epidemiology | (no subject)

[You think his shoes are nice, that's the most flattering thing you've ever said about him, Riza's meta.

Anyway. Jason's reflexes are good, but not quite enough to save the poor, innocent crockery from its trip down to the floorboards. He reacts in time to backstep away from the shrapnel and some of the splashback and go looking for the unexpected source. Calling them friends or allies would be pushing it quite a bit—but even keeping it professional, he's had more than enough opportunity to get a measure of her. She'd never been all that clumsy.

His first impulse is to comment (unnecessarily) on her butterfingers, but it doesn't last long. Not once he gets a look at her ghostly airs. More than enough to stop and raise an eyebrow over.

Well. That's interesting. Conversationally, lest she mistake this for actual concern—]

Anyone ever tell you you're positively glowing?

[In the spooky, creepy kind of way, for the record. Not the healthy, vibrant, insert-joke-about-Sieg-thinking-you're-pregnant kind of way.]

[Ah. Of all the people to make a complete fool of herself in front of. Her gaze settles flatly on him, ready for the snide comment she's sure is coming in 3...2....1—aaaand there it is, right on time. Luckily for the both of them, the nausea rolling through the pit of her stomach's enough to dull any of the usual irritation she would have felt over his apparent nonchalance.]

Plenty of times, actually.

[Time for honesty hour, part 3.

Or it would be, if her body would actually behave and listen for once this entire week. But the nausea's latched its claws into her, burrowing deep, and her body's been worn too thin to hold it at bay a fourth time. Her shoulders hunch, her gag reflex springs into motion, and her stomach violently uproots her (admittedly meager) breakfast onto the ground, to join forces with the tea from seconds earlier. Some of it splatters onto Jason's shoes.

Sorry again. For real, this time.]

[It's a quip not a comment, get your terminology right.

Snide comments aside, it turns out he's not actually functionally asshole enough to push her buttons much further while she's down. Surprisingly(?), he shuts up and stays put—holding his ground to steady her by the shoulder when she doubles over to retch. (The day barkeep leans over the counter and makes some noises about them being disruptive and damaging the property. Jason ignores them wholesale, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively. Please, as if they're damaging the early morning ambiance any.)

He gets a load of the mess on his boots with a grimace and waits a beat to weigh his options and give her a chance to catch her breath.]

Okay, tiger, I think I'm cutting you off. [She's not actually drunk, he's being figurative, but clearly something here is very fucked up. Given the overall weirdness at play here in town, it sets off suspicions pretty handily.] Where'd you keep your designated driver?

[That is, surely she's got someone better to be puking on while this gets sorted out.]

[Does she look like a child, Jason, she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Between shallow gasps:]

Don't have one.

[Rather, she's not about to nab Lancer from whatever rooftop he's skulking about on just because she can't hold it together for a few minutes at a time. Same with Lucina, same with Julius, same with everyone she considers a good friend on the team. Good health she might not have anymore but she's still got some semblance of pride. And it's definitely that same pride that forces her to utter out (weak) reassurances.]

I'll be fine. I just need to rest.

[And maybe a cure for temporary death side effects.]

[Yeah, you're right, what was he thinking. She's doing a super great job of that right now. His mistake.

He's not the type to insist, and she's not the type to ask, and they're definitely not friends, let alone good ones, so really what the hell does she care what he thinks of her, and what the hell does he care what she does with herself while stumbling along looking like death warmed over. (Maybe it just hit too close to some long buried memory that predates his boy wonder years. Maybe it was just the little olive branch of faith she'd finally offered back when they got the drop on those bandits a few weeks back. It gutters out quickly to kneejerk spitefully back to normal.) She nets a derisive scoff for her refusal, and he steps back to spread his hands in an exaggerated way. The answer comes out sharp and a little antagonistic.]

Oh yeah, sure. You prefer doing that right here where everyone can watch, or would you rather wait til you keel over in the street from creepy alien flu?

[Just wondering. No skin off his nose, either way. Pointedly—]

Think it's catching? Too late for me, but I'd rather not go all Typhoid Mary on the masses.

[Oh, for the love of—

The last fraying tendrils of her patience snap, and her voice rises to match his own in temperament.]

