villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

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037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

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"John Carter. He made it?"

Well, at least that was one good thing.

"Damn. He made it and I didn't." It's a bark of a laugh, more of sheer disbelief than anything actually humorous. "I honestly thought he was gonna bring those things down on him with how loud he was."

But Hardison's right. This doesn't make any sense. Not even a little--the time difference--how!? But after he just died twice, the time difference almost feels laughable, like an afterthought.

But Hardison is here. Ironically missing him by mere hours.

"Those--those things, they're not--at night, they might come back again. We gotta find someplace safe, obviously people made it if Carter's still alive--" Yeah, that's gonna be something he's salty about for some time.

Eliot paces, full of too much energy, running a hand through his hair, full of horror and disbelief and confusion and relief that Hardison is here, impossibly, worry that Hardison is here and how is he gonna protect him if he can't protect himself--

"It was--it was an attack. Somethin' I couldn't really even see--I..." He saw something but he can't even explain what it was. He shakes his head. "And then I was here--here, but it wasn't here."

This isn't making any sense and he knows he's not making any sense.

"It was a second town. This town. And there was this fire and--and--"

And it seems so ridiculous to say it out loud but he has to, he has to tell him. But what if it just makes things worse? Hardison was already clearly so distraught...

Eliot focuses on him again, and stops pacing. But he has to honestly tell him, he has to make him aware of just how dangerous this place is.

"I...I didn't make it outta there, either. I don't understand what the hell is goin' on here." It's only the slightest waver in his voice that tells how bad it must have been.

So twice. Wasn't there the first time, wasn't there the second time. Eliot is messed up. Frazzled, staticky on the edges in a way Hardison's never actually seen. The closest to it, the absolute closest that comes to mind all revolves around that first pass at Moreau. Hardison just watches while he paces, listens to him talk, wide-eyed.

It's sort of the full scope of the worst types of fear, in Eliot: how it sits on someone who's not used to feeling it that deeply, all filing in because of things that don't make sense and don't have a fix and can't be predicted or kept from happening again. There's almost nothing Eliot needs to say to drive home how bad this is. Eliot's the danger assessment guy, the grounded in reality guy. If they're given to launching into something like weird satellites, Eliot's the gravity that keeps them in orbit instead of way the hell off in space. And he's scared.

There's not much that beats that in terms of things that Hardison knows to be scared about.

It's a lot of real Silent Hill stuff.

Eliot died twice and all Hardison can think about is Silent Hill. Cool. Cool. That's cool. It's not cool. He feels like maybe this part of his brain is done in after everything that's happened so far. It hit capacity. It'll slam back into him later, he knows that from experience. He doesn't look forward to it.

"Okay." Okay, he's taking this seriously. Okay, he doesn't expect Eliot to have all the answers lined up. He didn't expect Eliot to be anything at all, ever again, so by that measure alone, Eliot being here right now is more than enough. Okay, with a reflexive kind of gravity and tenderness reserved for the few and far between, because if he could make anything actually okay, he'd do whatever it took to get there.

Hardison valiantly restrains himself from reaching out physically. It's very valiant, because he could not look more like he wants to do just that if he had a sign taped to his forehead. (He misses Parker like he'd miss a lung. He misses feeling balanced. He's so, so glad that no one here recognized her, past tense or otherwise, when he'd forced himself to start asking.)

"How about we start with getting inside? You can grab a shower. I'll make you an egg sandwich, 'cause you're the one who always talks about eating real food. No fancy experimenting. Just a... regular egg sandwich." Feeling-human-again steps. Letting Hardison stay in orbit steps. "One thing at a time."

It helps.

Hardison is being exactly Hardison and Eliot can always count on him to ground him. He's thankful for him being him and thankful for him being here, right now, at this very moment.

"Right. Yeah. I'll...good idea."

One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

He remembers telling other people that, scared soldiers under his command, some kid from Omaha that's in over his head and he can see himself as that kid, wearing too-heavy gear and realizing what it truly meant to be a soldier in those terrifying moments when all their training becomes very, very real.

He was kind to them, but no-nonsense. He told them exactly what they needed to do and expected them to do it. He'd have to be the same to himself. One foot in front of the other. Get clean. Get food. Sit down. Then deal with everything else.

One thing at a time.

"You better not mess up that egg sandwich."

A small sign of life, a familiar grumble.

A little goes a long way. Farther than usual today, truth be told. Bleeds out some of the tension and the dread and the locked-in bleakness of grief. It sat long enough, real enough, that it's not a clean pull despite the evidence of the impossible. To use his own parlance, there's probably more than a few traces of that system he'll have to deal with as they crop up and cause conflicts.

Makes enough room, though, for the relief of the impossible to creep in. Some off-color feeling that circles vaguely in the area of joy. Enough to be able to breathe around after a day in the dark-- a shaky exhale, some subdued shade of a grin.

If all Eliot can do is lean forward an inch, take one step at a time, Hardison is inclined to power-walk the full damn mile to meet him there from the other end, and then follow him the rest of the way to where he's headed.

"Eliot, I promise I will make you an egg sandwich that I'd be willing to give to my Nana while you're washing off that fresh air smell." Basic and acceptable and prepared with the herculean bulk of most of his active attention, which is about as much as Hardison can ever promise about cooking that doesn't involve a laser.

He takes a single step back.

"Your place or mine?"

"That's..."

Acceptable. Probably taste better than anything he's ever had simply because he's literally died twice and come back to life. Subjectively.

Objectively, the jury's still out on that one. Probably at least serviceable.

He makes a mental note to try and expand Hardison's culinary ability if, for some reason, he actually survives the next few hours and doesn't actually die again. He fully expects the earth to just open up in a chasm at any point now.

"That's fine."

And then he just sounds tired.

"Yours. I don't really like to stick around in one place too much here." A beat. "Where are you stayin', anyway?"

He can work with 'fine'. Work his way up to messing around with that distillery he saw a peek of, give Eliot something routine to complain about, maybe.

Assuming, in fact, that a chasm does not open up in the ground within the next few days and kill the man again. That he doesn't pop out of the mortal coil, weeping angel-like, while Hardison is making the sandwich. Which is just a different brand of a similar concern.

Hardison sticks his hands in his pockets, jerks his head back towards town. He adds a couple more leading steps to his resume, but lacks the subtlety to look like he isn't adhering to a very strict invisible personal tether protocol. Longer than handcuff chains. Still pretty close.

"I wound up at the boarding house. Maybe you floated over there sometime." Eliot drifting around is the least surprising thing to learn about today. Of course he did. "For the record, if you're picking between 'group home throwback chic' or chillin' by yourself in one of those dusty-ass mcmansions, first one's always a lot better on your sinuses."

"Yeah, I know the place."

Technically it's safer to stay in a place with a bunch of people, but he rather values his alone time. Then again, right now, he's not so sure he should be alone. But if he's got some kind of death thing going on, it would really suck for that chasm to open up where a bunch of people were.

Or maybe whatever this actually was, was after them all. And now Hardison's here. The thought is disturbing and upsetting and he can't do a damn thing about it until he gets his bearings, sits down, and gets some food in him.

One step at a time.

"I don't pick places to sleep based on how dirty they are, Hardison." He probably should, but he's used to finding a spot on the ground and going right to sleep from his army days. Thankfully he hasn't had to do that here. Though this conversation feels...familiar and safe. At least, enough to keep his mind off the trauma for two seconds. "As long as I got a roof over my head, that's all I need."

Eliot speaks with the conviction of a man who would take a long outdoors fishing trip for fun. What's muscle memory for arguing? If there's not a term for it, there should be a term for it. Because Hardison can fall into step with the rhetoric easy as anything. It's also in its own little sharp relief, in a non-awful way.

He missed the bickering as much as anything else he's missed in the past twenty-four hours.

"And as long as she's got a secure place to rig up a harness, Parker can sleep upside-down on the side of a skyscraper in Siberian winter. Uphill, in the snow, both ways, y'all are feral about just being comfortable, I know."

Bold words for a man who is his own brand of feral and whose boarding house room accurately reflects the overall emotional state he was working with yesterday, but regardless.

He loves them. Truly. His family is a cactus made out of diamond and a cactus made out of... cactus.

"As the options guy, I'd still prefer to keep our butts in clean beds when there's options to work with. 'cause I'm domesticated, Eliot. And my lungs, you know, my lungs have proclivities."

That gets a mild nod. That's true, Parker would. He's not entirely unsure that she hasn't actually already yet.

And yet, there's the faintest amusement in Eliot's eyes, a softness that isn't there for just anybody. Yeah, Hardison, as much as he grumbles you do amuse him and that was a moment, right there. And then he rolls his eyes a moment later and things seem almost normal for a second.

