's said it a hundred times before. His thumb brushes over John's wrist in a way that is not professional in the slightest. He has no idea where these instincts are coming from, just that he has no way of fighting them off. "You're not crazy," he assures, grip firm as he holds tight. "You're not crazy. They're just dreams..."

'Goody. They're just dreams... '

"The war is over."

-Which, it's not. That's the whole reason John was here in the first place. To get back to the action as soon as he could. But that wasn't the war he was talking about. And he was right; the war he was referring to was long over. And he had no idea why John would care about the Civil War, but something told him that he would. That he needed to remember that whatever happened had long since passed. And that he was alright, now."

A second later, reality started to encroach on the doctor. And his actions, inexcusably familiar and forward, seemed less and less justified.

"I..." his grip loosened but didn't let go. "I'm sorry. That...was inappropriate of me."

The hands on his feel so warm. They feel right and wrong at the same time. Like they weren't suited to hold a pen and a clipboard, but knives. He's certain that the doctor can feel the bounding of his heart in that pulse point, the rapid beat belying the outward calm he's trying to force on himself to try and prove that he's not going insane.

He still breathes when the man tells him to and frowns at those words. There is an echo in his head. The echo of another man entirely, as he's getting ready to get the hell out of some Podunk little nowhere town. What had he told that man. 'The war is never over. It follows me. The killing. It never stops.' There had been something about fire and ashes but someone had told him to just go. To get the hell out, chased away because he was a damn coward that could only get in the way, only get himself and everyone else killed because he couldn't bring himself to fight.

Well, he's not a coward now and instead of running away from the front line, it takes an act of God to keep him from running towards it more than he already does.

"No...It's fine. Thank you. I needed that." He did. It was a reminder that what seemed so real and so fresh in his mind was so so long ago. "Went off the rails there for a moment. But, Doctor Kim, I really am okay. Guess I just watched North and South too many times as a kid or something." He tries to laugh it off, but in that looser grip, his pulse still pounds like he's run three miles.

Byeong-Lee says nothing for a moment. He's looking at John but he's seeing another person. Someone from a dream, staring back at him, haloed by a cloud of smoke. Smirking as threw on a mask the minute someone asked him to take a shot. The actor. The actor who would disguise himself to the world because he was too afraid of what they'd say when they saw him for what he was. Because he was ashamed of what he was. What he had become. But he couldn't hide from Billy. No, not from him.

"You're safe," he says, mind clouded for a moment as his hands reach out and hold John's face steady. He can feel the drum of pulse against his fingertips. Against the thin skin of John's neck. He would do anything to calm it down. Anything to help his lover relax.

Lover.

His hands fly off like John had burned him, somehow. What was going on? Where had that come from? Was he attracted to John? Was this some sort of strange, quick form of romantic interest, manifesting by way of... well. There was no other word for it other than hallucinations. But he wasn't about to admit to himself that he'd fallen prey to such things. Not when he was still with a patient. Not when he had so many, still to go.

He stood up, trying to ignore the fact that the name plate for 'Dr. Kim' looks strangely wrong now, and sat back down in his chair.

"I...I would like to keep discussing this. If you're able to." It was the only comfort he had, right now. That John seemed to be having the same sort of off day that Byeong-Lee was. Maybe he'd understand more with a bit of back-and-forth.

"These dreams. Are they consistent? Come and go? Any sort of pattern you could tell?"

For a moment, those hands touch his face. For a moment, it feels like he's been transported backwards. There's the taste of smoke and something else on his lips, in his lungs. He's so relaxed, more than he's ever been. He wants to turn his head and press small dazed kisses to those palms to show that he's all right now. Instead, those hands move away so quickly and the spell is broken.

John looks at the doctor, slightly confused. What had that been? Why had he felt like this had happened before. His hand goes up to touch where those hands had been, eyes following the doctor around the desk. He kept his focus on the man's back, that brace of knives super-imposing for a moment over the doctor's slacks.

He drops his hand when a sigh and stares for a long moment at the ceiling. "I suppose I don't really have a choice in the matter, do I? I want that stamp, so if I got to talk about it, I got to talk about it." When he looks back at Dr. Kim, he's composed himself again, throwing up all sorts of walls between himself and this.

"They were a lot as a kid. You know, it's one of those things that when you enlist that the recruiter tells you not to tell the docs about. But I've had dreams like that all the damn time when I was little. I grew out of most of them." Not really, they had just changed and gotten more vivid as he got older and started adding his own war traumas onto what was already in the dreams.

"They're worse when I'm at home too long. When I'm over seas, they don't come as often. I didn't have them at all when I went to Afghanistan and only had them a few times in Iraq. But here... I come home and they hit within the first week on no one shooting at me. That's why I need to go back. So I can actually sleep at night." Well, that and he was very very good at what he did and would be a real asset to any unit deploying. He knows he's running away from them, but something tells him that he's very good at that too. At running the hell away from his problems.

It's too surreal to have John say that. Because, with a bit of variation, he it's the same story he could have told. Strange dreams plaguing him. Memories that occasionally seemed out of place. The way that he could toss a knife without thinking and have it land right in the middle of the target.

The way his name still looks wrong.

"Have you ever felt like you were in the wrong time?" Which isn't a diagnostic question. They're so far off the rails of that, Byeong-Lee might as well just stamp the paper and kick him out. Even if he refused, John could come right back with accusations about how he'd been impaired during the assessment. And Byeong-Lee couldn't very well argue against that in good conscious. So. Why not indulge his burgeoning curiosity?

"I mean. With the dreams. Clearly that was the Civil War. In the last dream. Are they all like that? The same time frame?" Because his had been. Around the same time, if he's honest with himself. Cowboys and knives and rifles and horses. And a man with a gold tooth that could talk until he ran out of air and still not end up saying anything.

Byeong-Lee remembers it. He can almost reach out and touch it. Can almost hold it. Especially now when he feels, strangely, like it's all moved closer.

"Just...curious. Might have some meaning," he explains, picking up the notepad as though he were going to take notes, even though he didn't pick up the pen.

What was he even supposed to say to such a question. He's aware that any answer would sound utterly insane. He couldn't keep insisting he wasn't crazy. It just made him sound even more so. Still, he didn't know if he could say it. If he could make himself say it. The things he's known since he was young but didn't dare voice because it might make it somehow more real. It already felt too real now, like they weren't in some office on base, but rather crammed together in a tiny room above a shitty saloon, whispering at one another, things they never told anyone else. Never going above a whisper, in case someone might somehow hear over the wild noises from down below.

"I...guess... I do sometimes. You know, I tried reenacting once, when I was a teenager. Joined a little troop up in Michigan. I didn't make it a month. Just couldn't put on the uniform. Like the Blue was the wrong damn color for me. Kept correcting the leader too. Got popped in the mouth for telling him that wasn't how it actually happened one too many times." John laughs a little. It's a humorless sound, like he's mocking himself. "It was pretty stupid anyway." And there he was, avoiding the subject, even more so now because that clipboard was back in the doctor's hand.

"But ... not always the same time frame. Sometimes, it feels like it's later on than that. Lots of stuff from Texas. Sometimes Oklahoma." He shifts on the couch uncomfortably. "I doubt there's much meaning to a bunch of dreams about riding a horse named Betsy. I mean, that's such a dumb name for a horse." And yet, he feels like he had adored the animal a hell of a lot. He adored Betsy and he adored... He has another small flash, of running his fingers through thick dark hair between heated kisses.

John coughs to hide the slight flush at the memory of that. "What do you think it all means, Doc? And if you say some dumb shit about my mom never hugging me, I am so out of here."

"Betsy?" And then Byeong-Lee laughed because, yeah. He knows a horse named Betsy. She'd featured in his own dreams countless times before. Now that he had a name for it, God. The memories of all those nights came flooding back. "It must have been a television show or movie we both watched. Because I definitely had those same dreams. A horse named Betsy in the late 19th century."

He laughs again, shaking his head. He can't help himself. "There was one dream... I guess I was the lead character's companion or something. Betsy was his and the horse had some sort of cold or injury or...I don't remember. But that damned idiot slept outside with it! In the stable when it was the middle of February! And I couldn't sleep without him, so I went out, too. It was frigid. Damn horse was fine by morning but I caught my death."

He laughs again, shaking his head. But it trails off because that didn't feel like the sort of episode a children's TV show would have. And he was young when he had it. Somehow able to understand even then what it meant to be so completely in love with someone that you'd sleep outside in the snow, just because you couldn't be without them a night.

He offers a smile, shaking his head. "I think the only thing this proves about our guardians is that they didn't monitor what we watched." It has to be that. How else could they have the same dream? The same details? It had to be something they saw when they were young. Nothing else made sense.

John actually leans forward a little. "Really?" Because the way the doctor explains it, it has to be that. There must have been a television show or a movie he had watched a lot in his young formative years that had latched on and never let ago. The explanation is enough to take a load off his shoulders. He slowly leans back and starts that comfortable sprawl of his again.

"I think I remember that episode." Because distancing himself from it, making it seem like it was just something he had watched a long time ago made it easier to accept. He wants to say that it was real. That it wasn't some show. That it really happened, but how would that sound? No. It was easier to just pretend that it had all been fake, when those memories of that told him it wasn't.

"And then the next few episodes, I...I mean he...he was so worried. He went all around creation trying to find to cure his friend." It didn't feel like it had been merely friendship though. The deep worry, the fear that he might lose his lover to a sickness that had been his fault. His lover? That sounds so right, he wants to hold onto that, but he knows that some cowboy show on TV when they had been kids would never have shown that sort of relationship. "He went everywhere trying to get something for him. Almost believed a snake oil salesman, was about to give him all the money they had for a cure but then this Native helped out. Some medicine man." He had been so happy, so relieved when the man sick in bed had gotten better.

He laughs a little. "I guess I really liked that show a lot, since it's stayed with me this long, hmm? Maybe I'll go home and look for it on Netflix. That's a real relief though. I'm glad. Means I'm really not crazy and you can send me back to the front."

Byeong-Lee laughs loud, remembering that. From his dream? No. He was almost sure that his dream had ended with him in bed, fever raging so high that he couldn't even remember his own name. But he knows what happened next, as soon as John says it. And he can continue it. Embellish it. Almost like he remembers it. Must have been a good show.

"Yeah. Oh, that stuff tasted terrible. I remember that. It was like sour milk. Venom. Ugh. I don't remember how they described it on the show, but I can almost taste it, now. Vile. And the main character felt so bad about it, afterwards, he spent almost all their money on a satchel of dried persimmons from the train tracks. He had no idea what it was. Just went around asking for 'gam'. They could have given him a damned bag of dried squid and he'd have thought it was great."

Byeong-Lee is almost crying, laughing so hard at the memory. He can almost see the man's face. How proud he'd been when he passed over the bag. How good it had tasted after years of not having it.

"It was great. At least I got better and had my favorite food," he says, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the fact that he's moved into a different point of view. "And I had told him, finally, that he'd moved up on the list of things I..."

He stopped. Not only because he realized now that he was either talking about another dream or having some pretty strong delusions. But because he...remembered what happened next. The sidekick had told the main character that he'd moved up on the list of things he loved most. And then they'd playfully argued. Kissed. Made love with such careful tenderness, trying to make sure the recovering man didn't strain himself.

And none of that would have happened on any show they let into a the orphanage. No matter how poorly watched it had been.

"I...maybe I am confusing things..."

John is laughing too. He can't help it. There's just something about this doctor, something that so familiar and warming. It feels like they've done this before, a million times, laughing together at some private joke only they shared. His hand under the saloon table, resting against a firm thigh as they laugh until their sides hurt. What had been so funny, that last time... Something about... Marias.... those are always the haziest memories though. Those last few days are never dreamed of as strongly as the rest of it. It's only rarely that he jolts upright in bed, sweating, throat hoarse from yelling out "Gatling gun!" in his sleep.

"That was a pretty great episode." He agrees wholeheartedly. "Just the look on the companions face when he got the treat. That's a look that stays with you." And the look he had given back, he can't think of anyone in the world he could ever give such a loving look to other than to his lover as he watched him tear into those dried fruits. He never even asked for a taste of it. He'd gotten to enjoy it anyway, second hand, combined with a taste he had enjoyed a lot more than he ever would some fruit. He can almost taste it now, the favor of those lips on his, that gam sweetened tongue in his mouth. Unconsciously, he licks his lips as if trying to taste it now.

And that's definitely not something they show on Saturday morning cartoons.

"Probably. That show's been over for lord knows how long. Probably got a bunch of other stuffed tacked onto it over the years. You know how dreams are, doc." He gives the man behind a desk a little smile. "I wonder...you think I can come back here? Talk about it more?" It's the first time he's ever actually offered to return to a shrink under his own volition. Usually, he came back because he was ordered or because he was trying to get back out into a war zone. "Least til I deploy again?"

