the coward's last resort [closed]

[johnny_truant]

He stands outside on the doorstep like an idiot, Yarrow tucked under his arm, backpack slung over one shoulder, key in his hand. He wants to turn around. Everything in him is pulling him to turn around, go back to the hotel. This had seemed like a good idea yesterday, when he'd been trapped and lonely. It had sounded so simple and obvious coming from Greta. Now that's gone, now he can only stand here stupidly and spin worst case scenarios in his head. What if Gabe doesn't want to see him? Why should he, really? That would actually be the best cast, wouldn't it - it would be what he deserves.

Enough. He can't just linger all day. He's waited, made Gabe wait, long enough.

He turns the key, opens the door, and steps inside.

Part of him wants to see if his apartment is still his - to drop off his things, get Yarrow situated - but that would be stalling. Gabe would probably sense him, or someone at least, and come down first. Johnny has to be the one to start this.

He goes up until he's outside Gabe's door. He lifts his hand. He knocks.

these words are knives that often leave scars [closed]

[postictal]

He spends the entire day and night off, out. He has no goal in mind, no place to stay; he simply meanders, directionless, and steadily burns his way through an entire pack. He doesn't want to see Jay. He doesn't want to talk to him, or anyone, preferably again.

But like it or not, Tim's dependent on him for shelter - sort of, anyway, but he's not about to bother Johnny with his problems again no matter how much he's tempted. He misses the pattern of quiet simplicity he and Johnny fell into, no needing to talk over their shit so much as let it hover unaddressed, or barely addressed, and that suited them both just fine. Johnny never pried anything out of him, just urged him gently. Never used him. Never left him behind. Never took advantage of who and what Tim is.

Maybe it would have been a matter of time. Isn't it usually. Tim's the common variable in everything that's gone horribly, irreversibly wrong in his life. He knows it's on him. Usually. And the few times it isn't -

His last cigarette's smoldering stump is extinguished under the grind of a heel as he stamps into the building, shoulders up and hunched almost to his ears, hands jammed uncomfortably into his pockets. The rattle of pills in his jacket pocket is too high-pitched, too few objects rolling around in their orange bottle with the shredded label. He should be worried about that. But he isn't.

The door's locked, but Tim had the forethought to grab keys, if only out of impulse. He hadn't thought he would be coming back at the time - or, no, really he hadn't been thinking at all, period, simply tore open the door with the mindless, infuriated yank of an arm, spilled out of the building and onto the street, and there he'd stayed. Walking and smoking and not thinking.

But he had to come back sometime. No more running and hiding, remember, Tim? Or had he resolved to only ever run and hide, never confront things brazenly, because isn't that what Jay made a habit of doing and look where it got him - but he's made so many pointless resolutions and so many of them have failed that he frankly can't remember what he's meant to be doing anymore.

So he comes back. He lets the door swing shut behind him, neither slamming nor closing but snapping shut with frosty neutrality while Tim pins down the apartment's sole tenant with a glare.

I Scare Myself [Closed]

[rae_of_sun]

Later, she might find it fitting that sunset coincides with the breaking of whatever weird-ass glamour she's been under all day. She doesn't actually see the sun go down - too busy puttering around the kitchen, doing other things - but she sure as hell notices when months of memories reawaken in her mind, yawning and stretching their fingertips down into her gut by way of her heart. She actually hisses, a respectable attempt at a proper, vampiric sort of hiss. Fitting, because oh gods, Spike.

She forgot him. She forgot him, and then she was really kali awful to him - because of course she remembers what a pitiless troll she was in the bookshop, those memories haven't gone anywhere - and oh gods no, this is... this... she has to address this, immediately. Hell if she knows what she's going to say to him ('no hard feelings' isn't going to fly, because he is probably entitled to some hard feelings, here), but she has to say something.

After a short, fidgety elevator ride, she knocks on his door, feeling uncomfortably apprehensive. Maybe she's just missing the moral high ground. Or maybe she's still, perpetually worried that she'll look at him, or he'll say something, or touch her, and it'll be too close to that dingy little room in Grand Central Station and her hands will decide to do something about it. She wraps her arms around herself, her hands tucked between her elbows and her ribs, where they can't do any harm, and she waits.

all that was lost is revealed; open

[burgleurturts]

The sun drops with almost immeasurable slowness into Greg’s teacup. He rests his chin on the tree stump and holds up one thumb and closes one eye and watches the big yellow ball roll down the side of his finger. He remembers the time a girl at school told him that thumbs aren't really fingers. “That’s a rock fact.” His breath, clear as the air, puffs away the snow that’s fallen in front of his mouth. The snowflakes are undisturbed? By the sound. It’ll be night soon, and Greg made his wish the night before; Wirt must have found his way home by now. He’s smart like that.

The trees far away eat up the sun before it can land in the cup, swallowing it in their needles and branches, but Greg is too tired, and the light breaking through the trunks is too pretty. Just as the last little slivers disappear, a green light flashes, like when he makes Wirt photograph him and his findings with that camera that spits out pictures, except this flash is growing and growing, filling the sky and the forest and his cup. It resolves into the shape of a kitten, then a cat, then a big cat, bounding closer and faster. It leaps into the air and strikes its head against the tree stump, shattering it and the cup and the branches that Greg hadn't noticed were hugging him. It stops in front of him, shaking the leaves and snow from its fur.

"Oh, Gregory," the fearsome critter says, like his father when Greg tells him about the adventures he's had and the new friends he's made.

"Hi, kitty," Greg greets, quiet and awed and droopy-eyed.

"I am not a kitty," it huffs. "I am the Splintercat." Greg reaches out to play with the funny tufts of hair at the tips of its ears. It bows his head, rumbling, then circles him three times, taller than Greg where he sits. "You don't belong here, Gregory." It wraps itself around him, soft and warm.

"Okay," Greg sighs, and falls asleep.

When he opens his eyes again, it's daytime, and the soft warmth surrounding him is much bigger and softer and warmer than before. Greg takes a big breath of the fur under his nose and sneezes. The big soft warmth rumbles. Greg pokes it, then pushes his fists into it.

"Punch, punch, punch."

With a mighty yawn, which Greg follows with one of his own, the fur parts to reveal the sky, and some rocks, and some water. Greg squints up at the sun and stretches.

"Boy, am I pooped."

A white face and a black nose descend on him, snuffling at his face, and his clothes, and then his stomach. Greg laughs, batting at the animal's snout.

"Haha! Hey! Hahaha!"

The creature whumpfs and nudges him with its nose, batting back with its big paws. Greg tickles it under its chin and on its cheeks.

"I'm gonna call you Antonio," Greg decides, as he's rolled back and forth by the curious creature. "You're real fuzzy, Antonio."

There's another flash, but not green, this time, and raises his head to look at it. Over past the rocks there's a big crowd of people waving at him and taking pictures. Delighted, Greg waves back.