jason todd. | red hood. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gutpunching) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
epidemiology2017-03-21 01:40 pm
gutpunching) wrote in epidemiology2017-03-21 01:40 pm
I've got blood on my name.
CHARACTERS: Jason. ft. Lucina, Asher, Sigma, Aqua, & OTA if you want to deal with this, ig, why would you ever.
DATE: I've lost track. vaguely late march, shortly before (tentatively during??? idk I'm flexible) the 3/25 log.
WARNINGS: Violence, gore, death, reference to cannibalism and other zombie rage virus things. Embarrassing angst logs. A mess, basically.
SUMMARY: finally gonna get full horror game up in here.
ONE.
[In the days following their discovery of the tunnels, he spends most of his time in and out of them to try and track down their presumed guilty party. As distractions go, it's not bad. Gives him something productive to focus on that isn't the acid hollow feeling crawling its way up his gut. His increasingly unraveling hold on his hunger and his temper, the way his instincts are screaming at him to bite back. (Go for the throat.) It's easier, just barely, when he can duck out alone. Without a target to focus that on. But after a while, tracing the halls of the winding maze lends itself to too much opportunity to lose traction.
He loses time for the first time a few days in. He'd done the math, and all things considered, it should have happened sooner. Most of the reported cases involving the locals had the worst parts of the virus kicking in anywhere between 3 to 5 weeks after showing symptoms. He's been sick for at least the upper end of that. Maybe even more, if you count the parts where the symptoms were small enough to slide under the radar. Is it a physiology thing? Alternate earth humanity just different enough to slow the process? An immune system thing? One last parting gift from the Lazarus Pit? Whatever it is, it isn't slowing things enough. He'd been taking the edge off his hunger pangs with nicotine, because it was easy to find, but that had stopped helping a long time ago. The next thing he knows he's drifting, (searching for something,) and he doesn't recognize the tunnels around him when he pulls his focus back.
Really pushing his luck, now.
He gets the hell out of the underground and back into the fresh air of the city as if it'll clear his head. (It doesn't, but he starts putting some distance between him and the higher traffic of the sewer entrance nearest the search. Pacing his way out from where the people pulling mapping duty are coming and going.) Distantly, he can feel the phone that serves as his connection to the magitek network buzzing in his pocket. And he ought to answer it, because maybe they've made a breakthrough on the search, or the treatment, or any number of pressing problems on their plate. But right now, it just registers as unimportant.
He ignores it. He never even notices when it stops buzzing.]
TWO.
[It would be so much easier, it occurs to him once again, as he slams a late-stage Bristol-zombie back against the brick facade of a building, if they just thinned out the herd. (The man looks at him wildly, snaps and lunges at him like an animal, something (someone?) else's blood dried around his mouth and down his neck, crusted into his filthy clothes and caked under his nails. A fetid iron stink on his breath.) All's fair isn't it. You don't blame a rabid dog for what it becomes, but you still put it down when it starts baring its teeth at your neighbors. How much of Woodhurst's population has been attacked, consumed, or poisoned by this madness because they've been holding out vain hope for a quick cure? How long would it take to outnumber the rest of the city? Worse, to breach the walls of the quarantine? Odds are that one's happened already.
The smell of blood in the air should turn his empty stomach, but mostly it just pulls at him. Sharpens his focus, narrows his attention, spurs him into action before he's even aware he's come to a decision. He swings a fist for the man's jaw, colliding with a crack that staggers him. Follows it up with a knee to the gut that drops him onto the pavement, gasping.
His hands curl at his sides while he stands over the man—still struggling for breath, grasping at the straws of his own fleeting sanity without success. (Two birds, one stone. It would make so much more sense.)]
THREE
[There aren't a lot of places in Woodhurst that he'd really consider secure. (And that includes the ALASTIAR-maintained petting zoo they've set up for the infected. Not really the most attractive of options.) But at some point, he happens to duck through a familiar door in an effort to find a place to get his bearings. (His own, yours, a public place that's at least a little out of the way. Etc. Surprise me, I'll roll with it.)
He lets himself in. Slipping through the door quietly but fumbling the effort at the finish line. It closes with an audible rattle that echoes through the room, and he drops back against it for a second, or a handful of them. Eyes closed, hands shaking.]
