( Steve has been murdered all sorts of ways, since he ended up in the fog. honestly, all the different ways have started to get blurry, now. most times, he comes back into consciousness at the campfire and doesn't remember much at all. it's the not remembering that cues him in that he died, rather than figments of how it happened.
so the fact he viscerally recalls boils growing underneath his skin, his face sloughing off in a solid sheet, shrieking and shouting as a robotic voice insisted it wouldn't even hurt —– all that is strange enough. waking up with his face stiff and numb is sure as shit not helping, though. he's felt it, sure, but what good does that do? he's felt his own face but never committed it to memory. there's maybe a bruise still, where the needle went in his eye. anything else, Steve can't discern through feeling alone. and, yes. fine! some distant part of him knows that being panicked that his face glued back on sideways is stupid.
he just can't help himself. turns out it's easier to worry about his face being crooked than it is to think about why it might be crooked. or the lumpy flesh monster that did it, jesus christ, because that's what the fog needed! a lumpy flesh robot hybrid from Mars, or whatever the hell the blobby alien planet was supposed to be. fuck.
it takes him awhile to navigate to where Quentin claimed to be. he tries to be a little less rattled by the time he gets there. it's not entirely effective, but, walking and moving and not sitting at the campfire prodding at his own jaw pointlessly was at least a little sobering. Steve shines his flashlight around the trees, thinking mildly that he had no clue crabapple anything existed in the fog. there's some edge of anxiety to wandering away from the campfire, though spotting Quentin does lessen it somewhat. because there's safety in numbers? that's real cute. )
Hey asshole, ( Steve says in sweet, heartfelt greeting, blinking his flashlight at Quentin twice before he turns it off to stare at the trees. ) What the fuck are you even doing?
[ He has a hard time with Steve, knowing when to make him self-soothe and when to be gentle with him. Sure, in a world where Quentin has all the time and patience in the world, it would always be gentleness, talking it through, Socratic discussion, blah blah blah, but he's lousy with neither around here. Hasn't been in strong supply of patience since he stopped sleeping, in fact. It's a skill he'd love to get back, but then someone around here starts to lose it and all he has time for is shaking them until they snap out of it and--
[ It probably does nothing to make Steve healthier in the long run, but he's a really easy candidate for shaking the shit out of.
[ So yeah. Quentin knows he can be a little rough with Steve because Steve can take it. Does take it. Kind of regularly. But the new nasty in this game is no joke. If Soma's account of how the Singularity came to be wasn't chilling enough, Quentin has heard piecemeal stories from people he knows, loves, of how it dissects. Steve died to it. Died to it horribly. He's earned a little handholding over the matter.
[ Or at least, that was the plan, before Steve hits him with the high beams by way of greeting. Quentin hisses, throws a hand up to cover his eyes as he makes his way over. ]
Hey, dickcheese, can you turn that thing--thank you. I'm working. [ One hand throws wide behind him at the trees. There's a wet, musty smell hanging in the air. It's particularly heavy on Quentin as he comes closer. He's been out here a while. Easing in, he squints at Steve's face and, with all the verisimilitude of a peeved siblings, grimaces. ] Oh jesus, man. You weren't kidding...
(working on what? Steve looks skeptical, because he doesn't get it. he's never gotten it. Quentin crawling around, muddy-kneed, gathering this and that and that other thing. hippie shit, Steve thinks uncharitably. and for what? they live or they die. they come back and what happened is better. or, it's not, and thistle and horehound aren't going to help. and fine, what little supplies they have going a longer in a trial is a decent enough objective. it's just that Steve isn't the type to bring a medkit when he can bring something more proactive. toxic flashlight gamer to the end 😤🔦
in the end, Steve doesn't have much respect for it, but supposes everyone needs something to keep them from crawling up the walls and going out of their goddamn minds, so, why not grubbing around in the dirt like a gremlin. there's probably worse things.
it's funny, in the stilted uncanny calm of a space outside the campfire — being in a place just on the sidelines of blood soaked trial grounds, nearly there and yet not quite — distracting himself with whatever nonsense Quentin is up to, he almost forgot. that he's here for an honest opinion since he can't trust his own. that his face just might have sealed back on slightly off, like it might still look half melted and bruised and mottled and somehow in the numbness he just can't tell. and since it's a genuine fear, his heart clangs around in his chest like someone tossed dead batteries in an empty coffee can and gave it a good shake before he remembers who this is and god fucking damn it could Smith not be a dick for three seconds???
