( a few days after his check-in, brienne spots her wet cat friend spending time researching in the library, so instead of being a normal human (her manners are rusty-slash-nonexistent) she ties up the proper woolen tunic she scrounged and patched up (it is ugly but usable!) and leaves it by the desk he's claimed with a note written in her very fine hand. some real ass lady and gentleman shit: )
To the Esteem'd Quentin of Ohio, May He Be Kept in the Light of the Seven, Acquaintence of Lady Brienne of Tarth, Please Accept a Token of Her Graditude. May It Keep You Warm.
( on the reverse, as an afterthought: )
Though We Ourselves are Yet Coole.
( though it won't for now, eventually if he ever shakes off that deathsworn status he will find it a little warmer, keeps him drier, and stinks less often. the magic of natural fibers. enjoy, buddy! )
omg i can't believe brienne beat him to christening this inbox
Quentin, you're such a — ( the words go in and out, like a dropped call. such a what? maybe Quentin can guess. weird how it's piece-y and broken — is it just because a sleepy brain is slow to respond?
the next bit is delayed, but somewhat more insistent than before. )
Oh, now you want to sleep. Right, of course, OF COURSE.
[ He does want to sleep now, yes. It's kind of a wonderful sleep, even if the world outside his blankets is less wonderful than it was last night. Still, the voice in his head has him out into the icy air in a second. It's his voice.
[ He was so good at the fête. Everything was fine. So why does he sound so... ]
Take it easy. [ It feels like half his words hit a wall. Weird. ] I'm awake, I'm here. It's just the Fortress, dude, breathe.
( why is this so HARD? Steve's been here long enough that he's sort of used to slipping into someone else's brain. it hurts to reach that far away. why is Quentin so far away? just the idea freaks him out.
well. freaks him out MORE, because he's NOT having a great time. )
In with who? Steve, where are-- [ A pause on the line while he hisses. Is it possible to get a headache from cold? He's pulling on his clothes, going to stoke the--who the fuck put the fires out? Or didn't light them? He's coming. ] --you?
( it's so cold down here. Quentin is finally answering, but Mr. Sleep Off All Trauma is suddenly struck by the desire to close his eyes for a second. he's so fucking tired. )
The... the pit. I can't get out. ( his nose is running. it always happens when Steve refuses to cry. but that's dumb, because he definitely already cried. YOU TRY WAKING UP NEXT TO A FROZEN CORPSE, OK??? he rubs the back of his hand under his nose, just out of habit. doesn't even notice the bloody smear it leaves behind. even though it's the only warm thing in this pit. )
Are you hurt? Should I bring--fuck it. I'm coming.
[ Whatever he needs for care, he'll figure it out when he gets there. Nothing he can do down in the pit is going to make it easier to get up, and as long as they're having a shit time getting up, he might as well be carrying the bare minimum. Rope. A coat. A lantern. A good knife. He tries to be in contact, reaching out, checking in, trying to ascertain the state of affairs--but his head starts to pound behind his temple, and Quentin stops without thinking about it. Steve feels less frantic with each attempt at least, calm or numb enough to help Quentin make his way to the tower.
[ As he winds his way down, it strikes him that he could use real boots. An extra set of clothes. Gloves. A thousand things. The idea of going backwards when somewhere, down in the dark that Quentin can see with his own eyes, now, is Steve without a wall or floor or anything between them--the idea turns his stomach. He keeps pressing on, knuckles bearing the brunt of the cold and exposure, palm and fingertips quickly frozen from wringing around damp stones and icy vines. He only falls once on his way down, a triumph when everything is glazed with ice, and when his feet finally hit frozen earth, he has a moment where he thinks they're almost there.
[ Then, he lights the lantern.
[ The little yellow light sprays across the chasm, thrown farther than it would seem possible by the ice. It catches on every edge, which throws the light a little farther, a little farther. The walls and vines and slouching wooden beams above sigh with shadow as Quentin moves the lantern closer to the edge. The sheet of ice at the center of the pit is darker underneath than the walls or floor, but the light skitters across the top more brightly, more sharply--until it breaks against something soft. Bodies that absorb the shine. Dead, dark bodies. ]
Steve? Steve, are you awake? [ Because he's alive. He was just talking, wasn't he? It's an uncomfortable, unsteady wobble towards the bodies, but Quentin gets to his knees to extend the lantern down. Christ, it's cold. ] Wake up! I'm here.
