[log] Hot water, cold ocean [closed]

[bookofnope]

Characters: Angel, Rhys, Fiona, Beckett, Steve and Peggy
Location: Building 34 (hot shower house)
Date: Day 109
Summary: It's the hot shower house damnit they were supposed to have nice things instead they get the event.
Warnings: Possible discussion of character death, suicide. Rhys's sundry injuries. Maybe condoms. Probably condoms lbr.



[Assuming Steve and Peggy get to the house around afternoon after the day's travelling, the Hypernerds and co having been there since Day 108. Go forth, make toplevels, shitpost away!]

Comments

cw blood and grossness for prompt #1 8Ia

[phaseshifter]

1:

[ Angel is usually pretty good at hiding her stress levels. She's had a lot of practice, okay, considering that she spent years doing just that while working for Jack. She's a pro.

Right now she's not doing well at all, though. The dream she woke up from this morning was bad enough - ugh - but since then she's been assaulted by possibilities. Around every corner is a new way for Beckett to die or Fiona to get snatched away, and every time she looks at Rhys her mind turns to ways that their hacking stunt could have gone wrong. Wrong-er. Blood fountaining from his port, eyes turning vacant and bloodshot as he cooks from the inside out --

Urgh. And all so vivid they feel like they could be memories, not just products of an overstressed mind. Horrible.

Shortly after arriving at the house, Angel can be found off in her own little corner. She's not really interested in scrambling for the shower. Better to just sit and stare at the half-melted snow in her bottle as if the water is going to swallow her up. Awesome. ]


2:

[ Hey. Hey. You know what the best distraction from awful shit is?

WORKING

ON

THE SHIPPING SPREADSHEET

But with Angel's brain as tired out as it is, she's having a little trouble filling in some potential ship names. And with this being such an important endeavour, she really shouldn't be ashamed of asking for help. Which is what she's doing. Hello, passer-by, there is an Angel piping up at you from where she's sitting on the floor. ]

Hey, um - can I get your opinion on something? Or some help, or. Iunno.

[ RUN. RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN. ]

Prompt A!

[bookofnope]

If you had some snow-melting power that the admin didn't neutralize, I assure you, you'd have found out by now.

[And here comes Beckett, quiet as a cat, dropping to a crouch in front of her. He's been trying to sleep, but it's a hopeless cause. Closing his eyes just fills the darkness with aching almosts - almost failed to get her, Rhys and Clayton out of the basement in time, almost didn't cool Rhys's port fast enough, almost lost Brian for good, almost killed House in a blind rage - and he despises regrets. Immortals can't afford them. So it is back to pacing, or it would have been, if in his first circuit around the room he hadn't noticed her wilted in the corner.

He has not come to fuss. Perish the thought. They both know the rules of this dance by heart. But she looks - a new kind of not-fine, he reflects, knowing he has seen her in states of not-fine-ness before. That kind of staring bodes a little more ill than usual. Snap her out of that, at least, get her defences going again if they can be. He can do that quietly enough. Gently enough.]

Or is it that it's nice looking at something boring after what we get on the network on a daily basis?

[phaseshifter]

Oh - geez!

[ She starts a little as he speaks, genuinely caught unawares, but quickly settles into an attempt at a more relaxed expression.

It isn't a very good one, with a pronounced hollowness to her smile, but still. The effort is there. That has to count for something. ]

Sorry. I was just... thinking. A filthy habit, I know.

[bookofnope]

[Maybe it's a start, though that smile doesn't trigger the usual heart-lifting feeling. He tilts his head at her slightly.]

Terrible, yes. Better quit while you still can. Steve and Peggy should be here soon, and they'll probably be wanting some flower crowns.

[He does his absolute best to deliver this line with the proper mixture of levity and oh-god-why-flower-crowns wryness. It's a bit of going through the motions, but sometimes that is the soul of coping. Going through the motions until you're moving again.]

[phaseshifter]

Sucks to be them, I only have a handful of flowers left. Enough for a bracelet, if they share.

