Chapter 11: Groping
Rated PG
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Dusty lie down in the grass, staring at the door to his hangar, thinking. Ripslinger was on the other side of the door, resting, the little plane hoped. It was late afternoon, around the time he liked to get a good nap in, but Dusty felt he'd had enough sleep lately anyway, and even when he was feeling a little punky from the lack of adequate rest when the P-51 was first released from confinement, he was still more concerned for the larger plane's well being rather than his own. The fact that he'd tried to take his own life had hurt Dusty deeply. He should have been more understanding; less preachy. If he had lost Ripslinger that day a piece of himself would have died as well at the thought of him showing that he had a shred of decency, of some sense of valor, that he did indeed have it in him somewhere deep inside only for it to end that way before it could be fully re-kindled.
As dark and painful as the near-tragedy was, Dusty still felt a glimmer of hope. Ripslinger had cried. Actually cried. It was the first time that Dusty had ever seen Ripslinger express sorrow. Something other than mirthlessness, cruelty, or spite. The awakening of that seemingly lost emotion was a step in the right direction, Dusty was sure of it, and the fact that Ripslinger had even accepted his proposal was a miracle in and of itself. Two weeks now and he had still been true to his word. After some hesitation from both sides and a few false starts, Ripslinger had been actually beginning to show improvement.
He was actually communicating more with the others. A surprisingly good-natured mischievousness was starting to emerge as he started to bicker and debate with everyone. Dusty would never tell him this directly as it would only make him become reserved again, but he was incredibly proud of him, and encouraged. He was doing far better than Dusty had dared to hope for.
Health-wise, despite all his apparent recoveries in losing some of the clumsiness that he had after the damage he had done in his attempted suicide, and starting to put on some weight, his flaps still drooped sadly, and that hauntingly empty look in his eyes was still there. For what emotion he deigned to show, there was still a hollowness behind those olive-colored eyes that unnerved Dusty and gave him a distinct sense of foreboding; that something wasn't quite right. And what of his expected improvements? As Ripslinger slowly regained his fire, would he continue to honor his end of the deal, or would he turn aggressive toward them? There was just no way of knowing. He was simply too volatile and unpredictable in his nature to go making any bets just yet.
As far as the strange, crippling dysphoric episodes that Ripslinger would undergo on a daily basis, they had been largely un-monitored after his release. It had gotten to the point where, despite seeming to strike at random, the Mustang could more or less sense them coming, and would quietly slip away by himself, usually to the old hangar or this secluded spot he'd found in the woods that he could only hope was out of ear-shot as he fought to keep a hold of his sanity through the violent, painful spasming of his body. Ripslinger's stubbornness was far greater than his first instinct of just letting himself go in order to somewhat escape what mental and physical anguish he could.
And so it was when he was taken completely by surprise that afternoon, collapsing mid-stride as he and Dusty began to make their way back to Dusty's hangar from Skipper's side of the airfield. The smaller plane span around at the crashing sound of Ripslinger hitting the asphalt and rushed to his side, shouting for Skipper. Ripslinger was vaguely aware of the presence of the Corsair's weight hovering over his frame as he twitched and jerked on the ground, ready to pounce should he try to attack any of them. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth gritted painfully as he concentrated more on his lucidity than the indignity of the older plane practically mounted on top of him. Dusty wasn't long in catching on to what Ripslinger was currently struggling to achieve, and leaned down into his landing gear near his face.
“Rip! What's happening?” he asked frantically, taking advantage of Ripslinger's lingering sanity
to try and get a better understanding for what was taking place.
He tried to answer but couldn't get past his pain-filled gasps and pants, the action of the tremors going all the way into his flaps and ailerons. A stabbing, burning torture began slowly spreading throughout his wings as parts of his body that had been otherwise incapable of being used were suddenly jarred into such frantic movements. Ripslinger attempted once again to speak, but ended up letting out a breathless, agonized scream instead.
“Ripslinger! Look at me! Where is it hurting? Tell us what you need!” Dusty attempted again, becoming more and more distressed at the P-51's agony.
He couldn't look at him. He knew if he looked into those sky-blue eyes he'd lose it. This was why he always tried to go off alone when he thought he was going into an episode. There were too many distractions right now. He couldn't hold it. Ripslinger closed his eyes, a low growling emitting from his engine as they opened again and he turned robotically on the ground toward Dusty, setting a glare on him and lunging, jaws agape. He didn't get far as Skipper had already planted his wheels firmly in front of Ripslinger's wings, but then shifted his weight to bring one of them down on top of his nose, slamming him back down and rendering him unable to open his mouth again as he kept him pressed into the ground.
Ripslinger struggled with a surprising amount of vigor that he shouldn't have had in his condition, his engine snarling and hissing in fury underneath Skippers wheel. Then he suddenly stilled, and for a moment they all thought that it was over with, at least everyone except Skipper, who kept the pressure up over the middle of Ripslinger's nose. But then he began thrashing again, a certain desperation evident in his features.
“Skipper... Skipper get off!” Dusty suddenly shouted, as a gurgling was heard from Ripslinger's engine, “I don't think he can breathe!”
Almost as soon as Dusty had spoken, the familiar, black tar-like substance exploded out of the exhausts lining Ripslinger's nose and everybody, including Skipper, sprang away giving startled shouts and muttered curses. The green and black plane tried to rise to his landing gear, panic and fear in his eyes, only making it up part way before he collapsed back down, gasping and choking on more of the fluid as he twitched on the ground. It was as if he was deconstructing right before their very eyes.
“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Dottie muttered as she turned herself in the direction of the garage, “I don't give a damn if we said weren't going to sedate him anymore, I'm sedating him!”
She sped off, the others staying where they were, helplessly gathered around as they waited for her to return. They knew she had a point. These episodes of his usually never lasted more than a few long minutes, but this one had now gone on for over seven. Clarice watched Ripslinger as he lay on the rough asphalt, hyperventilating through his teeth and intakes as spasms continued to shake through his frame about every two seconds. She fought with herself as she raised a hand as if to go to him, but then withdrew it again, curling it into a fist which she pressed to her chest. Skipper noticed.
“You stay back, Clarice.”
Dottie soon returned and injected the lowest dose of Thortrazepam that she thought she could get away with and then had him towed back to Dusty's hanger in the hopes that if left alone and quiet he would recover. Ripslinger lay on the sleeping pad, his breathing now slowed to a laborious, tired effort, small little aftershocks of shudders still hitting him every now and then. He was fighting the sedation. Although Dusty was reluctant to leave him, he sadly recognized that Ripslinger must have been responding to his presence; still trying to prepare for an attack in his deranged state of mind. He turned to leave. He did not dare look into Ripslinger's eyes, because then he wouldn't be able to bring himself to leave the hangar. Dusty needed him to feel safe. That there was no threat so that he could focus on resting after such a long, violent episode.
It had been a few hours since Ripslinger had been left alone in the hangar now. Worrying, considering that the usual recovery involved him laying where he'd fallen for a short while, fully conscious but waiting for his breathing to steady before he would push shakily up to his wheels, a bit sore and stiff, but back to normal. This didn't seem to be happening this time. He stayed in fitful unconsciousness as the doors were opened just a crack to check on him every once and a while. Dusty yawned in his spot in the grass. A few little sprinkles of rain fell onto his nose and he looked up toward the sky. There were clouds gathering and light was fading fast, and he hadn't heard anything in a while so he figured it would be safe enough to go back into his hangar. He slid open the doors as quietly as he could, but then he froze, a look of grave concern snapping in place.
Ripslinger was still lying in roughly the same position that they'd left him in, but he was oddly still. Bad memories making their way to the surface, Dusty pushed them down as he quietly exhaled, gulping as he carefully moved toward him. He stopped only a few feet in front of him, and could see that Ripslinger was indeed still breathing, but very shallowly.
Dusty let out a relieved sigh, but there was fatigue in it, and bitterness too. He hated this. He was hating everything about this situation. The apparent improvements, the set-backs; they were driving him crazy. He hated how this great, magnificent beast of a plane, who he had once idolized, even though that had soured over time after they had first actually met, had been reduced to this thin, this decrepit state. And he especially hated how he practically looked like he was dead on the rare occasion that he was able to sleep soundly anymore. Dusty moved forward, hesitated, then closing his eyes, slowly leaned down toward Ripslinger's flank and very gently touched him with the tip of his nose cone.
Ripslinger stirred slightly, pulling in a soft, short gasp and grimacing a bit as his eyes flitted open for only second. Dusty nuzzled him a bit more, and Ripslinger took in another, stronger breath, letting it out with a puff through his exhausts before inhaling again, deeply. His eyes opened again, looking around in a dazed, sort of bemused manner, as if he couldn't see properly. They slid over to look back at Dusty, holding his gaze for a few moments before closing again. They were as dull and lifeless as Dusty had ever seen them. His face fell at the sight of it. He could feel himself start to shake. Dusty was still young enough to have never seen dying airplanes, but this surely was what he was looking at now.
Dusty sniffed back tears, sinking into his landing gear. Ripslinger's eyes opened as the smaller plane moved around to the other side of his wing, then he closed them again as if it was too much of an effort to keep them open. Dusty began gently giving soft little licks under the P-51's eye, being careful to note his reaction, but upon eliciting hardly any at all the tears started to fall in earnest now. Ripslinger shuddered softly, and attempted to shift his weight a bit on the sleeping pad, but made no move to try to push Dusty away. He was far too weak. And the thought only made Dusty cry harder as he laid down next to him, pushing up into the crook of the fore of his wing. He continued to lick around his limp flaps as they sagged down, as if the action would somehow magically heal him.
Ripslinger's eyes had opened again when Dusty had pressed up against him. Tears had begun forming and falling from his own eyes in his pain and exhaustion as Dusty tried so desperately to comfort him. There was a strange sort of tug deep within Ripslinger's being. A pull. A determined, clawing persistence that felt so foreign and yet natural that he couldn't explain even if he had the energy or presence of mind to. Dusty hardly noticed him leaning into his frame as he allowed himself to be soothed, and the two eventually drifted off to sleep together in each other's embrace.
