Michael was no stranger to nightmares; he was no stranger to feeling haunted. He’d had a decade or two to develop coping mechanisms, but still he woke up gasping for air sometimes because a moment earlier he’d been watching innocent civilians choke on thick clouds of smoke as they lay dying in the debris of the factory he’d bombed nineteen years ago.
It wasn’t hard to guess what was causing Monty’s insomnia. From what he knew about the man — and he knew much more about most people’s lives here than he usually let on — it seemed like a pretty straightforward case of PTSD. Except of course that the term didn’t even exist until the 70’s, so how could Monty have any idea what was happening to him?
He made his way to the gym in an undershirt and pajama pants, the closest thing to workout apparel that he’d been able to scavenge from the dropships’ offerings so far. Extending a hand in greeting to the man in front of him, he responded simply, “Michael Westen.” The name felt strangely foreign on his lips after so many months undercover. Still, it was a relief to be able to say it out loud. Like he could breathe again — or like he was one step closer, anyway. Real relief would come when the initial danger of revealing his identity had passed.
But then again, the threat would never truly pass. Michael would always be a spy, even when he wasn’t one. There was no shutting off the hypervigilance after it had become engrained in the depths of your psyche, no letting your guard down completely regardless of how safe you were. The best you could hope for was to find an acceptable level of risk and live with it.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little rusty,” he added, maintaining a casually friendly countenance even as his eyes scanned Monty’s body carefully for signs of sleep deprivation or other weakness.