[ She smiles again - less hollow, more grateful. It's easy enough to see what he's doing, but that doesn't make it any less effective. Perhaps moreso, even. ]

I assume you'll be wearing yours throughout their visit? To make them jealous?

AND PROMPT B I DO WHAT I WANT

[bookofnope]

[Hey Angel, you know who the best guy to ask for help is? Definitely not the grumpy vampire whose likely opinion of 99% of combinations involving him is some variety on a scream. Do you know who you're getting, though? YEAH.]

Always. What do you need?

[He can't quite see what she's doing there, but it looks like it's important. Very serious business clearly.]

[phaseshifter]

[ Angel is already half-regretting this particular choice. This is a path that can only end in being thoroughly judged, and the wisest option would be to back out now.

And yet... the shipping spreadsheet. It beckons. ]

I'm just - organising some things, and, um.

[ Do it, Angel.

Do it for the spreadsheet. ]

So - so, umm. You know how sometimes when a couple gets together, people give them a. A ship name? Like, a collective name to refer to the two of them as a unit...?

[ There's still time to run, Beckett. There's still time. ]

[bookofnope]

[He should run, but he can't. Angel has asked for help and he does not turn down Angel at her time of need. Look what you have done to him you devil child. Look how you have destroyed his serious vampire cred.]

A collective...?

[He is just going to. Stare for a moment. No judging yet, but mostly because he is so lost. Is this some kind of modern kids thing?]

I'm sorry, what? What do boats have to do with it?

[phaseshifter]

No, ship, as in relation-ship. Like, um - if you ship two people, it means you think they'd be a good match for each other. It's.

[ Sounding lamer by the second whY DID SHE THINK THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA ]

It's fun.

HAHAHAHAHA LET'S GO WITH TWO.

[starsandtights]

[Steve and Peggy have staked out their own bit of wall and floor, sharing warmth and resting up after their hard day's travel. Whatever it is this place is doing to their brains today—visions, alternate versions of memories—it's getting worse; more persistent, more realistic, harder to ignore. He has to concentrate to know what's real and what isn't.

An anomaly bursts through the door and he has to force himself not to shout and jump to his feet. He remembers fighting Bucky on the helicarrier—remembers killing him. Fucking hell.

He gives Peggy's shoulder a squeeze, kisses the side of her head, and mumbles something about stretching his legs before getting up to pace restlessly. After a few passes, Angel flags him down.]

Sure. Absolutely, Angel, how can I help?

[A distraction! Yes, good.]

[phaseshifter]

Thanks. Um, can you tell me anything about your-- about Peggy? Just simple stuff. Things you associate with her, or words you'd use to describe her?

I'm having a little trouble coming up with your ship name. Since I don't know her well at all, I mean.

[ The most casual of requests~ ]

[starsandtights]

[Steve crouches down to be on Angel's level and stares at her a little, baffled.]

.............Ship name...?

Okay let's do this - prompt B, ~of course~

[1946redvelvet]

[Peggy needs to - stop thinking. She can't try to sleep, the images and memories assaulting her too vivid, too real, to the point where she's not sure anymore what is reality and what is fiction. Even Steve's presence isn't as reassuring as it should be; he's supposed to be dead, after all. When she touches him, he feels cold to the touch, like ice, and his eyes are dead, and his smile is frozen, his skin covered in frost.

Peggy blinks. Steve's back to normal, but her heart is beating like crazy, and she can't - she can't take it. He must feel the same; he gets up and moves around the room, so alive, so alive, how can it be?

Angel's voice cuts through Peggy's thoughts, as soft as it is. Peggy turns to her, nodding quick. Anything to. Not think. Peggy shifts closer to Angel.]

Of course, what can I do to help?

[It's a good reason to chat, after all. They don't really know each other, so they've got to start somewhere.]

[phaseshifter]

I was just-- oh, umm.