( how long does it take? it feels like forever. at first, Quentin's thoughts tickle against his every once and awhile. it feels good as much as it lances through his head. and Steve can answer, useless nothings like yeah and okay and never better. because his brain has ascended to the it'll be okay plane. Quentin isn't gonna leave him down here. if Steve can be certain of anything, it is that Quentin Smith does not leave people behind. it's nice to have something so concrete to hold onto in this shitty ass castle where nothing ever makes sense.
Quentin stops reaching after awhile. that's okay too. it kinda hurts anyway. and it's so cold. his eyelids are so heavy. some sensible part of Steve's brain says, hey moron, it's cold as a witches tit down here. keep it moving. you've got to keep moving. do you wanna freeze your balls off? the guy raises some good points. but that voice isn't loud enough to listen to, even if it's right. Steve stares at Agnete's frozen corpse, and she stares back. why didn't anyone do that thing they do in movies? close her eyes?
eventually he can't keep staring. so he closes his eyes instead.
he probably does look dead, by the time Quentin peers into the dark with the flickering, faulty lantern. Steve does open his eyes, though. like... eventually. ugh, he slumped from sitting, leaning against frozen brick, to an uncomfortable flop against corpse ice at some point after knocking out. that's just great. his face has been touching corpse popsicle for god knows how long. Steve dedicates what little energy he has to rolling onto his back. sees the light, and when he realizes it is a lantern, chokes up an ugly laugh thinking about the one frozen under Agnete's ice rink. man he fucked that one up. too bad Quentin won't get it, because it's a real riot. )
All right already. ( like Quentin is his mom, mad he isn't out of bed yet, and not this close to losing his shit. Steve's voice is a lot croakier now that he's using that, and not his brain. )
[ The stretch of terrible seconds where he's sure he made it too late, that he let it happen, that he's gone makes all the more fucking annoying when Steve responds like Quentin reminded him that the trash needs to be taken out. His head drops in relief, a little curse bouncing off the walls louder than it should. ]
Yeah, you're welcome! Are you hurt? [ He casts his gaze around. How much can he trust this slouching wooden floor? Something obviously smashed through it, but it had to be way bigger than two guys. He has to be able to secure a rope somewhere. ] Can you move?
( is he hurt? huh. good question. probably would have been a good thing to appraise earlier, but he definitely didn't. too freaked out about Agnete, and then trying and failing to get out on his own, and then panicking about Quentin not answering. there just wasn't any time. genuinely it didn't even occur to him to check. from his back, Steve tries to poll his own body for the answer. it is too numb at this point to offer particularly concise results. he wants to close his eyes again. it feels like it's asking a whole lot of him to be awake right now. without the adrenaline of being afraid, he just feels empty. )
...'m not dead. ( ah yes, the patented Steve Harrington special. that was horrible and I didn't like it at all but I am at least the bare minimum of okay. kinda hard to sell the usual attitude when he is so cold.
god Quentin is being so demanding about this rescue. wake up this, are you hurt that. and now he's supposed to move, too? Steve tries, creaks over slowly like an old man, pries some weight on his elbow to try and sit up again. yeah, no. his body says no thanks. you decided to cozy up to a frozen corpse pond, asshole. you made that bed, so lie in it. is the noise Steve makes pain, or frustration? both. and now he has to look at Agnete again, back on his side. his face gets colder. his nose is too frozen at this point to be his crying alternative, so apparently that means he's just gonna cry like a goddamn baby. )
[ It's not a very reassuring response? His guts start coiling up again. It's gotta be okay. Maybe just his being here will make the difference. ]
Alright, well--talk to me. Try to start moving, I'm gonna find a way down.
[ A way that they can both get back up. Sure! Easy! He starts to walk the slick perimeter of the collapsed floor, testing the boards the beams for a place to look his rope. He's not a climber by trade or hobby or anything, but he can get up and down a rope. How hard can be to get up with another person? He finds a spot that looks...fine! and starts to loop the rope around the structure. ]
When was the last time you were this fucking cold? You remember? Before here.
( well, good news is, just being here DOES make a difference. Quentin tripping over his feet and cursing at walls and being bossy to frozen air is helping. it's familiar, like the crochet blanket his grandma made, the one his mom wouldn't let out of the den because it was old and cheap and tacky. but since Steve eventually ended up sleeping on that crappy couch more than his bed, even now after all this time he remembers the exact dry scratchy texture of the acrylic yarn. Quentin is like a walking, talking blanket. everything is cold but Quentin's voice in his head is warm. it's helping.
