bigapplesauce | anywhere but here [open]

Current Location: Central Park
Current Music: September 18th (morning)

Entry tags:

anywhere but here [open]

[tw: blood and bodily injury. This post is the aftermath of the events that occurred over yonder, which means Tim might need some help getting home.]

The lurching sensation of waking suffuses Tim’s body with a hollow ache, leaving him feeling roughly like he just went ten rounds with a cement truck.

While being dragged through the woods.

And on fire.

The rich smell of torn-up earth fills his nostrils with the first shaky indrawn breath, hands fisted into the grass. He’s face-down. God, but he’s face-down. Lying in the grass and the dirt with a pounding headache and a swelling soreness in his lungs, in his side.

Doesn’t take a goddamn genius.

His eyes slit open. There's a dull, scabbed red crusted over the ridges of his knuckles. Just beside him, a shallow mound of smooth white. He reaches carefully with one hand, fingertips running over the cool pale edge of the mask, that old familiarity. He doesn't need to see the empty eyes, the taunting curve of its motionless smile, to know what he's done.

With the bracing flex of fingers pushing against loose-packed dirt, Tim forces himself painfully upright and immediately sinks back to his knees, breathing out a low, agonized hiss. His fingers creep over the sharp stab of pain through his abdomen, and through the tear in his shirt he can see the red puckered skin of - Jesus, did someone stab him?

Yeah, so take the cement truck analogy and add to it, something like triple the magnitude, because that’s about what it feels like.

His legs shake beneath him when he half-crawls, half-drags himself to the nearest tree and plants one hand against it, sucking in deep, slow lungfuls of air between ragged coughs. He tries to swipe a hand through his hair to push it from his face, but his fingers tangle into the clinging mat of - oh, wonderful. Twigs and leaves in his hair. Blood in his hair. The dark stain stretching of his side is unmistakeable; peeling back the blood-dampened layers of clothing doesn't make the sight any easier to stomach. Something pitted in his chest jolts as he grimaces and quickly looks away, breathing heavy and fast through his nose.

Still, and he summons up his bitter sense of not-optimism, it could be worse. He could be waking up with a broken leg. He could be waking up miles out of the state. So, sure, he has no idea how he's getting home like this when he can barely even walk - at least when his leg was broken he could still drive, he still had a car, and it might have been painful as fuck but he'd managed it. Teeth gritted against the agony buried in every tiny movement, he fishes out the phone that is thank god still in his pocket, but the sheer number of text notifications plunges his flicker of relief into ice. Even panicked, Jay wouldn’t send him so many -

Oh.

Oh god damn it.

Fuming, Tim thrusts the phone into his pocket and hopes to god that he's not about to be sick.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's been some time since Aziraphale's taken a moment to just stroll about the park, and this is as good a morning as any. Now that he's no longer working for the Rebels, and his bookshop hours are as erratic as ever (and Spike is helping with that regularly once again) he's finally free for a quiet, pleasant wander down the winding green-lined path, smiling fondly at all the dear goodness what is that.

The smile slips abruptly from his face as he hurries over to the tree with the young man curled against it, looking so terribly hurt. He has that air about him, he's come to recognize it - a rifty, though not one he knows.

"Oh dear, are you all right?" he asks in genuine concern, crouching as soon as he gets within range. No time for pleasantries, the boy looks in terrible condition. He reaches out, frowning intently. "Let's have a look."

He slips down the tree several inches as his chest constricts with several more rasping coughs. The world's begun to spin lightly, and either that's the typical dizziness he gets from waking up like this or it's something worse, way worse, something like blood loss, and it takes him a minute to shear through the dull fog settled over him to peer up at the distant ring of another voice, blinking hard.

That's not Jay. He recoils without having any real strength to do so, shrinking against the trunk, one hand wrapped around his middle with the other clinging desperately to the rough bark to keep himself semi-upright. His tongue feels too thick, his brain too sluggish to verbalize his rising, panicked no. All he can manage is a fervent backwards scramble, his head shaking frantically.

