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
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.