does craning his head enough to wipe it on his shoulder count as moving? if so, then Steve is listening to instructions. his cold nose touches colder skin. which is weird. ) What the — ( his stupid green sweater has been in rough shape since first arrival in a murder dimension, but now that he's finally bothering to look himself over, it's in even worse shape now. gaping holes, threads barely holding the thing together. )Fuck.( it wasn't like he forgot the whole eaten alive thing. somehow, the holes torn through his clothes is too much, too real. all of a sudden it's like he can feel the teeth again and oh, yeah, that's probably why his voice sounds like that. all the screaming. it's so stupid that it gets to him, holes in a sweater he more or less hates. he hates it but it was his and it was from home and now it's as good as gone. hopefully Quentin is too far up to hear the watery catch in his breath.
he has to think of something else. Quentin's voice drifting down to him is at least a distraction. or not. because the last time he was this cold was probably right before he died. he played it pretty cool (lol) in the dream, but actually, being that fucking cold, down to the bone, so cold he barely felt a dozen mouths chewing through his flesh — definitely the coldest he's ever been. so he tries to think of another time. it's a bit depressing his thoughts can't go to some place good, and instead just shift to another murder dimension. ) You remember when those Snowmen were actually cute? Why'd they have to get scary? ( he feels like one of the horrifying ones right now. at all the wrong angles. a frozen solid, ugly lump. )
We should have started some kind of timer. Countdown from something being cute to it turning into something scary. Like a--Fog timer.
[ Why did they have to get scary? Because it's their fucked up lot in life, probably. Not everyone has this lot, but they do. At least this place, even with as shitty as it is, is better than the last--or so Quentin convinces himself as he tightens the knot around the beams. Holding onto the floor, he tests it with half his weight. So far so good. Glass half full.
[ The wood makes an aborted, aching noise when Quentin lets himself slide a few feet down, and it scares the shit out of him. At that point, though, there's no way but down. He calls down as he shimmies: ]
It's warm in the rooms! No shit this time. Just--get moving for me, and you're gonna be okay! [ One foot finds frozen mud when he hisses down the last stretch of rope, and the other finds oily slick ice. Quentin curses under his breath. Shitty conditions, but the light and rope are secure up ahead. Big cloudy exhale, and he starts skidding his way toward Steve. ] You're gonna be--gonna be okay.
[ A few feet out, he loses his balance, but it's easy enough to slide on his knees to where Steve curled up. He's not lingering on how the man looks just yet; Quentin just spears his hands under Steve's arms to drag him up against Quentin's chest, till he can wrap his arms around Steve securely. ]
( it's nice to have a different show to watch, besides Agnete's frozen corpse. Quentin completely biffing it on the ice is kinda funny. just seeing him stumble closer makes Steve feel a whole mess of things. relief, fondness, guilt. a splash of desperation, just to taste. desperate for what? who knows. he tries to creak into motion to meet Quentin halfway, it just doesn't work. Quentin has to do all of it, just like every other part of this rescue so far.
the whole the rooms are warm feels like well meaning bullshit. a nice lie to make him feel better. up until Quentin drags him up off the ice and wraps arms around him. Quentin has to be half heartedly warm at this point, this far into his rescue mission. doesn't matter, it's still a night and day difference to the guy who has been burning daylight in the frozen dead lady pit. it hurts a little. Steve hisses, surprised and pained, eyes squinted painfully shut. he recoils at first out of instinct, before sinking into the warmth. his head droops back on Quentin's shoulder. and if his face ends up turning against Quentin's throat, well, it's just because it seems like the warmest place for it to go. it's a good call, because Quentin smells familiar and his breath is grounding and it's something not terrible to drown his senses in. )
It ate me. ( Quentin has been there, done that. thanks Hag. and Ghoul. does Clown count? what about the Dredge and/or the Unknown? Victor, a little tiny bit. and the Demogorgon, even though he leaves the head behind for some reason! so of anyone, Steve knows Quentin Gets It. the point is, no, his back isn't broken. he was even walking around earlier, when he was freaking out and trying to get clamber up on his own. as far as how Steve looks, well — bad? dried blood under his nose, the kind of bloodless pale from being too cold too long. that said, he could be looking way worse. considering the whole "I got eaten alive" claim he just made. he's in one piece, despite the holes in his sweater. just cold. cold and traumatized. what else is new. )
[ That explains some of the wear around Steve's sweater that Quentin would have sworn he just saw whole recently. He arches the fingers of one hand out of a gouge in the fabric made by something decidedly bigger than a moth, and just--sits. For a few seconds. Letting his body, warm with life and hot from exertion, glow against Steve's. They need to move, yes, but it's good to sit for a few seconds.
[ Then, with a determined exhale, he decides they need to move. One hand comes up to palm over Steve's temple, hugging him close to Quentin's pulse for a last moment before he announces: ] Alright. Nothing's broken, so let's go. The more you move, the easier it's gonna be to keep moving, right?