Well that's not a very promising reaction. The poor creature, recoiling like an abused animal. Aziraphale pulls his hands back but only a little, raising them, he hopes pacifyingly.

"Easy, now, I'm not going to hurt you," he says softly, his eyes flickering back and forth as he studies the frightened young man. "I can help. Please." He offers his hand again, not so much reaching but inviting the boy to step nearer, much as one might do with a rabid dog. He chews his lip as he catches a glimpse of the wound he's failing to hide. "Who did this to you?"

"No." The word tears out roughly but he latches onto it, still furiously shaking his head. He tries to paste a scowl over his features, surly and uninviting, but he can't remember how. Everything's responding too slowly, shaking his head the only impulse he can cling to. No.

"No, I - " He swallows, his expression contorting, hopeless, pained. His throat feels scraped raw, and all he can do his protest dumbly. His voice cracks humiliatingly on the final word. "Please."

It makes Aziraphale's proverbial heart ache to see someone in this kind of distress, especially refusing help. He hovers for a moment, not sure what to do - healing without consent is not exactly something he's above, though it no longer feels quite right. He should at least let the boy know he can.

"It's all right," he says as gently as he knows how. "You needn't tell me anything, I just want to fix that." He points to the wound in his side. "I can fix it, if you'll let me. It'll be over in an eyeblink. Won't feel a thing. It's a, er, power of mine."

He endeavors to look nonthreatening, not reaching, not beckoning, just waiting to see what he does. Mortals can be so troublesome sometimes - why doesn't he just accept the help? But if living close amongst them has taught him anything, it's that patience is key, as is meeting them on their terms, absurd though they might be.

Power. No, shit, that's bad. When has that ever gone right for him or Jay or - fuck, or anyone? He can't feel it in his head now, it always stays down right after a busy night, but what if something brushing up against it sends it roiling back? What if this guy can see it -

"I'm fine," he hisses, but the lie fractures partway through. He wrenches himself up more securely against the trunk, takes another step away, and the back his heel promptly hooks over a root and sends him sprawling on his back.

A pulse of black nearly engulfs his vision on impact, an awful sound jarring out between clenched teeth. He glimpses scattered branches, a snatch of pale sky, then tries to roll onto his side in an effort that leaves his throat tightening with pain.

"Oh!" Aziraphale scoots forward, kneeling over him - he obviously wants space but he won't just let him suffer like this. "You are most certainly not fine. Don't be absurd. Here-" Without any further ado, he sets one hand at the boy's bloodied side and the other at his head, which - well there's something there he can't quite make out, something rather disconcerting, something he certainly can't heal, not without a much more invasive search. Not right now. He heals the wound and takes away a little of the overall ache, then takes his hands back and sets them primly in his lap.

"There," he says. "Wasn't so hard, was it? Now you'll be all right."

His protest is swallowed in a pained gasp as he tries again, fruitlessly, to squirm away, but the guy's already gone and laid his damn hands on. And before he can say anything else, the flesh has knitted itself together and the pain's faded to a more bearable uniform soreness.

He manages to lever himself up on one elbow, staring at his unwanted savior with jumbled confusion and mistrust.

"Why'd you do that," he demands from beneath lowered brows.

Not even a thank you. Well, he doesn't do this for gratitude anyway. "It's what I do," he answers. The boy does not seem remotely ready to know of angels, so he leaves that out for now. "You needed immediate care and I could provide it, so I did. I'm sorry to have jumped it on you." He manages not to sound reproachful, but earnest in the apology. He really is better at this now, isn't he? Well, he hopes he is.

"My name is Aziraphale," he says kindly. "I came through the Rift too. Is there somewhere I can take you?"

At one time he might've snorted, because what kind of name is that but weird names are pretty much a given here, he's learned. So, what, some kind of good Samaritan? Is that was this is? As if. Tim's luck isn't that good.

"No," he says too quickly, and his head goes back to shaking back and forth firmly. "How'd you know - "

Well, he can apparently heal with a touch, so maybe seeing stuff like that isn't so weird. Like with Bee.