Unless you're planning on dying inconveniently and then being brought back to life, I'd say you're safe from catching this.

[There ya go, Jason, a perfectly truthful explanation for why she looks and feels like shit. Happy now?

The barkeep certainly isn't, and neither are the scattered few patrons still willing to visit the saloon after the disappearance of their favorite proprietress, all gaping at the scene with eyes wide and faces skeptical. Probably not the best of ideas to pick a fight in the middle of the common room, but it's too late to take any of it back now.

Her eyes squeeze shut. One hand reaches up, pressing against the pain starting to throb behind her temple.]

[I still can't believe this.]

[Anyway.

She closes her eyes too quickly to see the way his jaw sets and his attention sharpens. Not in any dramatic measure of shock, or disbelief. Kind of the opposite, really. Given that he's lacking a lot of context, and not inclined to assume the best of people, he takes a beat to watch her narrowly and work out if she's yanking his chain. Coupled with the spooky state of her, it doesn't last long, but it doesn't really help matters—he doesn't have a monopoly on resurrections, not even in his own particular universe. Hell, not too long ago they came off the heels of a whole mission centered around an angry zombie cat. But put that way, the irony is thick enough to choke on, and he's never been the best at being measured when he's mad.

He ignores the peanut gallery in favor of laying the irony on thick in return, gesturing broadly even if she can't see it.]

I don't know, does it have to be inconveniently or does it not bother with splitting hairs? Do tragic accidents get a pass? Noble sacrifices? What about plain ol' murder? Just wondering.

['Cause, y'know, no one ever tells you the rules for this sort of thing, do they. It's sharp-edged and not particularly kind, and she's well within her rights to assume he's still just giving her shit by digging at a sore spot. (Which he is, to be fair, but not arbitrarily. The implication buried in it is not so much a deep, dark secret as it is none of anyone's business most of the time—but clearly the best way to deal with your trauma is to weaponize it when applicable.)

So much for being a good samaritan. His teeth click together and he grits them, exhaling sharply through his nose and then moving to shove a barstool back so he can backstep out of the bar before the locals get more of a show than he'd like. Or she'd like, for that matter, but that's her problem now.]

[watches this cr crash and burn ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Riza, meanwhile, is hardly to content to sit back and watch Jason rapidly scoot his way out after completely blowing off her (very truthful) explanation. She hasn't been able to get much of a read on him even after all these months, but the last time she'd seen him so incensed was at Nalanni's impromptu funeral. He'd kept any anger tightly wrapped until then. And until now, it seemed. What on earth is going on?

She ought to stay right where she is, return her attention back to the mess on the floor and the barkeep ogling the situation with disbelief rather than fixate on some asshole she's probably wasted enough time on. But the great thing about full-death experiences is that it really sets priorities in order, and breaks down a whole lotta walls that might otherwise have remained upright. He doesn't want to tell her what's going on? Well, too damn bad.

Her still-recovering body protests each step forward but she doggedly follows behind regardless, waiting until they're both out of the saloon before yelling out.]

What is going on?

[Don't lie to her, Jason. Not now.]

[¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Nothing of value was lost, probably.

If nothing else, the stand-in barkeep is glad to be rid of them. He's not anticipating a tail, but he'd ducked his way out of the main promenade and toward the backstreets as a matter of habit. On the bright side, this means her chasing him out lends itself to a slightly (if only slightly) more private venue. He'd been perfectly ready to fuck off and leave it at that. But he's definitely not above pushing back when pushed. He spins on a heel to face her down when Hawkeye starts yelling.

Over the past year or so, Jason's gotten better at applying his anger, because he's had to. Heard it enough times, from enough sources. (You get angry too easily. Then you become an idiot.) He's more measured in application, now, but containing and weaponizing his anger is not the same as exorcising it. (In that, things have tipped the opposite way. Fostered in poisonous and low burning fires that may or may not be attributed to the acid stain of the Lazarus Pit.) The closer it hits to home, the harder he bites back. Since she's so interested—]

What? [It's mean in a deliberately vague way, like the answer ought to be self evident. (It isn't.) She can't know where the spite springs from, but it's not hard to hear.] You tell me. You're the one who's claiming to be contagious.

