[ 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.
[ Would that he were a boy scout, or indeed the recipient of any kind of official survival training. Maybe he would have constructed a better, more functional harness for Steve, or he could manufacture some kind of lever, or set a fire for more help or something. As it is, even though Quentin knows someone is coming down to the where he's bending sore-spined trying to haul Steve up, his whole body jerks at the touch on top of his head. Prepared for everything, as if.
[ One bloodied hand swipes at Billy's arm reflexively, wide and watery eyes snapping up to him from here he kneels. Quentin's gaze jerks down to the shadow of Steve below, back up to the newcomer. ]
You're--Billy. [ He's sure of it, because of some low rumblings about the man from Steve, because he can't imagine a single other person who would call Steve that with so little investment. That jerky gaze sweeps Billy's arms and chest and thighs, back up to his face. ] He's half-frozen. I'm trying to get him up, but I'm not built like that. Maybe with the two of us...
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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?
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[ One bloodied hand swipes at Billy's arm reflexively, wide and watery eyes snapping up to him from here he kneels. Quentin's gaze jerks down to the shadow of Steve below, back up to the newcomer. ]
You're--Billy. [ He's sure of it, because of some low rumblings about the man from Steve, because he can't imagine a single other person who would call Steve that with so little investment. That jerky gaze sweeps Billy's arms and chest and thighs, back up to his face. ] He's half-frozen. I'm trying to get him up, but I'm not built like that. Maybe with the two of us...