He shuffles into a wary crouch, eyes darting to either side in automatic reflex. There's no telling what this guy's capable of if he can just ahead and fix people up with a hand to the head, but if he has to make a break for it maybe he could get around him. There's a slight twinge in both his legs as he tests their weight - did he land somewhere heavily? Fuck, probably. That little masked thing is like a freaking cat, always landing on its - by which he means his - feet.

"Honestly, I don't mean you any harm," says Aziraphale, only now a bit ruffled by the obvious distrust. "If you're still in pain I can help, I just wanted to get the really bad parts fixed, but-" He waves a hand, getting slowly to his feet. He towers over the boy, but he still needs to look nonthreatening, so he takes a healthy step back. "Where are you staying? I'm in the - well, it was the Rebel building, now it's... sort of my building. I took it over when the Base came down. You may have heard."

Or he may not have. Does it matter? The boy is still coiled like he wants to bolt, and Aziraphale isn't about to stop him, but he'd really prefer that didn't happen.

"You can trust me," he says delicately. "What's your name?"

Oh great, so he lives in the same building too? This'll be fun to step around, especially since he doesn't seem content to just back off and let them go their separate damn ways.

"I know," he says shortly. No need to get into specifics. No need to say I was there. This guy, as far as Tim's concerned, doesn't need to know anything, much less where he lives.

It's already been proven to him that he's not safe to be around, let alone know on any personal level. He narrows his eyes, considering.

"Alex," he says finally, and his stomach twists.

Jay hasn't slept.

He couldn't sleep, couldn't afford to. He sat by the window for hours, like he's done before, phone in hand, checking and checking it in case he dozed through a notification. Waiting for the call or the text. It finally came after the sun was up, and he jarred his body back up and scrambled out the door, down the stairs, half-running, to the park.

He has no idea where in the park Tim is, so he's just been heading in the general direction of where he and Daine had their encounter with him - it - them - last night.

He finally spots him a little ways off the path, looking pinned between a tree and a tall man in a suit, which isn't a good precedent for them, but this tall man is obviously just a man, and not a particularly imposing one either, tall but awkward, soft, bespectacled - sort of Alex-shaped, he thinks with a little chill, if it weren't for the hair.

Anyway it doesn't matter how harmless he is, he needs to not be a part of this.

So Jay tromps forward with distinct purpose. He's lied and faked his way into and out of tons of situations and he can do it now, too.

"Hey!" he calls, waving his arm at Tim, putting on an absurd, disproportionately cheerful smile and thickening his accent noticeably. "There you are, gosh. The tour's at the museum now, man, come on, we're holding everyone up." He takes Tim's arm like this is totally normal they are just TOURISTS FROM DOWN SOUTH EVERYTHING IS NORMAL EVERYTHING IS FINE, nodding up at the taller man who is just looking at him with great bewilderment. "Central Park sure is big huh. Come on, buddy, this way."

And he drags Tim westward.

Aziraphale could have pointed out no, dear, I can see you're not tourists, but he recognized the precious little ruse for what it was, and saw no reason to break it up, really. Alex is going with him willingly, so perhaps it's for the best. He resolves to keep a distant eye on them, just to make sure they end up where he thinks they're heading, both in one piece.

Edited 2015-06-25 22:30 (UTC)

Meanwhile, Jay continues to be the worst known liar in the history of the universe, every universe, because what the hell is that accent. The dark line of bruises encircling the other man's neck immediately draw his eyes, and his stomach tightens again. He shouldn't be surprised. Jay must have gone after him as soon as he knew. And with no plan at all, because he never has a plan.

He wrenches out of the grip around his arm as soon as they're a fair distance away, shooting Jay an incredulous look.

"That was worse than Alex," he hisses in vehement undertone. "Try a little louder - maybe there was someone the next block over who didn't hear how completely obvious that was."

"You're welcome," he mutters back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I kinda didn't get any sleep last night. Anyway I don't see him coming after us, do you?"

Ah, together again, this is nice.

"I thought it would be preferable to asking if you were okay in front of strangers," he says, one hand reaching up to rub absently at the back of his neck, which doesn't hurt as much as the rest of it. "Are you okay?" Those texts had sounded urgent, but Tim seems - fine, all things considered.