FOUR
[A MYSTERY. if none of this bullshit works for you, feel free to wildcard me or hassle me for a different starter or ping me via PM or plurk, you know the drill. I'll be slow for a bit while handling network nonsense but gets this up now.]
DATE: I've lost track. vaguely late march, shortly before (tentatively during??? idk I'm flexible) the 3/25 log.
WARNINGS: Violence, gore, death, reference to cannibalism and other zombie rage virus things. Embarrassing angst logs. A mess, basically.
SUMMARY: finally gonna get full horror game up in here.
ONE.
[In the days following their discovery of the tunnels, he spends most of his time in and out of them to try and track down their presumed guilty party. As distractions go, it's not bad. Gives him something productive to focus on that isn't the acid hollow feeling crawling its way up his gut. His increasingly unraveling hold on his hunger and his temper, the way his instincts are screaming at him to bite back. (Go for the throat.) It's easier, just barely, when he can duck out alone. Without a target to focus that on. But after a while, tracing the halls of the winding maze lends itself to too much opportunity to lose traction.
He loses time for the first time a few days in. He'd done the math, and all things considered, it should have happened sooner. Most of the reported cases involving the locals had the worst parts of the virus kicking in anywhere between 3 to 5 weeks after showing symptoms. He's been sick for at least the upper end of that. Maybe even more, if you count the parts where the symptoms were small enough to slide under the radar. Is it a physiology thing? Alternate earth humanity just different enough to slow the process? An immune system thing? One last parting gift from the Lazarus Pit? Whatever it is, it isn't slowing things enough. He'd been taking the edge off his hunger pangs with nicotine, because it was easy to find, but that had stopped helping a long time ago. The next thing he knows he's drifting, (searching for something,) and he doesn't recognize the tunnels around him when he pulls his focus back.
Really pushing his luck, now.
He gets the hell out of the underground and back into the fresh air of the city as if it'll clear his head. (It doesn't, but he starts putting some distance between him and the higher traffic of the sewer entrance nearest the search. Pacing his way out from where the people pulling mapping duty are coming and going.) Distantly, he can feel the phone that serves as his connection to the magitek network buzzing in his pocket. And he ought to answer it, because maybe they've made a breakthrough on the search, or the treatment, or any number of pressing problems on their plate. But right now, it just registers as unimportant.
He ignores it. He never even notices when it stops buzzing.]
TWO.
[It would be so much easier, it occurs to him once again, as he slams a late-stage Bristol-zombie back against the brick facade of a building, if they just thinned out the herd. (The man looks at him wildly, snaps and lunges at him like an animal, something (someone?) else's blood dried around his mouth and down his neck, crusted into his filthy clothes and caked under his nails. A fetid iron stink on his breath.) All's fair isn't it. You don't blame a rabid dog for what it becomes, but you still put it down when it starts baring its teeth at your neighbors. How much of Woodhurst's population has been attacked, consumed, or poisoned by this madness because they've been holding out vain hope for a quick cure? How long would it take to outnumber the rest of the city? Worse, to breach the walls of the quarantine? Odds are that one's happened already.
The smell of blood in the air should turn his empty stomach, but mostly it just pulls at him. Sharpens his focus, narrows his attention, spurs him into action before he's even aware he's come to a decision. He swings a fist for the man's jaw, colliding with a crack that staggers him. Follows it up with a knee to the gut that drops him onto the pavement, gasping.
His hands curl at his sides while he stands over the man—still struggling for breath, grasping at the straws of his own fleeting sanity without success. (Two birds, one stone. It would make so much more sense.)]
THREE
[There aren't a lot of places in Woodhurst that he'd really consider secure. (And that includes the ALASTIAR-maintained petting zoo they've set up for the infected. Not really the most attractive of options.) But at some point, he happens to duck through a familiar door in an effort to find a place to get his bearings. (His own, yours, a public place that's at least a little out of the way. Etc. Surprise me, I'll roll with it.)
He lets himself in. Slipping through the door quietly but fumbling the effort at the finish line. It closes with an audible rattle that echoes through the room, and he drops back against it for a second, or a handful of them. Eyes closed, hands shaking.]
