Work Text:
This was not Addison's body.
The feeling prickled up and down her arms, her scalp — no, the host’s arms and scalp. Her senses were overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity. Every inch of her was wrong, every thought in her mind suddenly lost at sea, with no anchor to shore…
At least the feeling wasn't entirely unfamiliar.
She had always been prone to… she guessed the word for it was “dysphoria.” She'd paint her nails as a kid, and then have to scratch it off within the day, because those weren't her hands anymore, somehow. What are these, these sparkly-pink-at-the-end stumpy things? Not my fingers, not a chance.
There was a reason she had kept basically the same haircut for years, had never gotten a tattoo despite Ian’s encouragement. Even tan lines on her arm could be enough to send her spiraling.
I am me, Addison reassured herself via her skin, her nails. This is how I am, how I face the world.
It felt so dumb sometimes. Like, oh, you can't wear a frilly dress because it makes you feel like your identity has been swallowed up, painted over, beaten down into dust? Get over yourself.
But no, that's stupid. Just because she was cis didn't make her discomfort any less real.
It was fine to feel like she didn't fit in her body when she had to skip putting on eyeshadow, or when she had to wear heels. She knew that. It would just be nice if her sense of self wasn't so fragile.
Bug bites, bruises from training, even hickies just made her feel wrong . Who am I, if not my skin — feelings like that felt so trivial, so pointless. Yeah, if someone flayed it all off, then she'd be justified in feeling uncomfortable, but just a little discoloration?
“Pathetic” was the word that always sprang to mind.
But, well, she was certainly justified now.
That didn’t help much.
The contradictions at work in her head (the host’s head?) were a little dizzying, if she was being honest.
On one level, she chafed against the idea that a person was defined by their body. Of course they aren't! Identity is separate from expression, your body's separate from your mind. Obviously.
But. Personally speaking. What was Addison without her legs? Her voice? Her strong arms, her tough hands?
She never knew who she was outside of work. That wasn't, like, a new realization. On some level, she defined herself as Alexander Augustine’s daughter, as Ben’s fiancee or Tom’s girlfriend, but more than anything she was a soldier. Always had been, it felt like.
Other than that, it was a blur.
She liked dumb TV, sometimes. Going on runs, sometimes. Spending time with friends, sometimes, sometimes, sometimes.
Who was Addison? She was a soldier, with the body of Addison Augustine. That was what she did, and how she did it. Those were her solids, and they were both gone.
That was all she had.
I'm still a soldier, she mused, it’s just that I’m a soldier whose mission right now is entirely civilian.
She was still going to abide by her sense of duty, after all. And follow orders from HQ. She was Captain Augustine, even if nobody around but Ben knew it.
And, yes, this wasn't her body, but it could do. Temporarily, that is — thinking about facing down eternity without meeting her own eye in a mirror was still terrifying.
But it had hands. Legs, skin, arms. She flexed “her” fingers and watched them move. She should be grateful she still had something, anything. She could do what she needed.
Above all, though, she had her mind.
It didn't feel like much use. She was never some genius, some great strategizer. She could hardly sort out her own thoughts, most days, it felt like.
But they were her own thoughts. Thank god.
“I am Addison Augustine,” she tried out, in a wrong voice. “This isn't my body, or my life. But I'm here. And I'm still the same person. Whoever that is.”
The empty room didn't respond.
“I've normally got blonde hair, and a cleft in my chin. I'm five foot seven, but taller with boots. And I've got a mole on my arm right,” she pointed at her sleeve, “there.”
Under the sleeve at that spot, the host's skin was clear.
“It's not stupid for me to feel out of place,” she continued. “It's not stupid for me to feel like I've lost a bit of myself. But plenty of myself is still here. Okay? I've got my thoughts, my, my perspective. Most of my memories. I know what I want to do. I know my values.
“I'm here to help people. To help Ben. I'm here because it's right, and I want to do what's right. If that's all I've got to hang onto, that's fine. That's plenty.” She clasped her hands together tightly, fingers interlaced. “I've got this. I'm here. I'm me. Okay?”
Her subconscious breathed a sigh, the prickling on not-her-skin slowly dying down.
Okay.