Edited 2015-06-25 22:50 (UTC)

He doesn't dare to do so much as dart a look over one shoulder - way to not be obvious, Jay. It's not like he doesn't look suspicious himself either; Aziraphale might have taken care of the stab wound in his side but there's still a conspicuously red-brown patch coating the lower half of his shirt. He tries vainly to pull the hated tan jacket over it somewhat, cramming hands into its pockets.

"Better than I was," he mutters darkly, again resisting the urge to glance back to ensure the other man isn't following them. "Could ask you the same thing."

He shoots the ring of dark bruises a look, drawn and apprehensive. "Was that - " He lifts a hand to wave his own neck, unwilling to verbally complete the thought.

Jay glances at him, catches him looking. He dips his head a little, as though self-conscious. "Yeah," he murmurs. "It was my own fault. I saw you and Daine, and she was a wolf, and I didn't know what she was planning to do, so I just..." He shakes his head, shakes off the memory. "I'm okay."

Yeah it was stupid. It's always stupid. Every decision he makes. He knows that.

"I had to... tell her some stuff," he says, cringing preemptively, expecting anger. "She was gonna come back out and look for you if I didn't, I... didn't know what else to do."

His own fault. Great, so the one time Jay chooses to blame himself, he's completely wrong.

"It wasn't your fault, dumbass," he snaps, his tone alarmingly harsh. "If she saw me, she already knew."

He pulls out his phone and shoots it a glum look. Her and Johnny, looks like - great. Wonderful. So his other self is apparently completely intent on butchering any tentative friendships he's formed, right on top of making his life living hell.

He thought, maybe, since it was different here - he thought there was chance that it -

Stupid hope. He scowls, shoving the phone away again. Stupid boy. Stupid, desperate boy. You know you don't deserve it.

Jay lets out a derisive hiss. Tim blames him for everything and now that he's trying to admit yeah, he did fuck up, has fucked up, is repeatedly fucking up, then it's all 'cute' and 'you dumbass'. Can't win.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't have jumped between you," he mutters, walking a little quicker. "She wouldn't have hurt you."

She's not like them.

"What did that guy want?" he asks after a moment.

Maybe she wouldn't have hurt him, but he can't say the same for his less agreeable self. Whatever Daine had to do to keep him from hurting anyone else, well, good. He's more than earned it at this point.

"Fixed this." He indicates the dark stain on his shirt with the swift sweep of a hand. "Guess outta the goodness of his heart. Some rifty, said he lived with the Rebels. Or - I guess he did." It's just still goddamn weird to think about, remembering that the Rebels have been effectively dismantled, and partially for his sake.

"I think someone stabbed me," he adds, low and hurried. "No idea who."

Jay does a small double-take at the indicated stain - he'd noticed it but hadn't really registered it, what it meant, if only because Tim was walking fine.

"Wh- Holy shit," he blurts, fingers tensing in his pockets. "What do you mean he fixed it, what, like with magic?"

That isn't, absurdly, out of the realm of possibility here, and it would be the only way Tim could possibly be maneuvering as well as he is.

The bigger issue here is somebody stabbed Tim. Maybe self-defense, maybe on purpose. He starts walking a little faster, leading them out of the park and angling toward the apartments.

"I guess." Their friend's a freaking shapeshifter who tore down an entire underground Base in less than a day, so Tim's learned to widen his perspective a bit. "He just - " He opens a hand beneath the stiff, clinging red spattered over him, " - touched me, and it was like it never happened."

He shudders a little, drawing his shoulders up. It hadn't been a pleasant sensation, even if it was a whole hell of a lot more preferable to the sensation of having been stabbed.

Matching Jay's speed automatically sends another shivering twinge down his legs, that reminder of how that thing probably dragged his body halfway across the park and back again. The seeping exhaustion has begun to saturate his entire body with a fresh ache - it's like he hasn't really slept at all. And he hasn't, has he? Not really.