FOUR
[A MYSTERY. if none of this bullshit works for you, feel free to wildcard me or hassle me for a different starter or ping me via PM or plurk, you know the drill. I'll be slow for a bit while handling network nonsense but gets this up now.]
would I lie to you
He's never been a very approachable person in the time she's known him. But the still and narrow way he watches her move is not so much wary as it is unmistakably hungry.
His knuckles white, marking the way his pulse picks up at the sight of her and his eyes won't drag away from the exposed skin at her throat. (Tallying the places where one could snap her neck or cave in her skull with the right amount of pressure. Weaknesses in her police armor where he could wedge a knife. Bleed her out and drink it down and tear away at the soft places where she's vulnerable with his teeth. It wouldn't be hard. It doesn't disgust him the way it should, anymore.) While he's watching, she's closing the distance. He cants his head back up at her, but he doesn't move, otherwise. Composure drawn tight and tense like a tripwire, as if any sudden pressure at all would allow it to snap.
She should get lost. Why is she even here when they're closer than ever to cornering their man?]
A pretty girl like you and a guy like me? Are you really that sure I'll keep my hands to myself?
[There's a pointed attempt at bitter symmetry in it, a pale echo of the moment she'd realized he was sick. But it falls too flat to be glib. So much for being the perfect zombie gentleman. (He should tell her to get lost. He knows that, somewhere. She should know how this goes by know. She's lived it before, hasn't she?)]
probably
[ Which more or less boils down to her refusing to run. She's not tactless, won't approach him if he starts to snap at her, but she'll be back until he lets her sit beside him. ] ... Yes. [ Lucina knows what he's trying to do, and dutifully ignores it. A nod, another step forwards. In case he doubts it, she supplements with a: ] I trust you.
[ Again, it's foolish and shortcut to her demise — but a look of hunger, in some ways, is much better than a blank look. There's a tiny sliver of hope, and she's going to hang on to that for as long as she possibly can ( she doesn't know how to act in any other way ). ]
yeah.
You almost had me going, there, Luce.
[She's a step or two out of striking range, and maybe three from sitting range. (He both bites back and braces for the insistent urge to close the distance. She's doing it for him, anyway.) He shifts, leaning back against the door now that he's abandoned his cigarette and extending his legs to stretch them out in front of him in a way that'll make it a little easier to join him on the floor. (Feet crossed at the ankle, like it'll slow him down if he tries to move too fast.) Her next step forward gets the same sharp attention as before. But he doesn't try any harder to chase her off. It's about as close to permission as she's going to get.
Your funeral.]
smh
Her steps become more fluid once Jason raises no objections, the last three coming at a pace of a leisurely stroll ( there's nothing easy about it, though, not with all the implications ). And then, a few seconds later, she's sitting about a foot away from Jason, with her knees folded and in front of her, her feet to the side; as dainty as a princess can get, even in these circumstances. She hardly gives him a time to get used to the silence ( or make another sharp-tongued comment ) before her hand raises to about waist-level, palm up— ] Will you give me your hand?
[ If it's her funeral, she might as well do all she can before ... before. ]
ugh
(It's not that he isn't aware of the—improbably effective—way that oxytocin manages to dull the effects of the virus. Temporarily. But for all the time they've been spending together, they'd hardly had time to bother with shoring up the shifting sands of his symptoms. Besides the occasional snappish argument and the general awful feeling of starvation on his end, it hasn't so much been a problem that he was miserable and counting down the clock on his own (already battered, lets be honest) sanity. Until he started running out of clock, and he stopped being a reliable judge of his own impulses. And then it was. Is. She's giving him so much credit, and that's—)
It's the barest kind of contact, the smallest edge off. And still, it's almost pathetic, how quickly his stubborn resolve shatters with it. His grudging grip shifts—fingers lacing through hers to lock like a lifeline. Dropping and drifting back toward him with her hand in his, like the muddy waters of his slipping self control are still trying to figure out which of two (rather opposite) ends it wants to tug her close to achieve. (A dizzy, conflicting frustration that she's too many inches away to lean into for comfort, and too many inches away to bare his teeth at and bear down. Both of which spring up unbidden and unasked for.)
