it was a long time ago, the last time that dimitri had lost a whole week. back when he'd been a different man. or he hoped he'd been a different man, hoped that the dimitri geller of his early twenties was long gone, now, closed and barred up and sectioned away in a part of his history and his brain to never see the light of day again. nobody wanted that dimitri to return, the arrogant ambitious over-committed obsessive, but the first horrified thought he has when he wakes on sunday morning is — was he back? had he done it again? had he — somehow — taken a wrong step?

in a blurry headache haze and half sleep he tries to retrace his steps, finds that the entire week is lost, gone, blocked out and blacked out like he'd been under a heavy wash of something cold and dark. it isn't like the last time, which in all honesty isn't even a time he could really remember very vividly, and certainly not in great detail. so that's reassuring, at least — that was something, that it was different, that his nose doesn't hurt, that his sinuses aren't that tell-tale blocked and heady, that his mouth doesn't taste like cotton balls.

but there are bruises on his knuckles, and on the rest of him — nothing major, but when he stares at his hands it leaves a hard chunk of bitter dismay in the base of his stomach. the last time he'd had bruises on his fists was when he'd derailed his life so severely it was like splitting into two separate people, and then the panic has risen back, and the worry, and a constricted feeling in his throat. but there are steps he knows to follow — so dimitri moves, takes himself to the shower, and stays there for an hour.

after it's much easier to understand what happened. he searches through his phone, finds strange texts — at first, for another half a second, he reads one about being in space and thinks in horror that his worst fear is confirmed. but it's not that — he can piece everything together well enough to understand that when your own cousin has shared her body in the past with wonder woman — and is doing it again now — that the same thing is happening to you. and there's that fucking email.

in a way, dimitri wonders if this is worse than a relapse. this is the opposite of anything he's ever wanted. he's experienced his body out of control before — long ago, when the anger issues were uncontrollable, when he'd finally snapped and lost it — and dimitri is painstaking in his efforts to keep himself in charge, to keep himself centered and focused and disciplined. he doesn't want someone else slipping in, and who knows who they are? they haven't left a note, they haven't left any kind of sign, any significant gesture that they even exist.

he's terrified he'll end up making the same mistakes. he sits in his towel at the edge of his bed and looks at his hands and thinks they must belong to somebody else, not him, and it's impossible to get back to himself, to return to his own body — at least until juno, who has grown restless with her desire to be taken for a walk, slumps her face in his lap and forces her head under his hand, and she brings dimitri back to reality.

he rubs his fingertips behind her ears and cries a little, and swears that he's not going to let it happen again.