He wishes things could aggressively go back to normal, but he's not sure when that will be.

"Your lungs'll be fine," he grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "One night with a little bit a' dust won't make them shrivel up."

"It's the principle of the thing." A classic could-do versus willing-to-do lament. The sneezing alone would kill him.

Hardison is already chafing against the sheer breadth of things that he could normally do for people (strangers or otherwise) that he can't do here, all the ways that he feels inherently designed to not be the right person to have at hand up in this mess. He can already make out the broad strokes of where he's going, though, he thinks. Metaphorically.

Physically, they're both pretty clear on the current plan of action.

Shower, food, room to breathe, time to think. Equilibrium adjustment. Stick to Eliot until he's either confident he won't essentially de-spawn when out of range or until Eliot needs his space. Whatever comes first.

His brain will finish rewiring, down the line from that. He'll pick a place. Clean it up, move a little stuff into it. Call it HQ or a safehouse or home base, even though no place is actually a home anything without all three of them in it. Hand-stitch something together that Eliot can hang up and punch. He doesn't really know, past that. It's not a plan as much as the due process of knowing himself.

The things that he can still do, after all, he intends to keep on doing.

"You look up dust mites and tell me you want that anywhere near your airways. See how fast you go all wandering samurai with a dustbuster."

It's such a normal conversation, it's literally an anchor. He almost wants to thank Hardison right here and now for just being here, being himself, being exactly what he needs right now in this moment to ground him. He almost wants to laugh too, but he's not sure what would happen if he even tried. Any display of emotion right now would threaten to bury him in the very real trauma that he's now struggling to deal with. He's been through this game before, and he knows his own patterns. Started the very first time he'd seen death. He'd buried his feelings and moved on until the mission was done. But look where that got him. A cushy job being Damien's favorite murderer and years before he managed to feel anything.

He learned that you had to let yourself feel it, that you had to deal. And he knows where dealing with it by himself got him. He learned over the past few years that he had to trust others, had to work with others, and that meant letting the people closest to him see his true feelings, too. And that meant being vulnerable.

He really didn't like being vulnerable but he was self-aware enough to know that it was okay to be vulnerable around them.

"You worry too much. So what if you breathe in a few thousand dust mites?"

Is that the slightest dig? A very, very faint attempt at a joke? Maybe.

It's weary, though. He sounds tired. Not physically, but just down to his bones.

One foot in front of the other.

"Damn, I could use a drink right now."

What did he say, to himself, in his brain? A cactus made of cactus. A very important cactus who still goes to the effort of offering familiar jabs after being uprooted. It softens out something in the line of Hardison's posture even as he's letting out an offended little scoff, just enough, easy as that.

He wishes they had problems that annoying Eliot into taking a nap would fix. It might not be the first time he's wished that. Maybe later he will valiantly crash for the both of them.

"I can start you off with our finest tap water selections. Maybe a nice Capri Sun." All the chill drinks. "If you wanna graduate up to the hard stuff, I can't confirm or deny snooping around enough to know where people stash it. Since that would be morally wrong."

Which is to say, he had ample time to snoop and the desperate zeal to occupy himself with anything possible. Pre-earthquake. God, he forgot about the earthquake. There's not a ton of outdoor evidence of it that he sees, as they get up towards the buildings. This has really been a whole experience.

"You're covered either way, though."

Hardison doesn't have it in him to begrudge a man a drink after he literally died, if it's what he wants. Handle that when it comes to it, too. It's like the opposite energy of a last meal.

Honestly he'd take the Capri Sun and even one of Hardison's orange sodas that he suspected were about 99% sugar anyway. He'd even take the nap, too. Anything to escape the crap that's in his mind right now.

"Morally wrong and completely unethical. I definitely don't want to know those locations."

In more ordinary circumstances he'd be a little more strict on not taking other people's food or drink--stolen candy bars and sandwiches aside--but he just died twice, dammit, he'll make it up to them later.

There's something strange in the way that Eliot approaches the buildings. The dangerous situation plus the subsequent consequences of the past 48 hours or so has put him fully back into combat mode. He takes a few steps ahead of Hardison, scouting out the next twenty or so feet before moving from point to point, as if he's expecting literal fire to fall out of the sky and consume them both. Which it already did for him, so it's a thing he's legitimately worried about.

Huh.

It's not to say that he doesn't usually pay attention to Eliot and what he's doing or saying when they're out getting coffee or heading back from a job or anything. Because he does. He's an attention-payer. For various reasons, today he happens to be putting some extra percentage into the attention, even.