Slowly, the chemicals circulate, and it evens out enough for him to assert himself above it. A few long seconds after pulling his fingers tight around hers, he eases up on the pressure. But before that happens, he swallows hard and bows his head and closes his eyes as if pained. Inhales deeply for the first time in days, exhales slow.]
our comment titles are a mess
Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst — he's the very person that told her that.
So, when Jason's hand reaches back, hesitant at first, desperate a second later, her eyes widen. But she doesn't let go ( that'd defeat the entire purpose ), instead gripping back; at least it's helping, even if he doesn't verbalize it. Her expression only shifts from neutrality to ... a mixture of pain and a desperate wish this wasn't happening — a feeling she's familiar with, but not an expression she's comfortable with anyone seeing. A moment of weakness, in some ways, before she steels herself again so that her face isn't betraying too much. Her free hand raises just slightly, almost reaching out to his shoulder — but it pauses mid-way, returning to her lap again.
She spends the remainder of the silence just watching him, only relaxing her hand once he begins to do the same; only, even when he relaxes, there isn't much for her to do. A part wants to keep the silence for as long as she can, to not disturb the peace, but at the same time... ]
... [ Are you alright?, how are you feeling? — the words get stuck in her throat, whether it's attempts at comfort or questions of concern. None of them would help, anyway ( what he needs is a cure, this isn't enough ). So the silence stays; in its place, her second hand joins the first, covering the back of his hand with her palm. Increase the output of oxytocin. A small compromise, of sorts. ]
I can't dignify this overwrought thread by taking it seriously oocly
The quiet settles, and the hunger damps down to less-than-overwhelming. It's still there, gnawing, but the constant consuming and targeted cravings dial back enough to think about literally anything else. He takes stock. The distant aches from carrying himself so tense, the way he hasn't really slept in days. Hasn't had this kind of quiet in longer. The intrusive part of him that was weighing the ways to wait Lucina out and take her life to sate his own hunger eases away and just leaves him sick and bitter all over in the wake of how sensible it had seemed at the time. It's not gone. (It feels, in the vaguest of ways, a little like the worst of his aftershocks from the pit. The way it feels like it seeps down into the worst parts of you and feeds them. Gives them life. But this is invasive, alien, different. It is not feeding any part of him, it is just drowning him beneath itself.) But it is better.
Enough that when he feels her hand close over the back of his own, it prompts a corner of his mouth to twitch upward wryly.
That bad, huh.
It's reason enough to open his eyes again and refocus. Seeing clearly for the first time in a while. Funny how he hadn't really realized just how bad it had gotten until it was too late to think past it. Like putting a frog in a pot of water and slowly setting it to boil.
This isn't going to work.
Even with her loath to break the silence, sitting here and feeling sorry for himself isn't getting them anywhere, either. He knocks his head back against the door and relaxes by inches and steels himself to break the peace and quiet himself. Okay.
Before he can get a word out, the doors behind them fly open with a rattling bang, spilling them both out into the hallway beyond. And they're definitely not alone.]
dignity's for losers probably
— Though when the his lips quirk up, against all odds, it manages to diffuse some of her tension too. Relax her back, her arms, expression on her face softening to something that isn't quite a smile, but something close. It's a change from her usual spectrum ( especially, as of late ) of negative-neutral, the edges of it ... friendlier, despite the circumstances. All in all — an improvement. Her desperation working out to something more positive, even without their half-smiles ( an attempt was made, as unsuccessful as it looks like ); he's calmer, now.
And she would've been content to keep it that way, let the silence stretch for as long as it was necessary. The silence makes the thud from Jason's head making contact with the door sound louder than it was, snaps her attention back to reality; a good thing, considering she still can't be letting her guard down.
But right about then, all hell breaks loose.
Because once the silence shatters with a bang, the weight against her shoulder is gone. She's toppling over, one hand moving in an attempt to catch herself — but her other hand still has her fingers laced with his, and her movement is limited not just with the lack of limbs but in angle. Which means Lucina's shoulders hit before anything else, expression twisting up on impact; her adrenaline spikes, barely giving a glance upward ( she knows what they are, as much as she hopes otherwise ) before she's untangling her hand from Jason's, reaching for the ski bag —
By the time she manages to scramble away from the edge of the door, Falchion in hand and unsheathed, the dread kicks her in the gut. The infected — 4 of them, gods why — seem keen to attack, an animalistic growl ripping their throats— ] Get back!