[ The easier it'll be to help him, too. If he can get Steve to his feet, they can shuffle like the worst three-legged race runners known to man. If he can't, they can shuffle miserably to where the rope hangs waiting. But whether Steve can get mobile or not, it becomes more obvious as they reach more light that he's in shit shape. Even if Steve was glowing with optimism, there's no way he's heaving himself up the rope. And Quentin, for all his considerable charms, is just not strong enough to hold Steve with one arm and crawl up there.
[ Maybe he's getting a little frantic when he starts looping the rope around Steve--isn't there a way to make like a basket or something? ] Okay, I'm gonna--I think if you can just hold on, I'll pull you up from up there. Right? [ His surety and warmth is starting to fray as he realizes that all the friendship in the world won't stop this rope from ripping up their frozen hands. ] We've made it out of plenty worse.
( it definitely was whole recently. well, whole-ish. like. it wasn't lookin GREAT even then, because dead by daylight land fucked it up on entry. like for real, why is there a many runs and holes variant of his green sweater???? you wanna talk favoritism, some boys come to the realm with spare beanies and button up shirts and some boys come with their sweater, again, but this time fucked all to hell? what's THAT about, you know??? and there's definitely no coming back from being eaten in it. in memoriam we will miss u king
Steve does not want to move. Steve does not want to be awake. he was really bent about escaping the pit before, but... hot take??? the pit is not so bad now that his eyes are closed and Quentin is here. and warm. it's been so long that he's felt something warm, it makes his brain feel fuzzed over. like drinking too much and waking up with cotton mouth, only it's his brain. which sounds bad written out like that, but it is better than what was going on in there before. all excruciating guilt and panic and agnete's frozen face and reliving his own death over and over.
but then the warmth goes. because the only warm thing down here is Quentin, and Quentin wants to get the hell out. Quentin keeps talking. and prying. and dragging. and pulling. and Quentin's breath frosting over and his touch getting colder and colder starts to mess Steve up, so, at some point Steve halfheartedly agrees to participate. he can stand, but he's missing a shoe. where'd that even go? is it still down here? in the stomach of a creepy monster? who knows! they limp to the hatch, only it's in the ceiling instead of the floor. that's a fun change. Steve stares miserably at how far he's got to go and is more or less aware he's not climbing that shit, not when his fingers are so cold he can't convince them to completely close. he hates this feeling, like he's the problem, like he's the thing that is gonna keep them from getting out of here. )
I-it's not going to w-work, ( Mr. Negative Nancy says through chattering teeth, and at least that sounds like Steve. he's a naysayer through and through. always has been. why the hell is it even colder down here? it's a bit ironic to have warmed up enough to realize it's cold. like one step forward and two steps back. ) Y-y-you gotta g-go get somebody. ( Steve is not looking forward to the being alone again part, but he's a realist. they're not in a place where they magically have the strength to pry people off meat hooks, there's no way this lithe otter bodied boy is getting him up that rope if he isn't strong enough to pull at least some of his weight. so, don't mind him leaning on the guy a little to try and suck up what heat he can before Quentin has to leave him behind. )
I'm not leaving you. [ He's determined because that feels like the truth to him, in the core of his chest, as sure as his heartbeat. Beyond not leaving him alone in the Lonely Fortress, he's not leaving this pit without Steve. Whether that's a functional reality--well, whatever. Steve leans, and Quentin squeezes him close again. There's not a mote of flirtation or sensuality when he bows in close enough that their mouths almost touch. It feels more like holding a kid. A puppy. He cups Steve's face to make him look. Listen. ] I'm not leaving you, so get it together.
[ His fingers are numb when he tests the knot, but the thing holds. Good enough. It's looped under Steve's arms, which cannot possibly be comfortable. He'll do what they have to do. ] I'll climb up and pull you up after me. Just keep your arms clamped down--like this. Hug yourself and I'll get you up. [ No amount of fussing or holding or petting is going to make this easier. His fingers curl around Steve's to give him a last little bit of heat, to lock the digits down around him, and Quentin nods like a salute before starting his way up the rope.
[ Alas, back at the top, there's no fucking way this lithe, frozen otter-bodied boy can actually pull Steve up on his own. Hell if he doesn't try. ]
( get it together, huh? it earns a raw laugh. a sniff they can chalk up to the cold, right, and not more crybaby warbling? it's just so Quentin. that thick headed, stubborn, stupid, unwavering determination to never give up on somebody. it's something they have in common. and both of them being like this is ... bad? if you think about it? it's an impractical and occasionally deadly level of codependence to have. but it also feels really fucking good to just know you have somebody, no matter how bad things are or how ugly the chances. Quentin is the definition of a ride or die. and the reminder of that is enough to sputter a warm wash over both of them, even in a cold dead lady pit.