Jay looks back at him, taking in the blood and dirt on his clothes and in his hair. He doesn't know what to say, there's not really anything to say. He turns back, walks in silence until they're finally at the building. He unlocks the door and they enjoy a silent elevator ride to their floor, and finally, he's able to let them into their apartment.

"Here," he murmurs, passing over a fresh shirt before heading into the kitchen to make coffee. They're both exhausted but he highly doubts either of them are gonna want to sleep for a while yet.

"What are we gonna do," he says numbly, staring at the coffeemaker.

The apartment is still in a mild state of disarray, as much as they tried to put it back together post-destruction of the Base. Tim's rapidly learning that they're both the sort of person to simply let their own mess sit until it grows so obstructive they must either plot their routine around it or shift it to some other unfortunate, less immediate spot. The amount of energy required to actually go and thoroughly clean the place, sifting through jumbled cameras and their collective amount of accumulated shit, just isn't something either of them have the luxury to expend.

Tim's eyes briefly rake over the space they've been sharing for the past, what? few weeks? before glancing back at Jay, sharp and sidelong, and the quiet burble of the coffeemaker that Jay seems to have switched on out of weary habit. He recognizes that. The grounding need to find something normal, something physical to do with his hands. Normal people make coffee.

Normal people also take showers.

"Well, I'm gonna shower," Tim says, a shade unhelpfully. He yanks once at his bloodstained mess of a shirt. "Think this one's done for."

That's one more thing he can pin on his less agreeable alternate persona, he thinks bitterly as he opens the bathroom door and swishes it shut behind him with the methodical jerk of a wrist. Tearing off into the woods every now and again has really done a number on his wardrobe over the years. It's not like he's got a whole lot of shirts.

"Okay," says Jay. Can't blame him. He pours himself coffee and returns to his post by the window, staring into his cup and listening to the water run.

He's only had half his coffee by the time Tim gets out. He looks over, dull and numb. Good as new, sort of.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," he says, like he's been waiting to say it this whole time, when really it just tumbles out.

He grits his teeth under the hiss of water, makes it as hot as the knob allows, watching it trail in brown and red rivulets as he scrubs out the clinging dirt, fragments of leaves, the assorted woodland detritus. There's something intensely satisfying in the stinging of the dozens of tiny scrapes and bruises. Wherever that part of him is now, whatever it does when it's not crusading around in the woods with his body as its puppet - he hopes it can feel the aching burn of every cut and inch of split skin. It's a grotesque, vindictive pleasure, and he savors every moment of it.

His hair's still sodden when he emerges, toweling at it vigorously. He really hopes he got all the blood and shit out of it but there's no real way of knowing unless his hair starts drying in clumps.

Tim stops short, frowning for a moment before tossing the towel aside, the fresh shirt scratching the delicate areas of his skin rubbed raw.

"We didn't know," he says shortly. "Couldn't have done anything."

"Guess not," murmurs Jay. "But I'm still sorry."

Yeah, yeah. He's always sorry. They all are.

"You want some coffee?" he asks, getting up just as there's a knock at the door. He looks at Tim sharply, silently asking for the go-ahead. "Who's there?" he says, raising his voice.

On the other side, a young man answers, "Uh, it's Johnny."

Jay narrows his eyes, still looking at Tim. Johnny sounds familiar, pretty sure Tim's mentioned him before, but that doesn't mean Tim will want to see him.

An apology's better than nothing. It's painfully obvious that Jay tried ~~like he always does~~ and got burned for it ~~like he always does~~, and despite the ineffectiveness of effort, the fact that there was an effort -

It's - almost like the last time he came charging after him with no plan, no guarantee of his own safety, no sense of self-preservation, post-argument, post-right hook, to save a man who wasn't awake in his own body and wouldn't even have accepted the help if he was. Poorly advised bull-rushes at masked figures in the woods, part deux, and Tim still doesn't know how to feel about that.

The knock simultaneously rescues him from finding anything to say and serves as a wry reminder that Tim can't really talk as far as keeping secrets is concerned.

"Uh," he coughs, unintentionally echoing Johnny's uncertainty. "It's fine. Johnny's - a friend."

A friend. Does Tim have friends? Does Jay count?

He doesn't want to pursue that line of thought.

Edited 2015-06-27 23:53 (UTC)

A friend, then. Okay. Jay doesn't know quite why he feels so weird about that.

But Tim is okay with it, so he goes to open the door.

Johnny had thought there was a different voice in there, but he's no less startled to see someone not-Tim at the door. He blinks at the guy for a second, and the guy blinks back, sort of silently sizing each other up.

He steps in, maneuvering awkwardly around the guy. "Uh," he says, looking at Tim. "Hi." He looks... okay. Unhurt. Somehow. "Are... are you okay?"

"Hi," he answers slowly, frowning, wondering how exactly he can avert imminent disaster before it happens. "Yeah, I'm - fine. Sort of. Sorry. Jay, this is, um." He swipes a hand through his hair and drops it to gesture loosely at the other man, trying and failing to preempt any suspicious glaring between them. "This is Johnny. Johnny, Jay."

In retrospect, he probably should have planned this out better. Or, like, at all. They look like they're trying to gauge each other and - yep, this doesn't look to be heading down a path Tim wants it to head down.

He doesn't want to mediate. For one, he doesn't know how. He's never had to worry about having this many friends before.

Johnny nods vaguely at Jay, who nods right back, looking incredibly unfriendly. He's not inclined to get defensive over it, since there's probably something going on here he doesn't understand, something not his business to know. Anyway it doesn't matter. He's not here for Jay.

"Are you?" he presses, coming closer, looking with slow bewilderment at Tim's side, where the wound should be. "I mean, I... I kind of... kinda stabbed you last night. Is it already healed?"

"Hold on, you stabbed him?!" Jay doesn't sound pleased about that, and Johnny really can't blame him.

Johnny holds up a hand, glancing back at Jay. "I sure as fuck didn't want to," he says, "but it was that or - but you're okay, right?" He turns back to Tim. "I mean... that part's okay. I was so fuckin' scared I'd..." He can't complete the thought, but Tim really does look fine, or at least fine in that he hasn't bled out right now.

Edited 2015-06-28 01:26 (UTC)

"That was you?" His tone doesn't seem to know if it wants to settle on upset, unnerved, or incredulous, so it lingers somewhere in the midst of all three. Jay seems weirdly - defensive about it? Offended? Outraged? Maybe he shouldn't be surprised, seeing as the man's expressed a willingness to charge into complete chaos on his behalf. But then so, apparently, has Johnny. Tim's not really sure what to do with that.

"No, uh - I'm okay now," he says, throwing Jay a warning look. Sure, so he's always been that fragile thing, something to be treated warily, kept at arm's length but never engaged, but he's not wholly incapable of defending himself.

Just mostly incapable.

He regards Johnny cautiously. It's not hard to figure out why the guy had to stab him, but if the personal footnote of having a masked alter ego is enough to sever whatever nascent friendship they had going on, well, Tim's not really one to blame him.

He'd cut himself off if he could. Amputate the parts of him that bled into everyone else's heads, make himself clean.

"It worked out," he says slowly. "And I wasn't really - myself."

"Yeah." Johnny folds his arms tightly, sort of hugging himself. "I guess I panicked. I'm really glad you're okay, man."

It would take a lot more than something like this to get him to abandon someone, at this point.

"I saw you without the... that mask on," he says. "You looked kinda, just, gone."

Jay's stepped into the kitchen, is pouring coffee, like he can't handle this (he can't).

"Look, you don't have to tell me what's..." Johnny waves a hand vaguely. "I know it's... shit's complicated. I get that. I do."

He really does.

"I just wanted to make sure you were..." Man he's trying really hard not to say anything like still alive. "And I didn't tell anyone," he adds quickly. "My, uh, my friend, well, boyfriend - Gabriel - he healed me up last night. He's, um, kind of an angel. Like, the actual archangel Gabriel. He knows something was up, he's kinda freakin' out at me, actually, but I... he doesn't know about you. And he doesn't have to, if you don't want. But he might be able to help you."