[ Okay, everyone else has given her looks about this. Maybe she should tread more carefully this time? ]

Do you know what shipping is?

[1946redvelvet]

I'd be willing to bet you're not talking about freight!

[Peggy settles, closer to Angel. Considering how the young woman seems slightly nervous about the whole thing, Peggy makes herself look as open as she can, smiling gently.]

Go on, enlighten me, I'm sure it's a lot more entertaining than transporting crates of goods.

[headjacked]

[ So, as of recent events, Rhys is no stranger to horrifying visions. Of himself, primarily, sure, but after the time he's had, he can fight through it.

He can handle watching Fiona getting ripped apart.

Totally fine watching Beckett self-destruct.

And Angel, Angel... sacrificing herself, it. It can't be real. None of it is ever real.

He forces himself into the hot shower and soaks, eyes closed, for as long as the hot water lasts. Until the colors dance in front of his vision, and


he's on the floor, scrunched awkwardly and painfully, and oh-so-confused. His clothes are on and soaked. When did he go down?? He has no clue. He just works to scramble to his feet, but his body won't obey his brain.

Shit. ]

[starsandtights]

[Steve happens to be passing near the bathroom door when he hears a whole lot of alarming thumping noises. For a moment he clenches his jaw, fighting the impulse to react, thinking his brain is just messing with him again... but then. Shit. That could've been real. ...Was that real? Did he hear that?

He raps his knuckles against the door, preparing to feel foolish.]

Rhys?

[When there's no answer, he hesitates, then turns the knob and opens the door a crack. Rhys is sprawled painfully on the floor. Steve stares, and blinks, and stares a little more, then rushes forward and drops to one knee next to Rhys. It's only when he touches Rhys that he's really sure this is actually happening.]

Shit. Rhys, are you OK? What happened?

[Steve scans over him quickly, looking for any obvious bad injuries, and gingerly trying to help him sit up.]

[headjacked]

I --

[ He's wondering, vaguely, if there's any way he can get out of this without looking pathetic, or vulnerable, or pathetically vulnerable. Rhys is oddly heavy given his stick-insect build, though not enough to hinder Captain Justice. ]

Th- I slipped. I'm fine.

[ Trying very hard to enunciate, but it still sounds oddly slurred. He also tries standing on his own once helped up and nearly goes straight back down. Rhys is only saved by clinging onto Steve like a tall, gangly koala. ]

[starsandtights]

Whoa, whoa there—clearly not fine. [Steve frowns, worried by his slurred speech; did he hit his head?] ...Hold still. [Steve attempts to probe for head injury one-handed while propping Rhys up.]

We should probably get you lying down. And. A towel. ...Why are you wearing all of your clothes?

[bookofnope]

A: Serious business

[How he dreams about drowning, Beckett will never know. He has never drowned before. It might have been a fear, once - they'd all feared the ocean, even those who loved it, and he'd never loved it even after many years. But centuries have passed since the cold and the choking water could touch him, and he doesn't know how he knows, that feeling of lungs filling to burst, of salty desperation welling up at the back of the throat, darkness closing like a coffin overhead, and cold, cold, cold.

He doesn't sleep much that night. During the day, knowing better than to try to pace the house's one room, he curls up in his usual corner and tries to catch up. It's peaceful for a while. Then he's back in the morgue.

He's back in the morgue and the beast is boiling up from the floor, and it isn't Angel, it isn't red - it's black, all black, a whirling cloud of darkness that makes the ground shake with its frozen wrath, and there is no protection nor escape this time, as it engulfs him and transfixes him and white hands take his throat, Lucita's face, come to snatch out his mortal breath -

He wakes with a horrible start and right into a strangled coughing fit, chest tight, eyes painfully wide. He'll never be used to dreaming again, never. And nightmares are something entirely new.]


B: The great Snowhell Shower Fight

My turn.