[ He won't listen, but she tries anyway ( a familiar repertoire, in some ways ), her voice raised back as if they're on a battle field. She's running up to make up for the small lost distance, the flat side of her blade aiming for one of the attacker's heads. ]
you're a loser
As touching as it is to have her play knight in shining armor, he's not far gone enough that he can't help deal with this interruption. (Hell, he's sick with hunger and excess aggression, maybe exorcising a little of the latter could do him some good—)
He rolls to a crouch, one hand dipping down to brace himself while the other pulls a pistol from his side. Snapping up to his feet after the infected tries to lunge, whipping the heavy weight of the gun deliberately into a temple to crack against the skill and stun. Moving with the momentum to turn and face intruder numero dos once numero uno goes down like a sack of bricks.
Easy. Cathartic, even, after days of walking tunnels aimlessly. Maybe he should have done this to start.]
well so are you
But now isn't the time to worry herself over whether or not he's going to listen, when there's still two more assailants. At least it doesn't take long, easily dodging the swipe from number three ( what can civilians do against two trained fighters, really ). When the same infected makes a grab for her, she opts to duck, easily carrying the momentum forward so that she's out of his immediate line of sight.
On the other hand, her combatant's too slow to turn — this time she uses the flat top of the hilt, to strike a point at the back of his neck. Short, precise, gives her enough time to turn around just as he falls, to look for Jason in the hallway. ]
well. yeah.
Well, he hadn't really spared much thought. At first, it had been a matter of clearing the field. Practically reflex. Now that he's got the second pinned, it's easy to wander to more appropriate and permanent measures. (Collapse the bridge of his nose into the soft tissue behind it. Shatter the fine workings of his sinuses into pulp, drive them into his skull. Or else snap the neck. Draw a blade and sever the connections that put air in his lungs and pump blood into his veins, put a bullet between his eyes. Both of which would be a messy waste, but there's still enough to go around. Only so much carrion in the end.)
It's excessive. Not necessarily unwarranted, because as untrained an as feral as these locals are, they still would have posed a threat. Still would, if they let them walk away. If he hadn't gone for the throat, here, you bet your ass Zombie Bob here wouldn't have afforded them the same courtesy.
Distantly, he realizes somewhere along the line that some shattered bit of bone has scraped against his knuckles. Blood from the man's ruined face spattering back up at his own, bowed down on top of him. (Hot, viscus, sweet-smelling rather than rank and iron as it ought to be.) His teeth grit in a halfhearted attempt to ignore the swell of hunger that it inspires. But as the infected man stops struggling, he raises his fist again anyway.]
ugh i hate this tag, gomen
( At least she's not gripped in fear; the sight of blood and violence no longer fazes her, she's seen more than enough to be desensitized. At least she can move faster than when she first started fighting, losing the hesitation that often meant the loss of another innocent life. )
But this is different. So while she still runs, her sword is sheathed. Her arms tuck into her chest, using the weight of her shoulders to ram into the back of his, and throw him off the victim and into the ground ( she can apologize for the brute force later ). Both of them crash into the ground — Zombie Bob doesn't move — and Lucina's immediately reaching for his hands to hold them against his back, putting her weight on it to keep him from moving. ]
we're long past the point of quality rp, its fine
She barrels into him before he can follow through. And he's not quite himself, clearly, but his reflexes are still sharp enough to keep from getting pinned down right away. And try as she might, to use her weight against him, she just doesn't weigh all that much in the first place. He twists underneath her before she can finally get a solid grip on his wrists and restrict him. Turning toward her instinctively, blindly. Blood up, lunging to snap his teeth toward her throat.]
100% murder and angst ig
She needs to dodge, and not block; her body gets it instinctively, tries to move in a direction that doesn't grant him any more movement ( a grunt escapes through gritted teeth, adrenaline pumping in her veins ). So she's moving forward, trying to use her upper body to push his back up against the ground again. ]
Snap out of it! [ A mix between an order and a plea, because there really isn't a lot she can do — aside from go back to what was working. So her hand moves straight for his, for no other reason to attempt to lace their fingers together again. Only this time — if she manages it in the first place — she's the one holding on to it like a life line. It needs to work, otherwise she's probably doomed here ). ]
ugh
She forces her way into lacing their fingers together again, and he's quick to grip back on reflex—the blunt edges of his nails digging into her hand hand enough to hurt. Leaving little half-moon divots behind. Forcing her wrist back at a painful angle.