"I'm sorry," Jay interjects. "When you say 'actual archangel', you mean like from the Bible, right? You're dating that Gabriel?"

"Yeah," says Johnny with a short glance at him.

"Okay," says Jay faintly. "Just checking."

Edited 2015-06-28 01:39 (UTC)

'Archangel' is just one more problem he can pile onto the list that's been rapidly growing since he was old enough to understand the concept of lists, and it's not exactly the most critical problem on his mind right now. More alarming is the prospect that Johnny could have told anyone. He could have told a legitimate archangel.

But didn't.

"Look, uh, I told you," he begins, eyebrows pressing downward as he thrusts hands into his pockets, "stuff with me is - complicated. And the fewer people who know, the better."

Of course, that might not even be an option anymore. Who knows how many people his other self came across? It could have hurt any one of them.

It might have killed someone, and he'd have no way of knowing.

A fresh chill settles into his spine and he ruthlessly shatters the thought where it is.

"It wasn't really me," he mutters to the floor. "For what it's worth."

"I know," says Johnny softly. "I know that."

Jay sort of awkwardly re-introduces himself into their space, offering them each a cup of coffee, which Johnny takes in mild confusion.

"Oh, uh," he murmurs. "Thanks." His eyes drift, can't help but find the line of bruises around Jay's neck. He buries any expressive reaction he might have in a sip from the mug.

"Between us, then," he says to Tim. "That's fine. I guess if I get another of those messages I should just stay in?" It's an attempt at humor, weak as hell. He swallows more coffee, staring into the dark liquid. "Is there... anything I can do?" he asks, can't help asking.

Jay is playing host with an alarming mixture of awareness and sheer unbridled discomfort, which is not a combination Tim ever thought was possible but he's clearly going to have to broaden his perspective somewhat. He accepts the coffee without any clear idea as to what he should do with it, though the warmth against his hands is welcome, and fuck knows he'll need all his faculties to have this conversation. The weight of what was technically a sleepless night still hangs thick over his eyelids. He takes a sip.

It's pretty godawful.

He shakes his head, staring fixedly at a point of the wall between them. "No. The, uh - my medication, that's what it's for. Was for." Any effort to keep his tone neutral falters, his shoulders hunching with resentment. Even if the Rebels hadn't taken if off him, it was only ever a finite resource. And now next time, next time -

His eyes slide shut, despair stitched into the subtle twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Because it's an inevitability now. Without whatever the hell was in those little white capsules, without that synthetic suppression, that little freak will worm its way out whenever it can. Maybe trap him behind the veil of his own mind for good. At least then, Tim thinks bitterly at his coffee, he'll be easy enough to take care of. Just dispense of the problem. The little nuisance.

Jay feels like he can see Tim shutting down. There's more Johnny could ask, more he could be told, but he has the decency not to force it, and even though he's only just arrived Jay can see this has nowhere else to go. After a moment's hesitation he reaches out and touches Johnny's arm lightly.

"You should probably go," he murmurs. "We really need to just..." He shrugs. Talk? Sleep? Probably neither. "Just don't tell anyone about this, okay?"

Now he sounds like Tim. Funny how that happens, how they all start to blend together after so much time.

Johnny blinks at him, looking startled but not necessarily like he's planning to argue. "Okay," he agrees after a few moments. He seems to get this unexpectedly well. Poor guy. He looks at Tim. "We'll talk, okay?"

Yeah, thinks Jay, good luck with that one, buddy.

Tim shoots a look at Johnny and nods once, intensely grateful for whatever instinct inspired Jay to break in how he did, whether out of fear or anxiety or even some newly formed sense of tact.

"Yeah," he says, and the word feels like it takes more effort than it should. "Okay."

He almost tacks on an inane 'thanks' but the word dries in his throat. Thanks for what? For not giving him away to his literally holier-than-thou boyfriend? For all either of them know, Johnny could be well on his way to do that anyway. He's kept quiet about everything else, presumably, but it's not like Tim has any great insight into how things are meant to work between people in relationships. It's not like he knows how things are meant to work between people, period. He just knows they don't base entire conversations in lies to each other. Unless maybe they do.