Byeong-Lee really, really didn't have time for that. With deployments coming and so many appointments on his schedule, he barely had time to even see all the patients he should be meeting up with. Let alone having a talk-therapy session for someone he already marked as ready for another tour. But deep down, he knew that he needed to see John again. Needed to talk more about these dreams. About this show that they had seen that...didn't seem like a show at all.

That seemed like memories. Impossible memories, but memories all the same.

"I don't know that I can meet you here," he said, stunned at what he was about to do but still not stunned enough to stop himself. "But maybe we could talk about it some other time? Like...dinner?"

He pauses, blanching for a moment at how that was probably going to come across.

"I'm not...I'm not hitting on your or anything," he clarifies in a rush. "It's not that. I just...It's just that..." He is fucking this up royally, hole getting deeper with each passing second.

Flushing, he scribbled on his report and avoided eye contact as he closed the folder and pushed it away. "Let's make a deal. You don't report me for how botched this whole thing was and I let you deploy even though I shouldn't. Good?"

He shouldn't feel disappointed when the doctor starts talking. It's so strange. For a short moment, he had thought he would have been told no. Even stranger because here he was, actually wanting to sit down and talk to a doctor about all this crazy stuff instead of keeping it all locked up inside. The idea that he couldn't somehow share this with someone...no. Not with just someone. He knows he wouldn't have asked if it had been his last shrink. There was just something about this man... Something that makes him feel like he could share anything with him.

Like he had once already. It felt, sitting on that couch, like he had once upon a time, poured his whole life story out to him. Not all at once, mind, but slowly, over time. His shoulders slump when the man starts but his posture returns to warm relaxation when he continues. John even grins a little.

"Dinner. Dinner sounds perfect." the way the doctor scrambles to make sure he knows it's not a date is a little disappointing, but he's not going to let that hurt him too much. The man behind the desk is painfully attractive, but John's certain that he's probably straight. This is strictly professional and nothing more.

"You have yourself a deal. And also dinner. How about the NCO Club? Normally they won't let civilians in, but they'll make an exception for you, since you'll be showing up with me." In his head, he hears the echo of a fine Louisiana accent that sounds a great deal like his voice saying something similar. Normally, saloons like this don't serve your kind, but they're going to have to. You just don't turn away someone with my name attached to them. "Unless of course you want to take this off base. I'm good with whatever." He's still grinning from ear to ear, eager to get his cleared file and get the unit transfer completed so he could be on that next transport back to Afghanistan.

Byeong-Lee smiles, glad that this worked out. And even more glad that he has a dinner date. No. Not date. Just...a dinner talk. With a patient. But he's still smiling fit to burst at the idea of it. "Let's stay off the beaten path," he offers, taking out a notebook and scribbling down his number and the name of a small diner down the road. Far enough that most of the base wouldn't venture out but close enough to not force John to drive an hour just to meet him.

"I am sure you have a reputation to protect, after all. Don't need your friends seeing you sitting down with a shrink, right?" At best they'll think they're dating. AT worst they'll assume he's sick and Dr. Kim is monitoring him. He doesn't want either of those rumors to get to John. He doesn't want to be the cause of any hardships for him.

"There. How about we meet around six?" His last appointment was around five thirty, so it was probably safe. "If you want, you can text me your number. But you don't have to."

But the idea of having a way to contact him at any point is...thrilling. Novel in a way he doesn't understand. Like he hasn't had a phone for years? But...still. He can't help but feel a thrill of awe and greedy desire for the convenience of it.

John is nodding a little. He appreciates it and that appreciation shows on his face, soft and slightly relieved. In the back of his head, he can hear a small whisper, in that lazy Cajun accent. I hate that we have to stay secret, but I won't lose you. I couldn't bare to lose you, cher. He shakes his head to clear that voice away. "Six sounds perfect to me." He stands from the couch to walk to the desk to grab the little note. He tries to ignore the jolt of warmth when his fingers brush against the doctor's as he takes it.

He doesn't hesitate in pulling out his phone. The little case has a silver fleur de lis on it. He's grinning like he's fifteen again and getting the number of a girl he likes. However, he's never liked girls... Not that he said anything until that pesky don't ask don't tell policy had gone away.

With quick fingers, he shoots off a text. John G. Robeson. See you at six.. His fancy satphone goes back into his spacious cargo pockets before picking up his approved files. "Thanks for this. I really appreciate it and I'm sure Kandahar will appreciate it too in a few months."

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