voluntaryapnea

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19.

[Audio -- Open]

[The comm clicks onto audio and there's a moment of silence before a familiar voice -- albeit more tired than usual -- makes an announcement that it's clear he'd rather not be making. Because he'd rather not be making it.]

Dean's in a coma.

[He pauses, rubs a hand over his eyes tiredly as he looks down at his inmate, unconscious in bed and purses his lips.]

I'll let everyone know when he's awake again unless he does it first.

[He shuts the comm back off and sinks into a chair beside Dean's bed, closing his eyes.]

[Spam -- Open]

[He's exhausted. His body aches. He wants to crawl into bed and sleep for the next week. He won't, of course, because he has things to do. People to check on. But he's in dire need of his Adderall because he's been without it for a month. On the list of things that he'd needed, that they'd all needed on the other barge, Adderall hadn't even made the list. His mind is racing with thoughts and he can't seem to be able to focus on any one thought for another.

He's back on the regular barge, and he needs to find Scott and make sure he's okay. He needs to find Lydia and make sure she's been okay. Allison, Kira, Isaac, Erica, Needy, Bucky, Steve. Hell, even Jackson. He needs to check on all of them and see for himself they're all right. Rest isn't going to happen until he's made the rounds.

But medication first. He makes his way down the steps toward the seventh floor and his room. He can be encountered in any of the stairwells, or the seventh floor corridor.]

[Spam -- Closed to Lydia]

[He slips his key into the door and unlocks it, pushes it open even as he rubs the back of his neck. He freezes instantly, gaze locking on Lydia's form as she sits on the edge of his bed. He lets out a shaky breath and closes the door behind him, letting his hands drop to his sides.]

Hi.

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[Yeah. That hurts, but it also kinda barely registers with all the other pain he's collected in the last month. He winces a little but doesn't struggle or try to get away. He exhales, closing his eyes at the feel of Jackson's angry breath against his face. There are so many ways he could respond to that demand. Part of him is tempted to tell Jackson to go ahead. He doesn't.]

Because you're not a monster.

[ The words seem to make the anger evaporate. Almost instantly. At least the supernatural, werewolf rage does. His natural temper scrambles to fill the void, but for a moment his features turned completely human, leaving his vision dark. After a moment, his eyes glow again, and he can see Stiles again. But by then, his grip had slackened a little. He tightened it again, shoving hard against the human. ]

Guess again.

You're not a monster, Jackson.

[His voice is more firm, more confident than before. He'd felt it, the moment Jackson wavered. He'd felt it in the way he loosened his grip, even if now he was shoving him harder again.]

A werewolf isn't the same thing as a monster.

[ A snarl pulled onto Jackson's face and he yanked hard at Stiles' shirt. He pulled him away from the wall, to throw him to the floor. But he didn't attack any further, his hands balling into fists at his sides. ]

What the hell would you know?!

[And he's suddenly free. He doesn't try to move away, doesn't try to run. Just stands passively, tiredly, watching Jackson. Any other time at that question, Stiles probably would have rolled his eyes, made a sarcastic remark or two, but right now he's too worn out.]

I was pretty much with Scott every step of the way. From the beginning. And you can either choose to be like Peter Hale, or you can choose to be like Scott. It's not a hard choice.

[ Nails dug into his palms, struggling to hold himself back. But when Stiles mentioned Peter's name that no longer became a problem. A sudden spike of fear helped hold that anger at bay. Which, of course, meant he had to force his usual attitude over it all to hide it. ]

Yeah, well, Peter's dead. So he doesn't exactly matter anymore. Does he.

[ Someone was a little lacking up updates of what was going on back home after the kanima incident. And he'd been more than a little too preoccupied with dying to notice whose claws had sunk into his kidney before he arrived on the barge. ]

[His eyebrows furrow for a second at Jackson's words, confusion obvious as it flickers across his face. It takes him a second to realize that no one's told him about Peter's resurrection. Jesus. He exhales, shakes his head.]