[There. It's announced. It is one hundred percent official. Beckett is already standing up and heading for the shower. He'd been patient, he'd been charitable, he'd let everyone and their mother take their turns yesterday. But he'd woken up in cold sweat twice in the last twelve hours and also it has been a month and enough is bloody well enough. Mortal bodies are disgusting.

So yes. His turn. Absolutely. He's already focused enough on shrugging his coat off to not pay too much attention to anyone else making bid for the door and the joys within.]

A looks super awkward, let's go with that :DDDDD

[starsandtights]

[Steve hears noises from Beckett's corner and goes to investigate just before he wakes abruptly, choking and panicked. Steve crouches down, reaching out to touch him and then drawing his hand back at the last moment, not sure that Beckett would react well to being touched.]

Relax, Beckett. Breathe through your nose. Slowly. Not too deep. [He speaks with a calm, quiet authority. Steve knows all about struggling to breathe.]

[bookofnope]

[Even in his current state of profound distraction, Beckett winces away from the aborted touch, a gesture of animal instinct. He's cornered already, suffocated. No more. No one. The instructions muddle their way into his mind - breathe, Steve would know, Steve is human. The first, second, third attempts at a slow breath fall flat as the cycle of panic feeds itself, but eventually he manages to swallow and force the coughing down long enough to get enough air in to break it. Breathe.

His throat feels raw and thick, but once the terror abates, he can breathe clearly. Small comforts. He stays half-curled onto himself, panic replaced by painful embarrassment. Nightmares, of all things. Where did the nightmares come from?]

I'm - it's fine - it's nothing.

[starsandtights]

[Steve keeps his distance, within reach but not reaching out, trying not to loom over Beckett.]

Bad dreams? ...Oh hell, of course bad dreams, with whatever it is that's happening to our minds today. [He makes a face.] Guess I'm not sleeping tonight.

[plundering]

[Fiona is not having a great night. She's heard things about how this place can screw with your mind, but experiencing it firsthand is so, so much worse.

It started off relatively tame. She knows Athena never killed Sasha in Hollow Point. She knows Rhys never died falling off the caravan. They're terrible images, they make her stomach twist and they seem to stick in her thoughts, but they aren't real. She knows what really happened.

As the day goes on, though, hallucinations become harder to distinguish from reality. Fiona isn't just misremembering anymore, she's seeing Rhys seize again out of the corner of her eye, or anomalies scraping at the windows, and she has to fight herself to keep from crying out.

Felix made sure that Fiona would have a good poker face, that she'd be able to feign calm and confidence even when she was scared out of her mind. But these visions, or whatever they are, worm their way into her mind until she can't quite keep the mask up. Her face is drawn and her jaw set, and she's leaning against the wall, toe tapping absently and arms crossed. She's not in the mood to talk, but every so often she'll glance at someone else in the house and watch them closely, as though inspecting them, trying to convince herself that whatever she's seeing isn't reality.]

+1 fuckin' dorkface

[starsandtights]

[Steve's having similar issues and is doing his best to distract himself, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Peggy and trying to solve a Rubik's cube. (It must be solvable. He knows it is. He's seen Tony do one in about 30 seconds. It just. DOESN'T SEEM POSSIBLE.) If he can just concentrate really hard on solving the Rubik's cube, maybe he can tune out all the horrible bullshit his brain keeps throwing at him. From time to time he tenses and glances up and around, taking a few seconds to convince himself that no, you didn't actually hear that.

Fiona's sitting nearby; Steve meant to approach her when he first got here because, well, OBVIOUS REASONS, but she didn't really look like she wanted to talk, and she still doesn't. Steve can't blame her. She looks at least as miserable as he feels. Maybe whatever-this-is will be gone in the morning, and they can talk then.

But then he catches her watching him, covertly but pretty intensely. He wonders what she's seeing. Probably nothing good. He thinks about ignoring it, but after a few moments he thinks what the heck and catches her eye, raising his eyebrows questioningly.]

Something on my face? [He reaches up to touch it, and then widens his eyes in exaggerated comic surprise and horror, patting at his beard.] Oh God, what is that??