Lest she get her hopes up too soon, his other hand wrenches free to go for her throat. Clamped tight enough to force the lion's share of her breath away, cut off any further pleading. (Holding that way for a few solid seconds, maybe. Eyes narrow and sharply focused, but not on her face. It feels far longer than it really is.)
Then, by inches, he eases enough to allow her to breathe again. He doesn't let her go but his grip shifts, fingers twisted into the long hair at the back of her neck rather than pressing painfully at her throat. Not pulling to drag her down the spare inches that separate them, into range of his teeth. Not keen on letting her away, either.
It is, still, a very dangerous position to be in. But they settle back into a fragile standstill. (It does seem to be doing something.)]
me too.... god
She's proven wrong within seconds: a sharp pain running up her arm, a pained gasp interrupting her thoughts. As if that wasn't enough, the pressure around her throat keeps her from getting oxygen, her heart rate spiking under panic; tears cloud her vision, a strangled whimper ( there was never any way she could win, not without a weapon ) just barely making it past her lips. Her body struggling on instinct to try and get away, screaming for air, the pin on his weight loosening as she's fueled by the need to survive.
But she doesn't let go, grips his hand tighter, because she's not smart enough to keep herself out of harm's way; she would have never gotten this far if she had.
It feels like ages before suddenly, the pressure on her throat is gone; the first breath of air is a desperate one, a sharp gasp that makes her head spin. Lucina's body's still coping with the whiplash from none to too much, chin tucking towards her chest as she coughs. Only that's short lived too, because she's not catching a break, her face suddenly inches away from Jason's; the pain from the back of her head the newest thing demanding her attention ( she probably coughs on his face once or twice, gross, Jason should've probably thought about this ).
... Her breath hasn't evened out yet, but this pain is manageable compared to what she had before. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her expression's still crumpled, but the panic isn't there, at least ( maybe, this time, she can actually hope— ) ] ... Please, Jason. [ It's just barely a hoarse whisper, yet somehow her tone manages to be less desperate than before. ]
no subject
It's no slow release of tension. No ease into an even keel or a quiet comfort. She'll feel his chest rising and falling too fast, his pulse rabbiting along with it under her fingers. But the hand fisted into her hair drops away as if burnt. Fingers gone slack in hers to dig ineffectually into the floorboards instead. Brow creasing, eyes down, jaw locked. (Pulling back. And he regrets it, viscerally. Down to the marrow of him. Almost immediately, as he pulls away even that small amount, the hard-won sense of faded relief starts to slip backward that much more. The edge of madness starts to creep back in.) He breathes, pushing back the sick swell of alarm, the grim realization as he becomes aware of where they are. What he was trying to do. How he's simultaneously—artificially, impossibly—furious at himself for letting it happen, and at her for stopping it.
His fingers shift again, like he wants to reach back up to her. (It's the only thing that helps, nowadays, but see where that got them.) He gives in, sort of, if she doesn't duck away. But just enough to grope for a shoulder and attempt to push her off of him.
If that isn't hint enough, roughly—]
Get lost, Princess.
no subject
Yet the silence stretches, just not for the right reasons — to the point where she's hyper-aware of his movements, but doesn't move away. But she's also resisting the shove with whatever strength she still has, legs still planted where they are, her upper body only having give because he's physically stronger than her. ]
... [ Yet that seems to be the cue she needs to finally start to relax, her breath eventually evening out now that the immediate threat is gone ( but now comes the challenge of keeping from collapsing on top of him, to control just how much fatigue she feels ). Lucina lifts herself up, slowly, carefully, until her weight is off of him entirely. Lets go of his hand the moment the twist gets too uncomfortable, quietly ignoring the way that her hand seems to shake, or the throbbing in her wrist. That's as far as she's willing to listen, though; instead, makes a point to sit beside him, with back leaning against the wall. Knees tucked to her chest, not leaving.
Before he moves she's reaching out to grip his hand again. She's not taking any chances right now, for his sake, her's, and the 4 prone bodies ( people, victims ) on the ground. ]
no subject
(It's not even a rational thing. No internal arguments about what she'd done to deserve it, or whose life matters more. Just a powerful and persuasive predator instinct that kicks in and overrides his reason. As easy and seamless and selfish as breathing. Fuzzing out his sense of self in favor of survival instinct. Hunger.)
Things dim on the edges, his clarity gone muddy and distant. He hesitates a moment too long in the grip of struggling against it. Long enough that he only realizes she's caught his hand again when he finds himself breathing a hair easier. Wanting to lean into it. He hisses out a breath. Tastes blood on his teeth, but he can't even say if it's his or if it's spatter from the infected man he'd beaten to dead-or-dying, whose blood is now drying on his knuckles, at the edges of his sleeves. It should disgust him, but it doesn't.
His jaw locks, shoulders squared defensively in attempt to assert himself over his instincts. Sharp, if edgy—]
Lucina.
[Not Luce, not Princess. Lucina. They tried it this way already. So what does she think she's doing with this self sacrificing bullshit? (If he bites her next time and inflicts this on her as well— They still haven't tracked down the man responsible.)]
i hate this
Which, according to the dossier, isn't that hard to do; physical contact is possible even if it's risky, and the symptoms can still be kept at bay for the time being. As far as methods go, it's straightforward. But it's the emotional investment in wishing that people she cares about are safe, and the dread of realizing that the safety is at risk. Memories resurfacing of counting the loss of every village, every faction — every person, every soldier that was under her care. The lack of a funeral for the friends she lost, the family that she no longer had.
But this is different ( as she's reminded herself, time and time again, only this time it's a good thing ). She's seen the transformation from sane to not countless times, but it's the first time she's seen it the other way around. It's not perfect, but it's enough for her to square her shoulder, only hers is with confidence. Resolution. Her hands gripping his tighter in response to his warning. ]
I'm not leaving. [ There's a defiant edge in her voice, physical and emotional exhaustion finally wearing down the careful defenses in her demeanor. Selfishly, she refuses to have Jason ruin her one ( small ) victory. She doesn't provide an explanation, because there's just as many reasons for her to be here.
And as if to prove her point, she slides over, hands still entwined; but this time, she's facing him, blue eyes carefully watching him carefully as she sits on her knees beside his legs. But she never stops moving— soon enough, she's leaning forward, wrapping her free arm around his neck, finally letting go of his hand to rest it on the middle of his back. Holds him close, despite the awkward angles, aches, and pains.
( This one's equally for her as it is for him, for the one moment of peace she's been desperately craving. ) ]
ugh I cannot believe
And then she throws her arms around his neck.
If nothing else, it takes him off guard. He'll have later to rationalize the reasons she has to be here. All the ones she doesn't explain—or at least, some of them. (The ones the unkind part of him is more inclined to believe right away. Pity, obligation, self-imposed ideas of duty. Projection, old guilt and old ghosts.)
But right now, it doesn't much register past the gesture. He catches her on reflex. Hooks his hands around her waist to keep them from overbalancing when she leans over. (Or at least, that's probably it. The truth is, he doesn't really think about it.)
Compared to the slow trickle of relief from her stubborn grip on her hand, committing to the contact really does make a difference. Oxytocin can't do much about him feeling sick and tired from running himself ragged, but it starts to ease back the throttle on the hunger and the anger and the invasive thoughts. Until the symptoms ebb away to a simmer. He realizes a little late he's gone and bowed his head into the crook of her neck in the process of leaning helplessly into the effort. Forehead pressed against the angle of her shoulder. Jaw clamped shut. Again, it puts her in dangerously close range of his teeth. But there's less of the tripwire tension in his spine. If anything, once he gets his bearings, it's the steadiest he's felt in weeks.
It's almost worse that way. To get your sense of self back and know you need to give it up again sooner or later. Whenever she decides to pull away. (Or, more likely, when he feels enough like himself again to remember to push her away.) But, for a little while, it's just quiet. Maybe the third time's the charm.]