No. He's not dead. Not anymore. Long story short, he came back from the dead, and yes I do know how absurd the idea of a zombie werewolf sounds, but listen to my heartbeat before you accuse me of lying.

[ For the space of a heartbeat Jackson looks like he might be sick. Peter being alive could mean any number of things. Especially since Jackson had been the one to throw the most effective Molotov cocktail. But the hesitation quickly falls to his anger. ]

How about I just choose to be like me, instead. Because no one cares about a Hale no one else has even heard of, and they certainly don't care about someone as pathetic as McCall.

[Don't worry, Jackson. Peter's always been a lot more interested in Scott. But before he can say anything in response to Jackson being like himself, Jackson makes the disparaging remark about Scott and his eyes narrow, temper rising quickly and for a moment he feels a surge of disgust, of hatred so strong for the guy standing in front of him that his hands curl into fists at his sides. All of the despair over Scott dying on the mirror barge that he's felt since it happened has built up along with the terror he felt for the last few weeks over there not sure if they were going to make it back. From being terrorized by Jerry and Dean dying repeatedly. He snaps.]

And that right there is exactly why the fucking bite didn't take right the first time around.

[He spits the words out angrily.]

You don't know jack about anything and you treat people like shit because you're an enormous asshole. You want to talk about pathetic, Jackson? Try looking in a goddamn mirror sometime.

[Glaring daggers at him, he shoves away from the wall and heads toward his room once more.]

[ For as deep as those words cut, it helps to quell his anger. To get him back to something closer to the asshole he'd been back at school. Because he was used to hearing such things from Stiles. The insults and jabs stung, but it was familiar. Stiles wasn't ruthless. He was running away. Things were returning to normal.

That didn't mean he was going to be nice, though. Because that jab about the bite still hurt. A lot. And he's not going to let Stiles just walk away from that. He put himself between Stiles and his room, but made no move to restrain him. ]

You think that you're some how better, Stilinski? Because if we're talking about pathetic here, you're even worse than McCall.

[He isn't running so much as trying to prevent himself from saying or doing something worse than what he's already said. He's surprised, almost, by the insult. Not because Jackson's insulting him because that's never a surprise. He'd be surprised if Jackson ever wasn't insulting. There's something so normal about it, so familiar, that it's actually comfortable.

A short, humorless chuckle escapes him.]

You realize of course, the fact that our greatly varying views on Scott alone are enough reason for me to not be insulted by anything you have to say that regards me as worse than him, right?

[ There was a time when he couldn't get Stiles away from him fast enough. But this was the most normal he'd felt since coming to the barge. He didn't want to let it go, just yet. Even if it was with someone he hated so much.

He smirked. ]

That's exactly what I'm talking about. You follow him around like a lost little puppy. It's rather sad, actually.

[At that, Stiles shrugs. He's never cared what anyone's had to say in regards to his friendship with Scott. No one's opinion actually mattered when it came to that, really.]

Jackson, the day I care about anything that makes you sad, is the day that we're actually friends.

[Read: When hell freezes over.]

[ And that just seemed to amuse him further. ]

Nothing about you makes me sad. It just IS sad. As in pathetic.

Whatever.

[He rolls his eyes and starts to move around Jackson to get to his room.]

[ He turned to watch Stiles, but didn't impede him. ]

So, what? You're just going to run away?

No, Jackass.

[He slides his thumb against the digital reader that Babs installed that would allow access to his room before turning to look at Jackson once more.]

I'm going to change clothes and then make sure all the people that I actually care about made it back where they're supposed to be in one freakin' piece. Not that you'd care if anyone didn't.

[ Jackson rolled his eyes. There was really only one person he even remotely cared about on this ship, and right now he was terrified of her. Not that he'd ever admit that, of course.

He didn't say anything. He just moved toward his own room. As much as he wanted to hold on to something that seemed familiar, pushing too hard would made it less familiar. And he really didn't want stay in Stiles' vicinity much longer, anyway. ]

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