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)
bigapplesauce2015-08-05 10:39 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-08-05 10:39 pm
take these broken wings and learn to fly [closed]
His head throbs, a single continuous pulse feathering into variations on the same painful theme.
Tim groans and feels his muscles clench as he tries to roll over. A familiar soreness suffuses his entire body, the kind of soreness that takes its sweet goddamn time fading out after -
After -
Well, shit.
All it takes is a cursory glance at his phone for Tim to groan again and slap the device down as he gets slowly, agonizingly, to his feet. He runs fingers over his clothes, through his hair. No twigs and leaves, no mat of mud and blood drying in stiff clumps. His skin remains unscuffed from the phantom tug of undergrowth, his clothing miraculously clean and whole.
And, most importantly - no mask.
Tim breathes out, long and slow, and tries to suppress the faint prickle of relief. Unless his less agreeable self has suddenly gotten way more meticulous about cleaning up after its habitual wrecking of shit, an eerie number-laden message on the network is all he's got to worry about. That'd be a first. He'd almost be grateful for the little bastard if it wasn't set on making his life fucking miserable every chance it got. Regardless, he'll count himself lucky when he can.
Everything still hurts by the time noon hits him square in the face with a bright burst of sunlight through the slats in the shades, and the hiss of crisp fall air. It's surreal that Tim has to remind himself that time is still a thing that exists; absurd as it is, the existence of anything outside his own problems always comes to him as a shock. Like, you know, the weather.
So Tim goes out and buys a Ouija board.
This is - so goddamn stupid, he doesn't think he has a word for it. It's stupidly optimistic. It's a stupid idea, period. But he's out of options, and he feels like an idiot buying something like this, some plastic board at the cheapest magical bullshit place he could find. It's this or ask Asmodia to play telephone every day, and he's about had it with dragging other people into his and Jay's collective shit. She's got better things to do - safer people to spend her time with, no doubt, who are less liable to catapult her life into a complete sanity-draining nightmare.
He enters the apartment, keys rattling over the door, and jiggles the wide, flat box with faux enthusiasm.
"Bought you something," he deadpans.
As usual, the apartment doesn't answer. He pauses in hopes for a gust of chill wind to stab at his shoulder, or for the roll of paper towels to dislodge themselves from the counter - anything that would confirm that he didn't just announce his stupid impulsive baseless purchase to an empty fucking apartment. Like a moron.
Tim groans and feels his muscles clench as he tries to roll over. A familiar soreness suffuses his entire body, the kind of soreness that takes its sweet goddamn time fading out after -
After -
Well, shit.
All it takes is a cursory glance at his phone for Tim to groan again and slap the device down as he gets slowly, agonizingly, to his feet. He runs fingers over his clothes, through his hair. No twigs and leaves, no mat of mud and blood drying in stiff clumps. His skin remains unscuffed from the phantom tug of undergrowth, his clothing miraculously clean and whole.
And, most importantly - no mask.
Tim breathes out, long and slow, and tries to suppress the faint prickle of relief. Unless his less agreeable self has suddenly gotten way more meticulous about cleaning up after its habitual wrecking of shit, an eerie number-laden message on the network is all he's got to worry about. That'd be a first. He'd almost be grateful for the little bastard if it wasn't set on making his life fucking miserable every chance it got. Regardless, he'll count himself lucky when he can.
Everything still hurts by the time noon hits him square in the face with a bright burst of sunlight through the slats in the shades, and the hiss of crisp fall air. It's surreal that Tim has to remind himself that time is still a thing that exists; absurd as it is, the existence of anything outside his own problems always comes to him as a shock. Like, you know, the weather.
So Tim goes out and buys a Ouija board.
This is - so goddamn stupid, he doesn't think he has a word for it. It's stupidly optimistic. It's a stupid idea, period. But he's out of options, and he feels like an idiot buying something like this, some plastic board at the cheapest magical bullshit place he could find. It's this or ask Asmodia to play telephone every day, and he's about had it with dragging other people into his and Jay's collective shit. She's got better things to do - safer people to spend her time with, no doubt, who are less liable to catapult her life into a complete sanity-draining nightmare.
He enters the apartment, keys rattling over the door, and jiggles the wide, flat box with faux enthusiasm.
"Bought you something," he deadpans.
As usual, the apartment doesn't answer. He pauses in hopes for a gust of chill wind to stab at his shoulder, or for the roll of paper towels to dislodge themselves from the counter - anything that would confirm that he didn't just announce his stupid impulsive baseless purchase to an empty fucking apartment. Like a moron.
never apologize for length
"Yeah, I know," Tim says sourly, setting the box on the table and unpacking it with willful emphasis. He has committed to this, and fuck if he's gonna apologize for it if it turns out to work. He's out of ideas. He's betting Jay is out of ideas.
So. Ouija board it is.
"You got any better ideas?" he fires over his shoulder into the seemingly empty space. "Would you rather Asmodia come babysit every time you want something to do?"
Maybe he's feeling a little bit defensive.
Maybe slightly defensive, and slightly dumb.
Whatever. If it works, it's worth it.
