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.
no subject
"Oh, shit!" he blurts. He moves his arms around, trying to see if it'll happen again, but it doesn't. He slumps, sort of, letting out a frustrated groan. Come on.
Impatiently he moves his hands back to the planchette and spells out GDI.
no subject
When the planchette finally shifts again, Tim can't suppress the loud snort that shakes his shoulders.
"It's something, right?" he says, and god but he hopes Jay comes back properly soon, because he's really not suited to the task of being the optimistic one. "It's an improvement. That's good."
no subject
There isn't much conversation to be made after this, and the flickering doesn't happen again, so eventually they drift back into their routine of cohabitating. It's dull. Tim at least has a body to maintain. Jay never realized how much just that went to alleviating soul-crushing boredom. Having to get up to go to the bathroom once in a while. Getting thirsty, hungry. Wanting a smoke or a shower.
He can't do any of that, he can only float around and feel uncomfortable with how voyeuristic this is. Which is ironic, and he knows it. Hell, at least Tim knows he's here, or assumes it. Not like when Jay followed him through town, waited outside his doctor's office.
Ugh.
He doesn't want to sit here and he especially doesn't to sit drowning in bad memories. He floats out of the apartment. By now Tim probably knows to wait for touch confirmation before trying to converse, so - if he does want to say something, he'll probably just... figure out Jay went somewhere. It's not like Jay doesn't have his own apartment. Tim probably wants the privacy.
Halfway down the hall to his apartment he stills. He doesn't want to go in there. Nothing but boxes and lights he can't turn on as the sun sets. Lonely, aching silence.
He wants to visit someone else. He doesn't know Bee well enough, and he's not gonna go out on his own to see Greta. Is there even anyone else in this damn building he knows?
Wait - Daine. Daine. She lives here now, now that the Base is - holy shit, does she even know he's back?
And she has dogs, and dogs can see him, and she can talk to them.
What a dumb idiot.
He thinks he can remember which apartment is hers. He floats down a few floors - it's getting a little easier to make himself sink, he notes - and drifts into her apartment. Hopefully she's there, and in a state/mood to receive company. Hoping is just about all he can do right now.
no subject
"What?" Daine lifts her head to look at the cat, then follows the animal's gaze to an apparently empty spot of air. Frowning, she asks, "Who is it? Daniel?" Not that Daniel's in the habit of lurking around invisibly, but it did seem like he didn't have the best handle on where he went, so maybe he finds being seen just as tricky.
At the sound of Daniel's name, both dogs open their eyes, and Molly lifts her head. They like Daniel, for all that he isn't solid enough to dole out scritches. After a moment's scrutiny, the terrier says, I think it's Jay.
"Jay?" Daine repeats incredulously. If not for the birds on her back, she'd be bolting upright. Sensing the urge, the sparrows chirp their farewells and head out the propped window, and Daine pushes herself into a sit, reshaping her eyes as she goes. "Horse lords," she breathes, staring at Jay with a cat's vision. "You're--what happened?"
no subject
As much as he's anticipating, hoping that the animals will alert her to his presence, when she actually starts speaking aloud he's quite startled for a moment. She's not talking to him. She wonders if he's Daniel, hah, that guy's a lot better at being visible than he is - and then, wonderfully without any fuss at all, she ascertains that it's him.
"I, um." Can the animals understand what he says? May as well test it. "I'm a ghost."
no subject
"Hang on a moment," Daine says, holding up a hand for silence. "You're too quiet for me to hear, and I can't see you that well even like this." She can make out his features well enough to recognize him, but he's awfully faint, and even if she was good at lip-reading she'd have a hard time of it with him so transparent. Instead, she brushes back her hair and lets her ears grow into the large, thin-skinned ears of a bat. If the dogs can just about hear him with their ears, she ought to be able to hear him clearly as a bat. Swiveling both ears in Jay's direction, she softly instructs, "Try again."
no subject
He's not sure how this works. Is he actually producing any sound? How do bat ears work, anyway? He decides to assume she knows what she's doing. She usually does.