Steve grabs Quentin behind the neck with ice cold fingers just for the last few breaths of their perfectly platonic huddle. before he nods mindlessly to whatever plan the guy has to get them out of this. maybe it'll even work!
it does not work. because Steve was right, his dummy idea to pass out against ice was really detrimental in his ability to help in his own rescue. not that he doesn't try. boy, do both of them try. part of the impractical codependence in action! and it doesn't even hurt much, once he gets numb again. but as the naysaying realist of the two of them, at some point, he has to accept the writing on the wall. and the writing says not a chance in hell. so at some point he gives up on the last of his pride, and calls for backup.
does he warn Quentin about the mean spirited mullet headed their way? well... listen, it's already been a long day for the guy. give him a break if he got loopy on cold and long distance brain messaging, okay?? )
[ Billy missed their little cuddle pile — he had better shit to do, like stand in a hallway, unmoored and lost to the heartbeat of the Lonely Fortress. How long had he been drifting? Unclear. But had it been comfortable? Also unclear.
He's so comfortable now, with blood smeared from his nose across his cheek, a stray smudge pushed through his sweaty curls by his wayward hand. His head's pounding, and that's from Steve, the most recent mark Steve's left.
He remembers the pit; it was just the other day! For Billy, it's only been a few sleeps since they went to scope it out, when Agnete had thrashed and nearly killed them. Had Billy helped much? Not really. As he follows the familiar path, he remembers Max's pitiful pleas for help. He hadn't fallen for the Servitor's ploy like Steve had, because Max would've preferred to die rather than ask Billy for help. He figures that's true, no matter how much it sounded like her.
But there's no Max, and there's no visible Harrington, because he's in the fucking pit again for some reason. Instead, there's just some skinny dickhead, kneeling at the side of the pit, beaten up hands grasping at a rope. Billy's boots scrape against the stone and the wood and when he comes to a stop by the guy, he sets his palm on the top of Quentin's head, putting a little bit of weight on him when he leans over to look into the pit.
There's Steve, a rope, a whole sorta involved thing happening. Billy whistles, hand on Quentin's head flexing gently. ] Hey, princess. [ That's to Steve.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
🎁
To the Esteem'd Quentin of Ohio, May He Be Kept in the Light of the Seven, Acquaintence of Lady Brienne of Tarth, Please Accept a Token of Her Graditude. May It Keep You Warm.
( on the reverse, as an afterthought: )
Though We Ourselves are Yet Coole.
( though it won't for now, eventually if he ever shakes off that deathsworn status he will find it a little warmer, keeps him drier, and stinks less often. the magic of natural fibers. enjoy, buddy! )
omg i can't believe brienne beat him to christening this inbox
the next bit is delayed, but somewhat more insistent than before. )
Oh, now you want to sleep. Right, of course, OF COURSE.
well, brienne is more organized than steve
[ He was so good at the fête. Everything was fine. So why does he sound so... ]
Take it easy. [ It feels like half his words hit a wall. Weird. ] I'm awake, I'm here.
It's just the Fortress, dude,breathe.woww!!!!! (true, 100%, no arguments) (1/2)
( is that from before, bumbling into Quentin's thoughts late? or is it new? honestly, might be both! )
I've been ... I've been calling you and calling you and I couldn't ... I need you, I — ( the rest of it slips away. hopefully it wasn't important!!! )
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well. freaks him out MORE, because he's NOT having a great time. )
Please. I can't be in here with her anymore.
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In with who?Steve, where are-- [ A pause on the line while he hisses. Is it possible to get a headache from cold? He's pulling on his clothes, going to stoke the--who the fuck put the fires out? Or didn't light them? He's coming. ] --you?I'm coming. Tell me where.
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The... the pit. I can't get out. ( his nose is running. it always happens when Steve refuses to cry. but that's dumb, because he definitely already cried. YOU TRY WAKING UP NEXT TO A FROZEN CORPSE, OK??? he rubs the back of his hand under his nose, just out of habit. doesn't even notice the bloody smear it leaves behind. even though it's the only warm thing in this pit. )
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Are youhurt? Should I bring--fuck it. I'm coming.[ Whatever he needs for care, he'll figure it out when he gets there. Nothing he can do down in the pit is going to make it easier to get up, and as long as they're having a shit time getting up, he might as well be carrying the bare minimum. Rope. A coat. A lantern. A good knife. He tries to be in contact, reaching out, checking in, trying to ascertain the state of affairs--but his head starts to pound behind his temple, and Quentin stops without thinking about it. Steve feels less frantic with each attempt at least, calm or numb enough to help Quentin make his way to the tower.
[ As he winds his way down, it strikes him that he could use real boots. An extra set of clothes. Gloves. A thousand things. The idea of going backwards when somewhere, down in the dark that Quentin can see with his own eyes, now, is Steve without a wall or floor or anything between them--the idea turns his stomach. He keeps pressing on, knuckles bearing the brunt of the cold and exposure, palm and fingertips quickly frozen from wringing around damp stones and icy vines. He only falls once on his way down, a triumph when everything is glazed with ice, and when his feet finally hit frozen earth, he has a moment where he thinks they're almost there.
[ Then, he lights the lantern.
[ The little yellow light sprays across the chasm, thrown farther than it would seem possible by the ice. It catches on every edge, which throws the light a little farther, a little farther. The walls and vines and slouching wooden beams above sigh with shadow as Quentin moves the lantern closer to the edge. The sheet of ice at the center of the pit is darker underneath than the walls or floor, but the light skitters across the top more brightly, more sharply--until it breaks against something soft. Bodies that absorb the shine. Dead, dark bodies. ]
Steve? Steve, are you awake? [ Because he's alive. He was just talking, wasn't he? It's an uncomfortable, unsteady wobble towards the bodies, but Quentin gets to his knees to extend the lantern down. Christ, it's cold. ] Wake up! I'm here.
I'm here, I'm here. Do you hear me?
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Quentin stops reaching after awhile. that's okay too. it kinda hurts anyway. and it's so cold. his eyelids are so heavy. some sensible part of Steve's brain says, hey moron, it's cold as a witches tit down here. keep it moving. you've got to keep moving. do you wanna freeze your balls off? the guy raises some good points. but that voice isn't loud enough to listen to, even if it's right. Steve stares at Agnete's frozen corpse, and she stares back. why didn't anyone do that thing they do in movies? close her eyes?
eventually he can't keep staring. so he closes his eyes instead.
he probably does look dead, by the time Quentin peers into the dark with the flickering, faulty lantern. Steve does open his eyes, though. like... eventually. ugh, he slumped from sitting, leaning against frozen brick, to an uncomfortable flop against corpse ice at some point after knocking out. that's just great. his face has been touching corpse popsicle for god knows how long. Steve dedicates what little energy he has to rolling onto his back. sees the light, and when he realizes it is a lantern, chokes up an ugly laugh thinking about the one frozen under Agnete's ice rink. man he fucked that one up. too bad Quentin won't get it, because it's a real riot. )
All right already. ( like Quentin is his mom, mad he isn't out of bed yet, and not this close to losing his shit. Steve's voice is a lot croakier now that he's using that, and not his brain. )
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Yeah, you're welcome! Are you hurt? [ He casts his gaze around. How much can he trust this slouching wooden floor? Something obviously smashed through it, but it had to be way bigger than two guys. He has to be able to secure a rope somewhere. ] Can you move?
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...'m not dead. ( ah yes, the patented Steve Harrington special. that was horrible and I didn't like it at all but I am at least the bare minimum of okay. kinda hard to sell the usual attitude when he is so cold.
god Quentin is being so demanding about this rescue. wake up this, are you hurt that. and now he's supposed to move, too? Steve tries, creaks over slowly like an old man, pries some weight on his elbow to try and sit up again. yeah, no. his body says no thanks. you decided to cozy up to a frozen corpse pond, asshole. you made that bed, so lie in it. is the noise Steve makes pain, or frustration? both. and now he has to look at Agnete again, back on his side. his face gets colder. his nose is too frozen at this point to be his crying alternative, so apparently that means he's just gonna cry like a goddamn baby. )
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Alright, well--talk to me. Try to start moving, I'm gonna find a way down.
[ A way that they can both get back up. Sure! Easy! He starts to walk the slick perimeter of the collapsed floor, testing the boards the beams for a place to look his rope. He's not a climber by trade or hobby or anything, but he can get up and down a rope. How hard can be to get up with another person? He finds a spot that looks...fine! and starts to loop the rope around the structure. ]
When was the last time you were this fucking cold? You remember? Before here.
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does craning his head enough to wipe it on his shoulder count as moving? if so, then Steve is listening to instructions. his cold nose touches colder skin. which is weird. ) What the — ( his stupid green sweater has been in rough shape since first arrival in a murder dimension, but now that he's finally bothering to look himself over, it's in even worse shape now. gaping holes, threads barely holding the thing together. ) Fuck. ( it wasn't like he forgot the whole eaten alive thing. somehow, the holes torn through his clothes is too much, too real. all of a sudden it's like he can feel the teeth again and oh, yeah, that's probably why his voice sounds like that. all the screaming. it's so stupid that it gets to him, holes in a sweater he more or less hates. he hates it but it was his and it was from home and now it's as good as gone. hopefully Quentin is too far up to hear the watery catch in his breath.
he has to think of something else. Quentin's voice drifting down to him is at least a distraction. or not. because the last time he was this cold was probably right before he died. he played it pretty cool (lol) in the dream, but actually, being that fucking cold, down to the bone, so cold he barely felt a dozen mouths chewing through his flesh — definitely the coldest he's ever been. so he tries to think of another time. it's a bit depressing his thoughts can't go to some place good, and instead just shift to another murder dimension. ) You remember when those Snowmen were actually cute? Why'd they have to get scary? ( he feels like one of the horrifying ones right now. at all the wrong angles. a frozen solid, ugly lump. )
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[ Why did they have to get scary? Because it's their fucked up lot in life, probably. Not everyone has this lot, but they do. At least this place, even with as shitty as it is, is better than the last--or so Quentin convinces himself as he tightens the knot around the beams. Holding onto the floor, he tests it with half his weight. So far so good. Glass half full.
[ The wood makes an aborted, aching noise when Quentin lets himself slide a few feet down, and it scares the shit out of him. At that point, though, there's no way but down. He calls down as he shimmies: ]
It's warm in the rooms! No shit this time. Just--get moving for me, and you're gonna be okay! [ One foot finds frozen mud when he hisses down the last stretch of rope, and the other finds oily slick ice. Quentin curses under his breath. Shitty conditions, but the light and rope are secure up ahead. Big cloudy exhale, and he starts skidding his way toward Steve. ] You're gonna be--gonna be okay.
[ A few feet out, he loses his balance, but it's easy enough to slide on his knees to where Steve curled up. He's not lingering on how the man looks just yet; Quentin just spears his hands under Steve's arms to drag him up against Quentin's chest, till he can wrap his arms around Steve securely. ]
You better not have died breaking your neck, man.
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the whole the rooms are warm feels like well meaning bullshit. a nice lie to make him feel better. up until Quentin drags him up off the ice and wraps arms around him. Quentin has to be half heartedly warm at this point, this far into his rescue mission. doesn't matter, it's still a night and day difference to the guy who has been burning daylight in the frozen dead lady pit. it hurts a little. Steve hisses, surprised and pained, eyes squinted painfully shut. he recoils at first out of instinct, before sinking into the warmth. his head droops back on Quentin's shoulder. and if his face ends up turning against Quentin's throat, well, it's just because it seems like the warmest place for it to go. it's a good call, because Quentin smells familiar and his breath is grounding and it's something not terrible to drown his senses in. )
It ate me. ( Quentin has been there, done that. thanks Hag. and Ghoul. does Clown count? what about the Dredge and/or the Unknown? Victor, a little tiny bit. and the Demogorgon, even though he leaves the head behind for some reason! so of anyone, Steve knows Quentin Gets It. the point is, no, his back isn't broken. he was even walking around earlier, when he was freaking out and trying to get clamber up on his own. as far as how Steve looks, well — bad? dried blood under his nose, the kind of bloodless pale from being too cold too long. that said, he could be looking way worse. considering the whole "I got eaten alive" claim he just made. he's in one piece, despite the holes in his sweater. just cold. cold and traumatized. what else is new. )
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[ Then, with a determined exhale, he decides they need to move. One hand comes up to palm over Steve's temple, hugging him close to Quentin's pulse for a last moment before he announces: ] Alright. Nothing's broken, so let's go. The more you move, the easier it's gonna be to keep moving, right?
[ The easier it'll be to help him, too. If he can get Steve to his feet, they can shuffle like the worst three-legged race runners known to man. If he can't, they can shuffle miserably to where the rope hangs waiting. But whether Steve can get mobile or not, it becomes more obvious as they reach more light that he's in shit shape. Even if Steve was glowing with optimism, there's no way he's heaving himself up the rope. And Quentin, for all his considerable charms, is just not strong enough to hold Steve with one arm and crawl up there.
[ Maybe he's getting a little frantic when he starts looping the rope around Steve--isn't there a way to make like a basket or something? ] Okay, I'm gonna--I think if you can just hold on, I'll pull you up from up there. Right? [ His surety and warmth is starting to fray as he realizes that all the friendship in the world won't stop this rope from ripping up their frozen hands. ] We've made it out of plenty worse.
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Steve does not want to move. Steve does not want to be awake. he was really bent about escaping the pit before, but... hot take??? the pit is not so bad now that his eyes are closed and Quentin is here. and warm. it's been so long that he's felt something warm, it makes his brain feel fuzzed over. like drinking too much and waking up with cotton mouth, only it's his brain. which sounds bad written out like that, but it is better than what was going on in there before. all excruciating guilt and panic and agnete's frozen face and reliving his own death over and over.
but then the warmth goes. because the only warm thing down here is Quentin, and Quentin wants to get the hell out. Quentin keeps talking. and prying. and dragging. and pulling. and Quentin's breath frosting over and his touch getting colder and colder starts to mess Steve up, so, at some point Steve halfheartedly agrees to participate. he can stand, but he's missing a shoe. where'd that even go? is it still down here? in the stomach of a creepy monster? who knows! they limp to the hatch, only it's in the ceiling instead of the floor. that's a fun change. Steve stares miserably at how far he's got to go and is more or less aware he's not climbing that shit, not when his fingers are so cold he can't convince them to completely close. he hates this feeling, like he's the problem, like he's the thing that is gonna keep them from getting out of here. )
I-it's not going to w-work, ( Mr. Negative Nancy says through chattering teeth, and at least that sounds like Steve. he's a naysayer through and through. always has been. why the hell is it even colder down here? it's a bit ironic to have warmed up enough to realize it's cold. like one step forward and two steps back. ) Y-y-you gotta g-go get somebody. ( Steve is not looking forward to the being alone again part, but he's a realist. they're not in a place where they magically have the strength to pry people off meat hooks, there's no way this lithe otter bodied boy is getting him up that rope if he isn't strong enough to pull at least some of his weight. so, don't mind him leaning on the guy a little to try and suck up what heat he can before Quentin has to leave him behind. )
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[ His fingers are numb when he tests the knot, but the thing holds. Good enough. It's looped under Steve's arms, which cannot possibly be comfortable. He'll do what they have to do. ] I'll climb up and pull you up after me. Just keep your arms clamped down--like this. Hug yourself and I'll get you up. [ No amount of fussing or holding or petting is going to make this easier. His fingers curl around Steve's to give him a last little bit of heat, to lock the digits down around him, and Quentin nods like a salute before starting his way up the rope.
[ Alas, back at the top, there's no fucking way this lithe, frozen otter-bodied boy can actually pull Steve up on his own. Hell if he doesn't try. ]
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Steve grabs Quentin behind the neck with ice cold fingers just for the last few breaths of their perfectly platonic huddle. before he nods mindlessly to whatever plan the guy has to get them out of this. maybe it'll even work!
it does not work. because Steve was right, his dummy idea to pass out against ice was really detrimental in his ability to help in his own rescue. not that he doesn't try. boy, do both of them try. part of the impractical codependence in action! and it doesn't even hurt much, once he gets numb again. but as the naysaying realist of the two of them, at some point, he has to accept the writing on the wall. and the writing says not a chance in hell. so at some point he gives up on the last of his pride, and calls for backup.
does he warn Quentin about the mean spirited mullet headed their way? well... listen, it's already been a long day for the guy. give him a break if he got loopy on cold and long distance brain messaging, okay?? )
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He's so comfortable now, with blood smeared from his nose across his cheek, a stray smudge pushed through his sweaty curls by his wayward hand. His head's pounding, and that's from Steve, the most recent mark Steve's left.
He remembers the pit; it was just the other day! For Billy, it's only been a few sleeps since they went to scope it out, when Agnete had thrashed and nearly killed them. Had Billy helped much? Not really. As he follows the familiar path, he remembers Max's pitiful pleas for help. He hadn't fallen for the Servitor's ploy like Steve had, because Max would've preferred to die rather than ask Billy for help. He figures that's true, no matter how much it sounded like her.
But there's no Max, and there's no visible Harrington, because he's in the fucking pit again for some reason. Instead, there's just some skinny dickhead, kneeling at the side of the pit, beaten up hands grasping at a rope. Billy's boots scrape against the stone and the wood and when he comes to a stop by the guy, he sets his palm on the top of Quentin's head, putting a little bit of weight on him when he leans over to look into the pit.
There's Steve, a rope, a whole sorta involved thing happening. Billy whistles, hand on Quentin's head flexing gently. ] Hey, princess. [ That's to Steve.
Then to Quentin: ] You some kinda boy scout?