Eliot at this level of overdrive is still weirder than not. Another little scoop of worry for the bucket of worries, regardless of the fact that Hardison can't blame him for a vigilance uptick.

He hangs back a bit to let Eliot have the run of his route-picking. Mentally puts the nap back on the table. Looks around with the air of someone who doesn't expect literal fire to fall from the sky as they go, but who respects the concerns of someone who would probably pick up on it a lot faster if it did happen, somehow.

"Would it help you feel better if I also, like," and there, he pauses in favor of a back-and-forth pointing gesture, mostly made for his own benefit,"serpentined? Or is it cool if I just keep walking straight?"

It's lightly put, but a legitimate question. Zig-zagging is certainly on the long, long current runway of things that he'd be willing to do if it helped Eliot feel more settled.

"Yeah."

It's almost distracted, as he's currently looking around from side to side, making sure that he has all points of attack covered before moving the next few feet. He motions his hand towards Hardison to hurry up and get to him. Easier to protect you if you're next to him.

"Don't know if they're watching us."

It's unclear if they were the A. Original Things that killed him or B. The Mysterious Fire that also killed him, but clearly he's assigning blame to something that's after them, or at the very least, a force of nature that seems to delight in picking him off.

"Stay close. Let me know if you hear or see anythin' weird."

This town is officially a Threat now.

Edited 2021-03-24 02:35 (UTC)

"Right." Well, he put the offer on the table. So he'll honor that commitment and stick close to Eliot through this sudden cover-to-cover mission to the boarding house.

Hardison weighs the merit of pointing out that he walked this route out to where he ran into Eliot in the first place, with no incident to speak of. The weirdest turn of the day so far goes without saying. He ultimately decides against it. Lock him in a box and 'point out' that there's air holes; see what good it would do him.

Not a great example to live in, mentally. Kind of regretting that.

"I'd say it's weird how I'm probably the only Black dude in at least a five-mile radius, but that part's actually not super different from Portland."

Saved it. Pulled that throttle and leveled back out.

Some things aren't about the logical fact flowchart. They're about the principle, or the control, or the reassurance. Whatever. It's two birds with one stone, anyway, because he finds plenty of reassurance staying in close proximity. More for Eliot being solid and real than for perception of any Threat.

Not that within proximity of Eliot isn't generally the most solid safety protocol humanly possible.

It's very slow going but eventually, with his strange route, Eliot makes it roughly to the boarding house.

"I've been wonderin' about that," Eliot says, momentarily distracted from the unseen threats as he reaches the door of the boarding house. "We definitely ain't in Portland, though. Seems to be mostly dudes here, too. But I ain't even so sure this is..."

He doesn't want to say earth or at least, any reality they're used to.

"Either way I don't know if it's random or if we got sent here on purpose."

"If I ever get the census tallied up, we can think on it from there."

It's a very post- egg sandwich process, sure. Processes for most anything are going to take a longer time to put the work in on. That's always slated to be more frustrating than anything. Right now, it sort of works in their favor. He's willing to bet neither of them are fully online.

Hardison leans over to the door, pushing it most of the way open. He hangs back then, in case Eliot wants to take his cautious approach all the way over the threshold.

"C'mon, I'll show you my room. Can't do anything about the jeans, but I've got a couple of extra shirts you could swing if you want."

Half the flannel he found only came in size 'baggy' anyway.

He's looking forward to the egg-sandwich and post-egg sandwich activities, definitely. It's also really great to be not thinking about the earth suddenly opening up and swallowing him whole, so that's also a plus. He's wary even as Hardison opens the door, and he enters the house like he's pretty sure he's going to be attacked any second now. It's not unlike the way he moved when he was a mercenary, or in the army. Careful steps, constantly scanning.

...they're fine. He's inside and they're fine.

He relaxes, just a tiny bit. The tiniest bit.

"...yeah," it's distracted but he manages to piece together what Hardison is saying. "Shirt...good. Yeah, I'll...that's what I'll do."

Hm. It's something.

A mostly extremely concerning something. It makes sense. God knows, all things considered, the wariness isn't barreling in from left field. It's no less worth the sharp concern, the wanting to stick close. Indoors has some benefits over outside there, and they're all related to the concept of there only being so many ways in and out of a room to start with. It's worth all the point to point slow progress of getting from the edge of town to here to see Eliot's shoulders relax a tiny bit after the fact.