Guess he wouldn't know that either.

Johnny doesn't really want to leave so soon, but - well, he didn't bank on this other guy being here (do they live together, or what? he didn't think Tim trusted anyone enough to live with them more than a few days in a hotel), and yeah, fair enough, Tim probably needs more time to... recover.

He gives Tim a solitary, awkward pat on the shoulder and hands the half-finished shitty coffee to Jay. "Thanks for the coffee," he murmurs, turning to head back to the door.

-

Jay takes the mug and sets it down on the kitchen counter, feeling subtle relief that Johnny's just going agreeably. He hears the door open but not close, and he looks up to see Johnny hovering there.

"This'll stay between us," he says to Tim. "You can count on that, okay?"

And he goes without waiting for an answer.

Jay feels an irrational swell of resentment. Very fuckin' noble, random stranger, keeping our secrets. He doesn't trust that kind of freely offered kindness anymore and he knows Tim doesn't either.

He looks back at Tim. "Do you trust him?" he asks bluntly.

He holds Johnny's look steadily, mingled gratitude and the paranoia he wishes doesn't show but probably does because it's just so goddamned natural an instinct he can't stamp out.

The door closes, both on Johnny and that brand new conflict, prompting Jay's most tactlessly invasive question of all time. He flashes Jay a glare from beneath lowered brows.

"Yeah," he says, making absolutely no effort to keep the defensive note out of his voice. "I do. He gets the kind of stuff we deal with, okay?"

He half-turns, snorting softly as he sets down his mug and starts half-cramming some of his scattered belongings into the deflated duffel lurking in the corner of the room.

Jay recoils slightly and looks at the floor for a while, only half-paying attention to Tim as he moves around the room.

It takes him a few moments.

"What are you doing?" he asks, looking up in surprise.

"I'm - " he begins, quietly purposeful, but whatever momentum he seems to have gathered abruptly dies out. He holds a crumpled pair of jeans limp in one hand, shoulders tightening around his ears.

It's what he always does.

Run, boy, as soon as things start going the slightest bit south. Seclude yourself. Section yourself off. Safer that way.

Hide like the coward you are.

"Finding my own place," he says, trying to infuse the words with some kind of firm finality. "Building's pretty much free for whoever now, right? There's empty rooms down the hall, I've seen 'em."

The jeans he shoves roughly in with the rest as he stands, shouldering his bag. Throw up all those old walls. It's not that hard, now, is it?

"Oh." Jay loks back at the floor. "Okay. Yeah. That makes sense."

It does. They could each do with space. Separation from each other. Especially now.

"You can take some of the dishes or whatever, I don't... need all of them," he mumbles with a weary gesture at the kitchen. He's trying not to look kicked, rejected, because that's not what this is, he tells himself fiercely, it's not, and he really doesn't need Tim scorning him for being clingy or something, not right now.

"You will once you turn the rest into cameras."

He can't tell if his tone was meant to sound rude or joking or dismissive. Probably not joking. He can't remember the last time it landed anywhere in that vicinity.

"I'll deal with it." He shrugs, one-shouldered. "Job'll cover the rest. Assuming I didn't attack my boss last night or anything."

Jay snorts, forcing himself to take it as a joke just for convenience's sake. "Okay," he says. "Well, uh. I'll be here." Obviously. "Let... let me know if you need anything, I guess."

Why is this so awkward. It'll probably be a relief to have his own space again. As much as he dreads it. As much as he fears just sitting and waiting and doing nothing for days on end, again.

"Yeah," he says, and barely keeps himself from adding a snide, sure. How the hell did Jay put up with him for this long. How the hell did Brian.

In the total absence of finding anything else to say, he rolls sore shoulders once more and jerks the door open. "See you around. I guess."

The door shuts and snaps the room into silence.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

anywhere but here [open]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

[meanwhile]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

tw: mild self-harm

munception

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

tw: self-loathing

:(

no subject

no subject

tw: brief suicide ideation

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject