25. Release me from this curse I'm in/I've been trying to maintain/But I'm struggling

[voluntaryapnea]

[Open Spam]

[Hours after being returned to the Barge, Stiles is still trying to pull his thoughts together and struggling to do so. Physically he feels fine. But every now and then he catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Any time he turns to look and see who or what it is, it vanishes quickly. He wants to chalk it up to the lack of sleep at the port.

Truthfully he's worried. Fleeting as it is, he's familiar with this sensation. This things aren't quite right feeling that's settled into his chest as he goes to check on Lydia in the infirmary, and then Dean at his room.

He checks in with Kira on the network, thankful she's now awake, and then goes to check in on the still coma'd Allison. Goes to check in on Scott and Liam. He makes his rounds on the Barge, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

The feeling doesn't leave him as he grabs food from the cafeteria, sitting alone at a table because he doesn't feel like looking for someone to sit with.

Something isn't right.]

Comments

[lydiascreams]

[She's not actually hurt that badly. But for now, she's at the infirmary because her right ear won't stop bleeding. She doesn't get what happened, she's not sure why it's doing that.

And-- she's not always entirely sure where she is. Or why.

Lydia's just sitting on the bed, looking down at her lap when she sees someone approaching her.]

Stiles. [She smiles for a second, because she does recognize him, but then she looks around the room again.]

Did Ms. McCall say I can go home? [She's at the hospital, right? And then she lifts her hand to the bandage over her ear, and frowns.]

[voluntaryapnea]

[That is...not the reaction he'd been anticipating. At first when she smiles, he relaxes a little because at least they're both alive, they're both safe, and back on the Barge. But when she asks about Scott's mom, he pauses in his trek to her bed, momentarily thrown. Maybe she'd hit her head at some point and he doesn't know it.

He moves over to sit down on the edge of the bed beside her, concern in his eyes.]

No? Lydia, Melissa's not here. [Though right now, Stiles really wishes she was, because at least she'd have an idea of what's going on. More than him anyway.

He reaches out and takes her hand gently in his own.]

[lydiascreams]

[She looks down at their hands when he reaches for it, but it's a confusing gesture. And his words only add to it, because they make no sense as far as she knows. She doesn't remember Ms. McCall there, but didn't Stiles go talk to her?]

She's not?

[Lydia shakes head head a little, then takes a deep breath and looks back at him.]

Can I still go?

[voluntaryapnea]

[He pauses at the confusion on her face when he takes her hand. He almost feels like he should let go but he doesn't. Not yet, anyway. He purses his lips.]

No. We're on the Barge, remember? [His voice is quiet, uncertain. She had to remember that, right?]

I'm not sure. I haven't talked to the doctors.

[lydiascreams]

The what?

[She asks, staring at him for a moment as she covers her bandaged ear with her free hand again. Considering that for a second before she turns back toward him, a puzzled expression on her face as she pulls her hand away all of the sudden.]

What're you doing here?

[voluntaryapnea]

[He grows still when she pulls her hand away quickly. His heart sinks at the look on her face, the uncertainty in her voice. It's eerily familiar in more ways than one. He tries his hardest to keep his expression calm, because panicking isn't going to help either of them right now.]

I came to check on you. [His voice is quiet, and he manages a small, faint smile that doesn't reach his eyes.]

[lydiascreams]

[She shakes her head, eyes him up and down as she shifts on the bed, away from him but mostly so she can turn toward him and take a better look.]

Who are you? [He's not wearing white.]

[semifreakingnormal]

[Scott goes looking for him; between stopping in at Kira's and seeing her wake and checking on...everyone he comes across, it's not surprising they miss each other at first. When he spots Stiles sitting alone at a table, though, he forgoes getting on line for food and instead drops into the seat adjacent from him.

There's something so old, so familiar in this, that he doesn't recognize something wrong. He just recognizes his friend, alive, looking well, and that's relief enough for him.]

Hey.

[There's an apology lurking in his voice, settled on his shoulders. For not being with him through it. The more circumstances need them in different places, the more he hates it.]

[voluntaryapnea]

[Stiles glances up, relaxing when he sees his best friend sitting there, safe and sound. It's a relief to him, too. He even manages a small smile as he shoves his lunch tray toward Scott to share his fries.]

Hey.

[A lot happened in that port, and he doesn't really want to talk about the crap that happened in the Opera House, doesn't even want to think about how for a second he'd believed the woman lying in that bed dying had really been his mother.

So he focuses his attention on Scott, because that's easier. That's second nature.]

You doing okay? [He can already hear that apology lurking and he gives him a look. They can't always be together for these things. They're not kids anymore, they're not each other's entire worlds anymore even though Scott is pretty central to Stiles' and always will be. There are other people now to worry about, to try and help. It's why they're here.]

[semifreakingnormal]

Yeah.

[It's the unspoken conversation he responds to more, though; the look receives a faint nod, grudging acceptance that Stiles is right. It's why they're here. So he turns his attention to the fries, taking the time to stuff a few in his mouth.]

You didn't get back to the Barge, did you? [It's not really a question; there's no way Scott would have set foot on the ship without him. Without all of them.]

[voluntaryapnea]

[He nods in return and pops a fry into his mouth, chewing while Scott asks his question. He ignores the movement he catches a glimpse of from the corner of his eye, the way he's been ignoring it since he stepped back onto the Barge, and smiles. It's forced, but it's there nonetheless. It's the thought that counts, right?]

Neither did you. [They know each other too well.] I got separated from Dean and Lydia and we just didn't have time to get back.

[semifreakingnormal]

[He nods, dipping another fry in ketchup mostly so he can drag it in a circle on the plate.]

Are you....

[He trails off, blinking a few times. Stiles isn't the only one who came back with something, and Scott is focusing a lot on seeing only what's really there.]

Is anything weird? Since we got back?

[voluntaryapnea]

[Stiles grows still at the question, lifting his gaze to Scott's face and holding his breath for a moment.]

Why? Is -- uh, is something weird with you?

[His eyes are wider now.]

[surfaceshine]

[Dean, despite being one of the more mobile and capable members of the Barge population during their last ordeal, is not in great shape; he is, in fact, bad enough that even he admitted to it and accepted medical treatment without much of a fuss. He doesn't have a lot of energy left over for putting up a fight - it's mostly tied up with the intense nausea that hit him less than a minute after they were all pulled back onto the Barge and refused to let up even when he ran out of anything in his system to surrender.

Of the injuries he sustained, the categorically worst is the one he went in with: his still-healing hand from his reaction to the life he lived with the jaegers. It's been re-wrapped now, as have some of the worse cuts he accumulated at some point over the past five days; he appeared again at the end with slightly wider eyes and a cross hatch of freely bleeding cuts across his skin, wouldn't say where they came from, insisted that he was okay and he was. Until they came back here.

Now he's taking it easy on his repaired bed, mostly because he doesn't have many other options; after sleeping he can sit upright and does, but if he tries to stand or move, the vertigo puts him right back down again. So for now he stays put, sleeps off and on, and reads the network in short stints of five to ten minutes before he has to stop and close his eyes again.]

[voluntaryapnea]

[Stiles grimaces as he makes his way to his inmate's room to check on him. Dean had thrown up almost as soon as they'd arrived back on the Barge. In fact, of the three of them, Stiles is the only one who isn't bedridden at the moment. He pauses outside Dean's door, hesitates a second, mainly because if Dean is sleeping he doesn't want to wake him up, but his desire to check on him is stronger at the moment.

He reaches out to knock when he catches sight of the movement again, and he quickly turns his head but there's no one there. He looks to the right, but there's no one there, either.

Lack of sleep, he tells himself. After he checks on Dean, he'll take a short nap.

He knocks.]

Dean? It's me.

[surfaceshine]

[Dean is tough, but even he can only do so much to fight back against his own body. He hasn't eaten anything, drank only water, so he's doing as well as can be expected as long as he stays still and quiet in his own room, listens to the signals his body is sending him, and endures.

He has always been skilled at enduring. He is working with painstakingly slow, steady care to change the dressings over the cuts along one of his arms when Stiles knocks; he's propped upright against the wall, but closes his eyes anyway against the sound, leans his head back and breathes out to steel himself as well as to determine how likely he is to last long enough to have a conversation. Part of him still wants to send Stiles away, but more than that is the vague knowledge that not only will he just come back later, but he will also leave if Dean tells him to.

He swallows, opens his eyes again and calls just barely above a normal volume, his voice sandpaper rough.]

S'open.

[voluntaryapnea]

[He turns the handle when Dean indicates it's okay to come in, and he looks over to where Dean's sitting, changing bandages on his arm. His frown deepens immediately as he looks at the bloody, discarded wraps and he itches to offer his inmate help, but doesn't. It looks pretty bad. Not as bad as Derek's arm had looked when he'd been shot with wolfsbane and then tried to make Stiles saw off his arm, but it still doesn't look good.

He hovers in the doorway for a moment before stepping farther inside and shutting the door behind him.]

It looks worse than before. [His voice is quiet, eyes locked on the injury. Why the hell was it still bleeding?]

[surfaceshine]

[That is, in fact, what is giving Dean a bit of pause too; he's more than skilled enough with simple cleaning and wrapping that he knows to trust his gut instinct when it tells him something is wrong, or that what he's doing hasn't been enough. He's not entirely sure how much time has passed, not really, but some of the cuts have dried up and clotted over like they're supposed to. Others...

Dean glances up at Stiles when he comes in, just his eyes flicking up, and then back down to his efforts. The hunter is holding gauze against the deeper end of the long, curling cut, watching it slowly bleed through just above the inside of his elbow. His lips are pressed together too as he works to puzzle it out.]

S'okay. Dirty knives, probably. [He glances over to a set of drawers along the opposite wall from his bed, some of the only ones to survive his last bout of temper; he is very careful not to otherwise move.] Holy water, second drawer. Bring it here.

[voluntaryapnea]

[Dirty knives. Yeah, that doesn't really do much to reassure him. At all. He watches Dean for a moment while the older man works. He's a lot more still than usual. Moving a lot more slowly. The way someone would if they're either in pain or trying not to puke. And considering...]

Still nauseated?

[He follows Dean's gaze to the drawers, then nods and moves over, opening the second drawer and pulling out a bottle of what he assumes is holy water. Though why Dean's using holy water for this, he's not sure. His eyebrows are furrowed as he hands it over.]

What's the holy water for anyway?

[fireincarnate]

[Jean doesn't realise, yet, that she hasn't quite escaped the haunted tower. She's clearly distracted - by pain and exhaustion, by the echoes of death in her head - but maybe eating something solid and warm will make her feel a bit more human.

She manages a smile, when she slides in across from Stiles.] Hey.

[voluntaryapnea]

[He isn't expecting anyone to sit with him, and he's surprised to look up and see Jean sitting down across from him. He offers her a tiny smile, though.]

Hey. How are you doing?

[fireincarnate]

[She raises a hand, tilting it back and forth.] Been better. Been worse. You?

[voluntaryapnea]

Yeah. That's...a pretty accurate description, actually.

[He arches his eyebrows a little and scoots his plate of fries toward her.]

[fireincarnate]

[A bigger smile this time, warmth and gratitude, as she grabs a few.] How'd you do in port?

[voluntaryapnea]

We didn't make it back in time. [He grimaces.]

Did you?