As long as Eliot's sort of vaguely paying attention, he can still herd him in the right directions, at least. Case in point, up one set of stairs and into room 3. It is, if nothing else... pretty Hardison-ed up already for a one-night stay. The Lucille of boarding house living spaces, perhaps.

He's got his box of basic hygiene staples next to the nightstand, which may or may not have a box of cereal sitting on top of it. A couple of dusty paperback sci-fi novels that he found sitting around. A VCR in the middle of the floor that's halfway through either being methodically taken apart or put back together.

The blankets and pillows are all neatly folded, untouched, at the foot of the bed, which he seems to have elected to use as a temporary clothes-storage catchall. Such as it is. That's where he points Eliot to go flannel-hunting, while he squats by his hygiene box to dig out a fresh bar of soap.

"And to think you're missing out on all these settled-in benefits." Simple life hack: talk enough for both of them. He's the talker. It's his niche. "Mister I-don't-travel-with-luggage. Probably got a bag of stuff hanging in a tree somewhere."

He's immensely thankful for Hardison just...being exactly himself, talking enough for the both of them, reading him exactly right and knowing what he needed, the space he needed, but also the connection he needed.

Eliot takes in the room, committing it to memory instantly, wanting to huff and puff about the VCR but being thoroughly endeared by it at the same time.

Hardison is here, really here, this is really happening, he just died twice, and now he's gonna clean up and get new flannel.

He takes a new shirt and the bar of soap and there's a pause, and a vulnerable look in his eyes for a moment. Only reserved for those closest to him, only reserved for those who he lets see him this vulnerable.

"Thanks."

It's not just any old thanks. It's genuine and it's so much he wants to say but can't, maybe he never will be able to, and it's everything.

Oh, Eliot's gonna go and make him emotional. As if he wasn't emotional already, baseline status. Hardison walks up to the line of looking like he might start crying again, but doesn't take the last step over that line.

Yesterday, there was just never gonna be any of this again. He got the proof and then some. No more dumb arguments, no more 'dammit, Hardison,' no more hard-earned rare vulnerability or silent back-and-forths with Parker or annoyed snapping or angry, weirdly specific rants about the restaurant industry. No more Eliot. No one in reach even halfway to understanding exactly how devastating that prospect is.

He's the talker, but he still hasn't worked his way up to knowing how to explain it. Hardison doesn't feel pressed to try and spit it out half-baked, because Eliot and Parker are at least people who already know the shape.

He blinks a few times. Swallows. Nods, because of course, because literally anything he can or could do that might help a little, of course, it's out on the table.

"I'll be in here when you're done."

Putting a floor between them? Sounds fake. Can't be done. A hallway is his max limit for the time being.

Eggs get cold too fast, anyway. Better to just fix that up fresh.

He sees that look on Hardison's face, the emotional pain seems to stretch out in the air between them and he catches a glimpse of what he must have been through in these past...how many hours has it even been? He doubts Hardison will be very far off at this point, and he can't blame him. He'd do the same.

There's a nod and he goes to close the door and finish washing up. It doesn't take long, not that he ever takes that long and plus he too doesn't want to be away from Hardison for very long. As if he opened the door and suddenly everything was back to 'normal,' normal being relative, and Hardison disappearing. A horrific dream within a terrible nightmare.

But maybe this nightmare's on pause, at least. He comes out, with new flannel and a new appreciation for running water and things that are decidedly not fire, and not being chased by invisible, unknowable monsters.

"Hey, Hardison. So how about that egg sandwich?"

He sounds a little better. Feeling a bit more human, clearly.

Hardison ditches the paperback he was idly flipping through and heads for the door, like a consummate professional.

Eliot does sound a little better. And hey, no mysterious void in spacetime opened in the shower. Reality gets two reward points for that. A little goes a long way.

"Coming right up."

"Thanks, man."

It's...exhausted, mostly. Driven by coming down off an extreme adrenaline rush and exacerbated by the relaxing shower. But he's not gonna fall asleep, even if his body protests and wants to.

He's not sure if he's gonna wake up or not. Or what world he'll wake up in. He wonders, vaguely, how he's going to sleep ever again, but that doesn't matter. He's used to dealing with little sleep.

He closes the bathroom door behind him, shaking some water out of his hair.

"Need help?" You know, so he can distract himself instead of hurtling through the existential horror that is his life now.

037-040 » the reason for time

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