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
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.