- and a bargain must be made,
- anything but gently down the stream,
- as if i had a soul to steal,
- bucky barnes,
- dean winchester,
- feel it pull me underneath,
- i can hurt you from inside,
- i think we ran out of time,
- life is but a dream,
- my inmate started the actual apocalypse,
- not the stiles you're looking for,
- nothing in this world i wouldn't do,
- scott mccall,
- somebody else might take my place,
- steve rogers,
- the devil within,
- there's still poison in our veins,
- you still got me
[Spam -- For the entire last week -- Open]
[It starts before Bucky's birthday party. The niggling anxiety that he can't quite shake, and he knows it has to be port-related, because that makes sense. He's not sure when he became the type of person that had to have something make sense before he believes it, and he's not sure he really is, because right now, he's not sure about much of anything.
He wanders through the days looking more and more tense and on edge as the week draws on. He's jumpy, paler than usual, eyes a little wild at first when he looks at anyone who says his name or bumps into him.
He thinks he's the one who killed Steve. Clementine. The others. But he can't get the words to leave his lips, can't force the confession out to anyone, and he thinks Void is controlling him so he can't do it.
By Saturday he's locked himself in his cabin, turned off the communicator, and instead of being in his bedroom (because he keeps seeing red strings all around, pinned to the walls and looped through a pair of scissor handles that are stabbed into his mattress), he curls up on the living room sofa, staring blankly at the turned off television. His face is drained of all color and he's rocking slightly.
We're going to destroy them all, Stiiiiiiles.
He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, covers his ears with his hands, unconsciously counting his fingers one at a time by feel.
He stays like that for the remainder of the day, ignoring any and all knocks on his door.
By Sunday, he still isn't looking at the network, is ignoring visitors, is sitting with his gun on the table in front of him. He knows what's happening now. It's too familiar. He can hear Void whispering in the back of his mind, and he knows it's only a matter of time before he's not in control anymore. Only a matter of time before Void takes over and starts causing the chaos and strife and pain, and he knows exactly the people that the nogitsune will go after first.
He feels nauseous as he picks up the weapon, hands shaking, sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing is more shallow now, like a panic attack.
I can do this. I have to do this.
He turns the barrel around so it's pointed at his temple, his eyes closed, finger tense on the trigger.
He drops the weapon onto the floor and throws up on the carpet, body heaving violently as he claws his fingernails into the soft fibers. He's a coward. By eleven, he's decided on another course of action, but before he does it, he records a video to be sent out to the pack in an hour's time. He hopes they understand. He hopes they listen.]
[Private Video -- The Pack -- including Bucky and Steve -- Delayed for an Hour]
[He looks sick. He's sitting on the couch of his living room, eyes red and glassy from lack of sleep, from crying and throwing up.]
Please don't be mad. I had to, to protect all of you. I'm so sorry. Don't blame Dean. Don't throw him in Zero. I asked him to. I'm sorry.
[Spam -- Dean]
[Once the video is complete and ready to send in an hour's time, Stiles knows it's time to move. He manages to make it out of his cabin, ignoring anyone and everyone he sees on the way to his inmate's cabin. To the one person on the ship he believes will do what has to be done. He's gripping onto his dad's sheriff badge so tightly that his hand is bleeding, but he doesn't notice it.
He makes it to Dean's, and he's shaking, isn't sure how much longer he can maintain control because he can feel the nogitsune right there in his head, waiting to push him into the background. Waiting to usurp all of their lives again.
Stiles knocks loudly, teeth chattering together involuntarily.
He's going to die today.]