He sets the planchette on top of the board, some cheap thing with either not enough effort put into the ~spooky looping letters or not enough - Tim can't really decide. After a moment's hesitation in which he feels even goddamn stupider, he flicks off the lights, which doesn't do much to decrease the room's lighting or make the room feel any more spiritual or mystical or whatever bullshit, but Tim doesn't have any candles.
"Wanna at least try?" he tentatively launches into the ether, and reluctantly puts one hand on top of the planchette.
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Jay rolls his eyes and watches Tim set everything up, even going so far as to turn out the lights. Ooh, spooky.
And now Tim's waiting for - what, for Jay to ~guide his hands~ to the answers? What fucking ever.
Well, he drew a line in some flour and he knocked over a roll of paper towels. No sense in not trying this.
He sighs heavily and lowers his hand down to the planchette. It passes through, as expected, but for a second there's something - else.
"Whoa." He pulls his hand back sharply, staring down at the cheap looking thing, then lowers his hand again.
He's not moving it. He's not. But it is... moving, gently, slowly. Is Tim doing it? Jay frowns and thinks very hard about moving toward "I".
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And that wasn't him.
The planchette budges, creeping along slowly, and Tim feels his eyes widen subtly.
"Holy shit," he mutters, watching it slide over to the I at an excruciatingly sluggish pace.
He's not sure whether to be pleased or mortified that this idea is proving to have some merit to it after all.
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He's not even sure what to say. Is it working because he's getting better at moving things or because he's a ghost? Does it matter, at this point?
Message complete, he pulls away, waiting for Tim to reply.
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"No shit," he says, the words made breathy from the first flicker of mirth he's felt since - longer than he cares to remember, really. "Well, hell. I guess - I mean, not really a solution, but - it works, right?"
At least it opens up the avenue of communication. Relatively easy communication. He can't help but feel - relieved, weirdly. It wasn't all just for nothing. It wasn't.
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After a moment of consideration, he nudges the planchette along. He has to be efficient here, not exactly one of his strong suits, but he does his best, cause this is gonna get annoying.
This isn't like the paper towels.
That was accident. Can't do it again. Trying.
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The message provokes a faint frown, his brows knitting together.
"So you can - what, only affect stuff every now and again?" he guesses. It still feels ridiculous to be speculating in front of what basically amounts to empty air, but at least Jay can reply. At least they can have an actual back-and-forth conversation without having to resort to someone playing spectral conduit. "Is there any consistency to it?"
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That's easy enough. This is really hard, thinking out what he wants to say with as few words as possible, spelling them one at a time. He has to concentrate a lot more than he's used to.
Might get better with time. Don't know.
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"What about the cats?" he prompts, his voice pitched low, as if talking softly would prevent them from hearing. He has no idea if they can. Sometimes it feels like the damn things are everywhere. "Are they - watching you now?"
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Don't know, he says again. Can't see them. But they might be omnipotent.
That word takes a stupid long time to spell but it's a necessary point to make. If the cats are the Rift, then... presumably they can see everything that happens, right?
He feels dread wash back over him, blotting out the relief. If this is true, then they let Tim take him out of the dreaming, and if the cat from yesterday had showed up just to nudge him along, they wanted him to succeed at getting back to Tim.
What is the game, here? They'd implied they were keeping him sort-of alive for a reason, but what is that?
Don't know what they want from me. He hesitates before adding, us.
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The thought is less than comforting.
"All right," he says slowly, running a hand through his hair with the bracing push of a hand. "Well - no point in worrying about it now, I guess. Not until we can change you back."
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Was he, even, in the first place?
He waits until Tim's hands are back on the thing and then moves it again, though there's not really much to talk about now. He's just so desperate for conversation.
I'm
and then he freezes up. Faltering, just like in real life. Ridiculous.
Eventually he finishes: really glad you got me out.
He could have said 'glad you're here' but he sort of assumes Tim would just make fun of him for something sentimental like that.
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Definitely longer, now that Tim thinks about it.
He watches Jay unsteadily tick out the latest message, and Tim swallows.
"Yeah, well." He looks at the board, rubbing one arm. "Wasn't gonna leave you there. And I'm not gonna leave you like this, either." He leaves one hand on the planchette but shoves the other in his pocket. "We'll figure something out."
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This could be the end of the conversation, and he doesn't want to make Tim sit here all day, but he can't avoid asking, Are you okay? I saw that you
He doesn't finish. There's no way to trail off on a Ouija board. But he doesn't know how to phrase it, and Tim is going to know what he means.
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It's like those infrequent days where they could work together, though they were never really able to forget the lingering weight of why they had to. That shadow in the corners of their vision. That thing that followed wherever they went.
Speaking of which.
It's not too weird that Jay saw, considering. What else is Jay gonna do to spend his time? It's not like the man sleeps.
It's not like either of them ever do.
"Yeah," grunts Tim, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "No, yeah. I'm fine. Guess I didn't go out. Bit of a shocker."
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Well. That's about all he can think to talk about. After a few moments he spells out, I'll be here. Will tap ur shoulder if need be.
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In case of emergency.
He supposes it wouldn't hurt.