( 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}
no subject
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?? )
no subject
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?