sweet chemical indifference, predisposed to perpetual sickness [open to multiple]

[postictal]

It’s barely been ten days, and he’s already halved the amount of precious white capsules he has on hand, and it’s the compressing, painfully familiar fear worming its way through his chest, down his throat, that drives Tim out of the hotel in desperate search for the clinic he knows has come down to his last hope. A medical center specifically for rifties should be capable of figuring out what the hell is in his medication, and from there somehow get him more of it before anything goes wrong. They've got to have dealt with some pretty weird demands, right? Maybe they can just - synthesize it somehow. Tim doesn't know how that process works. It's just medicine, it's one part anticonvulsant and one part impossible-terror-be-gone; how hard can it be?

Things can be different here. Things can be different, and better, and normal, and right now Tim doesn't even want normal. He just wants to not wake up in some anonymous forest clearing with weeks of missing time scraped out of his head. That's it. That's his bare minimum.

God, please let him find a way out of this head.

So. Clinic. This is his plan of action. He just has to actually get there, but he's doing a great job of it so far. It'll be okay. It'll be fine. No more missing time or coughing fits or getting his brain hijacked or seeing things in the corners of his vision. He's gonna be fine.

Irony nearly doubles him over with a clenching knot of pressure to the chest when he's slammed in the lungs by a fresh surge of ragged coughing, which not only collects a whole lot of weird looks from the other pedestrians but earns him a wide walking radius as well. Oh, that's nice. He doesn't dignify any of them with a glare, just keeps shuffling forward, trying without any real success to suppress the coughs that leave his shoulders quivering and him staggering along like he's contracted a deadly plague of some kind.

[ooc: Tim needs to socialize more, so he's taking a nice long route from a hotel by Central Park to the rifty clinic and back again. Feel free to run into him at any point. Don't mind the coughing, it's just, er - chronic.]

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[postictal]

Good god this is turning out to be not a good day. Maybe walking was a shitty idea. No, it definitely was. It's gotta be like fifty blocks to the clinic and, sure, Tim's walked further for longer and directly after an amnestic blackout to boot, but this was not a good idea. He's got one hand planted against the nearest building, his shuffling walk slowed to practically a standstill, as he tries his damn best not to feel sick.

It's not really working.

The sound of someone actually addressing him is so unexpected that it jolts him out of his imminent lung-hacking for a second. Not a lot of people will go out of their way to stop a freak making its way down the street, but maybe Manhattan's just - different like that, which isn't a good thought. The point is to not be drawing attention.

He's clearly been doing a great job with that so far. Still, there isn't much else to do besides try to answer, say anything, he's fine, this is normal, honestly, but that turns out to be an even worse idea, because trying to talk just snags Tim's breath in his throat and causes him to cough harder. Ultimately he can't really do anything besides accept the offered bottle wordlessly and down half its contents in a hasty gulp. After a couple staggered breaths, his airways mercifully clear, eyes watering fiercely, and eventually Tim can manage a breathless nod.

"Th - uh," he gasps, peering at his rescuer and trying to work out why she would even bother. "Thanks."

[apidae]

She nods, pulling her hands back and clasping them in front of her, watching him with mild, controlled concern. He doesn't expect the attention. Doesn't really like it. He thinks of himself as a poison or a bomb. His patterns are stranglingly coiled and thorned with devastation and loss, and through it all the intrinsic belief that he is at the root.

And she doesn't understand so much of it - even if she looked closer, which she's resisting, she feels like it would be frightening and incomprehensible. What can she do? What can she tell him in this brief meeting that will allow her to know him, without telling him so much that he pushes her away?

She shouldn't, but she can't help it. She reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder. "I'm Bee," she says. "I'm a rifty, too. I can tell you are by looking, it's - sort of a power I have." White lies. She hates them. She pulls her hand back quickly and curls her hand into a well-hidden fist. "Do you need any help? Where are you going?"

[postictal]

Now that he's not in danger of getting violently ill all over the sidewalk, maybe he'll attract less attention. But she's not moving along or making any movements to leave or anything, and Tim belatedly realizes this might be because he's still clutching her water bottle, which he now has no idea what to do with. Finishing it off might be rude if she ends up needing it later. Giving it back feels like it would be weird.

But she's being really, well - friendly. Automatic distrust has always been the norm, and here Tim's already got a hand on the shoulder and a name and a little bit of information that's frankly more than a little worrying. He eyes her warily as he pushes away from the building to stand upright, a little shaky but firm.

"Tim." He looks at the water bottle and debates internally for a minute before tentatively offering it back. "Was just gonna find that clinic place for, uh, people like me. Us. I guess. You - knew? That I was - ?"

He can't quite hold down the note of anxiety, or the automatic tensing of the instinct that wants to bolt before she figures out anything else. Can she? Is that a thing she can do?