[You've already puked on his shoes, Hawkeye, is he supposed to hang around and catch the zombie flu? Maybe swap stories on resurrection hangovers, see who's had it worse? Or is this just pulling his chain after all? She never struck him as a joker. (Pun very much not intended.)]

Or is it like chicken pox? Sit through it once and you're good to go?

[God, it wasn't like she wanted to puke on his shoes, get over it Jason. Also do them both a favor and get over this weird hang-up about...whatever the hell it's about. Not like Riza has any idea of what it's about, his constant evasion leaving her pressed up against a brick wall with nowhere to go in terms of finding a lead.]

I'm not contagious!

[For the last time.

She can feel her face flushing red, from weariness and also anger, an emotion she hasn't allowed herself to dip into for many many years. No point, when all it does is cloud her better judgement and lead her off the path she's set for herself. But she's tired of holding it all in, trying to maintain some semblance of a peaceful and cooperative team in the wake of the barrage of attacks being flung her way. Why should she, when he's not bothering to do the same?

At her side, her hands are tight fists, knuckles white and tense.]

Why does it even matter to you? You're not dead, and you won't be dead any time soon! [If only she knew.] This doesn't affect you at all.

["Get over it, Jason." Story of his life tbh. How about nah.

He's not making it easy for her. But for a lady so committed to keeping things peaceful she's sure willing to chase him down and pick a fight. (And it's not even really about the stupid hypothetical zombie flu, but it sure is easy to turn that back around on her for a rise.) Spite's a powerful motivator, especially once it wins a reaction. Once he's on a roll, it's easier to keep on going for the throat. He spreads his hands, palm up.]

Hate to break it to you, sugar, but you're not as special as you think you are.

[Team's full of dead guys, wouldn't you know it. Former and otherwise. (Pomaar, back on Nalawi, who had died and come back to life just to see her murderer walking free and unpunished for it. Funny how doing something about that was the first time she'd really seen him mad.) Maybe he would have been a little more open to commiserating about common traumas or living on borrowed time if this conversation hadn't kicked up so aggressively, but there you are. And here she is, anyway. Sharply, as if to punctuate this—]

You wanna compare notes? I must've left mine in my other jacket.

I never wanted to be special.

[Quite the opposite, in fact. All she'd wanted was to live some paltry semblance of a normal life: go to work, come home, walk the dog, eat a late dinner. Overturning the entirety of the Amestrian government had been part of it, true, but the homunculi hadn't been and neither had ALASTAIR or her sudden propensity towards magic. Dying inconveniently and then being brought back most certainly hadn't been.

Yet here she is. Here they both are, bickering like a pair of petty children. It'd be funny if she weren't so absolutely incensed.]

Is that why you're so upset, that you aren't special anymore and never were?

[There's a part of her, not entrenched in anger, that's still reeling from his admittance, this revelation she'd found out about by sheer accident and happenstance. But that part of her is not big enough to ask what happened, and her propensity to forgive has been exhausted of late.]

I don't care what you do in your spare time, but don't take your personal problems out on others.

[God this conversation really went off the rails somewhere, how did this even happen. But way to hit the nail on the head, there, Hawkeye. If not exactly in the way she'd intended. The edges of his posture pull tight and jagged. His knuckles white. (Because that's always been the problem hasn't it. From second-best to written off and unimportant and replaceable where it should have mattered most and even now, when he tries the good guy thing and stops on account of a sick (??? teammate? acquaintance? ally?) he gets snapped at and brushed off and shoved away and shouted after so why shouldn't he bite back.) It gathers like smoke under his breath, black and burning until he exhales sharply and his expression tips into a smile, but it's bitter and sharp and all teeth.]

Thanks, teach. I'll try to keep that in mind.

[He doesn't wait for a response. Just turns and swings himself up and over the wall of the alley, because she's in no shape to follow that act even if she were to want to try chasing him down again. Bye, Hawkeye. See you never.]

(no subject)

rises from the dead, finally

congrats rejoining the living, or at least the undead

undead seems much easier to maintain, lets go with that

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject