Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-06-24 09:55 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-06-24 09:55 pm
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
tw: mild self-harm
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."
munception
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.
no subject
like he always doesand got burned for itlike 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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
tw: self-loathing
"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."
:(
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
tw: brief suicide ideation
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
It takes him a few moments.
"What are you doing?" he asks, looking up in surprise.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.