Tim really, really hopes not.

[apidae]

Bee bites down on her lower lip, worrying it nervously. He's far too perceptive and far too paranoid. If she tells him the truth he'll want to keep away from her. She'll have to lie.

"I can see that you came through," she says carefully. "It's useful, you know, it helps me know who's safe to talk to about it. We have to help each other where we can, I think."

He hasn't asked to know the full extent of what she can do, so it's only lying by omission. That's a little better, isn't it?

She fidgets with her dress. "I know where it is," she says. "You're not far. Would you mind some company? I've been meaning to stop by myself, 'spose I should while I'm in the neighborhood."

That at least is true.

[postictal]

"Uh-huh," Tim answers, eyebrows pulling together skeptically. So. There isn't a whole lot he can do about what she already knows, which thankfully isn't much. Just that he's a rifty, and he knows the same about her. It's an equal exchange. He just needs to not let it get any further than that. He hasn't really been doing a stellar job of avoiding that - it's been days, and he's still expecting Johnny to break into a stutter of telltale coughs.

He shrugs, hands jamming into his pockets. "Sure, I guess." Free sidewalk. People can walk where they want, and it seems way past the socially acceptable variant of rude to straight-up tell her to fuck off after she gave him some water and just generally acted really nice.

Nice people are harder. Tim assumes he's usually surly enough to discourage them from approaching in the first place, but it's worse when it's someone he actually doesn't want to snap at.

He gives her a final cautious look beneath lowered brows, then starts walking, slow and unsure.

[apidae]

She can feel every little prickle of nervousness coming from him, he doesn't want company, fears it or what he'll do to it, but he's too kind to push her openly away. This is a level of dishonest that doesn't tend to sit well with her, but everything about him makes her want to stay close, to find some way to help - there has to be a way to help, somehow, even if he doesn't see it. Her hands fidget continuously as she walks. If she can help him, if she can earn some sort of trust or...

It concerns her how easy it is sometimes to justify this to herself.

"How long have you been here?" she asks softly, even though she knows.

[postictal]

She's fidgeting too, which almost makes it a little more bearable. Generally whenever the pull of anxiety starts making itself known Tim's first instinct is to smoke it out before it escalates, but it feels a little weird doing that when he's got unexpected company.

"Just over a week," he answers, one hand searching out the lighter buried in his pocket despite himself. He doesn't pull it out, just runs his thumb over and around the little oblong rectangle, the tiny outlet for his uncertainty. "What, uh. What about you?"

[apidae]

She takes a moment to think, and then remarks with some small surprise, "Today is actually the two month anniversary." She laughs a little to herself. "Funny, it doesn't seem like it's been that long."

She looks over at him. There's something familiar in his cadence, subtle but recognizable... she noticed it right away but didn't want to bring it up until she was reasonably sure. Patterns don't tell her locational details so this is something she actually does have to ask. "Sorry, are you... Are you from Alabama, by any chance? I'm from Birmingham. Well, not from there, I grew up in a little town, but..." She trails off and shrugs. "Your accent just sounded a little familiar."

[postictal]

The deliberate monotony Tim's taken pains to impose upon his life almost makes two months way too easy to imagine. His nine or ten days here feel longer than they were, dragged along by drawn-out nightmares and a dwindling supply of medication.

Tim's instinctive reaction is a thrill of concern - he can't be that easily pinned down, can he? - before it softens into something a little less cautious. Simple familiarity. Coincidence. He almost forgot that was a thing.

"Yeah." One corner of his mouth ticks up, a flickering, indecisive reaction. "Yeah, I'm from that, uh, general area, actually. Kind of moved around a bit, though." There's no point in masking it or trying to lie about his location - if Bee's really from around there, she's more or less confirmed it.

[apidae]

"Really!" She grins, relieved at the confirmation, at having that, of all things, in common with someone. Southerners are hard to come by up here, and quickly judged for it on top of that, as she's found. It's strangely comforting to meet another one, just as displaced as she, for more than one reason.

"I'd never been out of state before," she says. "This place is just so... I mean, it's exciting, I guess. Definitely not like Birmingham." She starts to fidget less, feeling more at ease with the common ground. "To be honest I sort of miss all the kudzu. Manhattan people think they can deal with anything, but can you imagine them dealing with kudzu?" She smiles, only a little bit impish.

[postictal]

Kudzu. Thorns and underbrush tangling his hair, snagging his jacket as he stumbles to his feet, grasping tree trunks with scratched-bleeding palms, pushing bedraggled hair from his face. Trees and miles of trees, stretched out in a dismal pattern he's come to recognize.

He won't miss that.

"Exciting's a word," Tim says neutrally, tipping his chin back to scan the surrounding tall buildings. "Crowded, though. Lotta people." His eyes flick to her and back again as he bites his lip, shrugs. "Lived around forests most of my life, yeah. Not sure I'll miss 'em for a while yet, though."

[apidae]

Something happened there. Bad associations? In any case the attempted laugh at the expense of New Yorkers didn't work out. He's distracted by something and maybe laughing is something he doesn't do. Humor and happiness are really distant in him, buried, maybe. It's not about her, she didn't do anything wrong; she has to tell herself that a few times. It's hard for him the way other things are hard for her.

Her smile fades and she tilts her head down again, back to low-level fidgeting.

"Yeah," she says. "Crowds are hard for me, too." Not for the same reasons, she thinks, but it's hard to tell without looking too close.

"Listen, if... if there's ever a time when you need to be alone," she says slowly, carefully, "I live in the Rebel apartments. It doesn't matter if you're with them or not. If you go up to the roof, I have sort of a garden up there, it's where I take care of my bees." She waves a hand, like never mind that. "I go up there sometimes to be by myself. If you want, you can do that too. People don't usually go up there, especially early in the morning. It's important, I think, to have somewhere to go." She shrugs. "It's an open offer."

[postictal]

And just like that, Tim successfully manages to derail another person's good mood. He wasn't even trying this time. He crosses his arms over his chest to hold back the pang of guilt, which works about as well as he expected. Bee sounds like she's extending another conversational olive branch, but Tim can't figure out why. He's already trampled over her excitement of finding something familiar in Manhattan.

"Oh," he says, eyebrows lifting, mentally scrambling for a response. "Uh, well I do have a - I know someone who lives there. So I know where they are, um. So. Uh, I can - yeah, that sounds nice," he finishes a little desperately, "thanks."

[apidae]

"Good," she says quietly, nodding. She says nothing for a few moments, letting them just walk in silence. They're nearing the clinic now, and she nods toward it. "There it is," she says.

They're both going in, but she doesn't want to cling close to him in there. That's private business. And so's hers, really.

"I'll be heading back to the apartments after this," she says cautiously. "If you want to come with, or..." She shrugs noncommittally. "Or I suppose I might see you around?"

There's so much she wants to ask him, tell him, tell him what she can see, that he doesn't need to be so alone here. But doing that is so terrifying, it can mean the end of a friendship, right then and there. She bites her lip again, weighing the guilt and the consequences.

"I... I'll give you my number," she offers, fishing her phone out of her pocket. Not sure what else to do.

[postictal]

Conflicting surges of relief and refreshing anxiety tense Tim's shoulders and neck when he sees the place, one hand dipping unconsciously into his jacket pocket to grip his inexorably shrinking supply of medication. This is all he has to help. This place is the only possibility of help when he can't even leave the city.

He can't consider the fact that there might not be anything they can do.

"I, uh. Yeah," he says, shooting her a look of mingled confusion and gratitude. "Think I'm just gonna head back to my room once I'm, you know. Done here."

It's safer, he almost adds, but thinks better of it. Instead he rattles off his number, because that seems a decent compromise. Distance is good. Distance is safe.

[apidae]

"Okay," she says agreeably, and inputs his number. "Well let me know whenever you want to go up there, I can make sure it's empty first if you want. My bees are really well-behaved, so long as you don't bother them."

She pockets her phone and stops outside the clinic, smiling at him. "It was nice to meet you, Tim," she says warmly. She figures she'll let him go in first, and then go in a bit later, just to give him as much space as possible. He really does seem to need it.

The urge to say something else is gnawing at her as always, terribly difficult to resist, and in fact, often impossible.

"Don't hide yourself away too much, okay?" she says quietly, seeking out his eyes. "Things are different here."

No. Too much. Too much, just like with Peter. She regrets it instantly, and looks away, her expression contorted. She can't bear to see his reaction to this so she doesn't look back, instead turning her back on him like a coward and slipping away, into the neighboring building, a little coffeeshop. She'll order some tea and sit and organize packets of sugar until the frustration and the self-beratement and gentle twitches of anxiety have passed.

[postictal]

It's almost unbearable, how much she's trying. She's trying, she's being so clearly, desperately friendly, and Tim's the same unresponsive, self-secluding asshole he's always been, and he doesn't know what to do about it. He just makes himself helpless against everything - pills, nightmares, masks, his own terrified guilt that anything he dares do or say will just make things worse.

"Nice to meet you too," he echoes mechanically, warily, hating himself for draining his tone of any kind of positive inflection. He doesn't have an answer for Bee's parting words, brows knitting in clouded bafflement, and she's gone before either of them can clarify.

Familiar guilt wells up immediately once she's gone but Tim brushes past it. He has to worry about things like medication and hotels and nightmares and keeping himself breathing and keeping everyone else breathing too, and he has to ignore the rest. Because it's safer. Because it's safer.