Steve has his emotional support flashlight in one hand, but spares the other to shove Quentin. hard enough to rattle him if he doesn't plant his feet. playground bully move. but Steve tries to limit his bullying to kid shit these days. )
Fuck you, ( Steve says. annoyed and anxious. it's a potent cocktail. ) Could you be serious for once in your goddamn life? ( a beat, and honestly he could have asked... almost anyone else, really, besides Nancy or Jonathan, but he's already here and he might as well just be done with it. ) Is it really that bad? ( he prods his own numbed cheek, skin cold and a little foreign under his fingers. )
Okay! Okay! [ His hands come up even as he stumbles back, a big, blatant show: you win, so pump the brakes. No joking, apparentlly. Steve is really upset, apparently, so Quentin chokes down his annoyance and tries again. He leads with his hand, open for the flashlight. ] Gimme that, let me get a look. Come on.
[ Stepping back in feels like a little bit of a risky proposition, but defusing angry jocks used to be something Quentin was pretty good at. Hopefully he's still got the touch. He bows his head, eyebrows up trying to catch Steve's gaze in the dim light out here. Don't kick the puppy again, dude. Lower, less bossy: ] Hey.Â
I'm sorry. Okay? It was a shitty joke. Let me help.Â
( Steve can roll with most sorts of punches. he's been on both sides of the line in the sand. there's some due diligence involved in taking his fair share of licks. to foster balance in the universe, all that shit. penance in one hand, knowing all the dickhead designs in the other. but there's an art, you know, of realizing when you shouldn't stick your finger in and fish around. even flighty, somewhat stupid, overall tolerant Steve Harrington has places you shouldn't press.
still, he hands over his flashlight, which is about as obvious a gesture of trust Steve can manage without invoking protecting Nancy. Quentin can be a dick sometimes, but, not a bad guy. that venn diagram is a little confusing but as a former asshole (reformed asshole? mostly. mostly reformed), Steve can appreciate the complexity better than most. )
Yeah yeah, ( Steve huffs, which is as close to accepting an apology as he can get without this feeling weird. and then, since maybe Quentin is taking it at least a little seriously now, ) Doesn't feel right. You ever get some teeth yanked out? Like that, only just on the top. I dunno. ( does that make sense, or is he somewhat compromised by his face melting off? honestly might be a mix of both. )
[ Quentin scowls more freely from behind the safety of the flashlight as he shines it on Steve's face, mutters for him to close his eyes. Predictably, everything seems to be there, but...something isn't quite right. It all moves with Steve's expression, brows pinched and sloped from worry, mouth tight where a wound draw pulls his lips then. What's odd, Quentin observes quietly, mouth barely moving: ]
You're a little bruised. [ He wets his lips and breathes in deep. That's odd. It's rare for people to bring back marks when they've died. Not impossible, but not common at all. Maybe she hasn't ironed out the Singularities work yet. Quentin's palm braced along Steve's jaw, though he might only feel the tips of Quentin's ring finger and pink brush near his ear. A thumb gingerly sweets the hollow of his eye socket, which is a sickly yellow-blue mottle. ] Not crazy, it just looks like--I mean. It looks like someone slammed a pinball around in here. How long since you noticed you can't feel your face?
( Steve is also aware that coming back with injuries is abnormal. he's been in the fog long enough to know. sort of like Vegas, what happens in a trial is supposed to stay there. and he's also aware that things like this have started sticking with him more. waking up without a finger, or his chest painted purple from that livid Japanese giant breaking every one of his ribs. it's not like it lasts forever, but that it sticks around at all...
it's sort of avoiding to the doctor with a growing dread of something being wrong. maybe he shouldn't have come at all. the schrödinger's cat of physical deterioration, as long as he doesn't think about it too hard, it can't be that bad. still, having his face sealed on sideways is terrifying enough he can't just leave that one to the unknown. Quentin's fingers feel distinctly strange, far away, and somewhat reassuring in that he can feel them at all. weird combination.
Steve grimaces at the prodding, breath caught behind his teeth. tries looks at Quentin, squinting through the overly artificial glare of the flashlight, and then looks up because it's too hard and too weird to try and look the guy in the eye. ) Since I woke up. I dunno. Twenty minutes. ( his watch doesn't work in the fog, and it's always thinking of new inventive ways to be nonfunctional. so that's a guess at best. fog time is pretty wiggly. but, not that long, is at least a fair estimate. )
Mmm. [ Both of their eyes will need to readjust once Quentin turns the flashlight off, but Steve can certainly hear his wary grimace. It's always kind of touch or go to suggest this sort of thing to people from his time, but: ] I don't like that the bruise is still there, but I mean, how often do you have...panic attacks?
Panicwha--? ( Steve asks, articulate as ever, face scrunched up as his brain chugs somewhat over the meaning of simple words. panic attack i it takes longer than it should. his frustration is not immediate, but when it hits it is palpable. )
Panic attack. It wasn't — it was a robot attack, asshole. ( HE HAS BEEN VERY CLEAR ABOUT THIS HASN'T HE ??? this is not an PANIC attack, how can you panic about something that HAPPENED? )
Thanks, thanks for the clarification. Steve, I'm serious, what do you have, uh--
[ He takes a precautionary step back, both hands coming up for a second (easy, easy) before he counts off on his fingers: ] Agitation, obviously, since you're acting like a pill. Anxiety? Numb in the face, we know this. How's your chest feel? Is it tight?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
🎬 gentle tw for body horror
so the fact he viscerally recalls boils growing underneath his skin, his face sloughing off in a solid sheet, shrieking and shouting as a robotic voice insisted it wouldn't even hurt —– all that is strange enough. waking up with his face stiff and numb is sure as shit not helping, though. he's felt it, sure, but what good does that do? he's felt his own face but never committed it to memory. there's maybe a bruise still, where the needle went in his eye. anything else, Steve can't discern through feeling alone. and, yes. fine! some distant part of him knows that being panicked that his face glued back on sideways is stupid.
he just can't help himself. turns out it's easier to worry about his face being crooked than it is to think about why it might be crooked. or the lumpy flesh monster that did it, jesus christ, because that's what the fog needed! a lumpy flesh robot hybrid from Mars, or whatever the hell the blobby alien planet was supposed to be. fuck.
it takes him awhile to navigate to where Quentin claimed to be. he tries to be a little less rattled by the time he gets there. it's not entirely effective, but, walking and moving and not sitting at the campfire prodding at his own jaw pointlessly was at least a little sobering. Steve shines his flashlight around the trees, thinking mildly that he had no clue crabapple anything existed in the fog. there's some edge of anxiety to wandering away from the campfire, though spotting Quentin does lessen it somewhat. because there's safety in numbers? that's real cute. )
Hey asshole, ( Steve says in sweet, heartfelt greeting, blinking his flashlight at Quentin twice before he turns it off to stare at the trees. ) What the fuck are you even doing?
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[ It probably does nothing to make Steve healthier in the long run, but he's a really easy candidate for shaking the shit out of.
[ So yeah. Quentin knows he can be a little rough with Steve because Steve can take it. Does take it. Kind of regularly. But the new nasty in this game is no joke. If Soma's account of how the Singularity came to be wasn't chilling enough, Quentin has heard piecemeal stories from people he knows, loves, of how it dissects. Steve died to it. Died to it horribly. He's earned a little handholding over the matter.
[ Or at least, that was the plan, before Steve hits him with the high beams by way of greeting. Quentin hisses, throws a hand up to cover his eyes as he makes his way over. ]
Hey, dickcheese, can you turn that thing--thank you. I'm working. [ One hand throws wide behind him at the trees. There's a wet, musty smell hanging in the air. It's particularly heavy on Quentin as he comes closer. He's been out here a while. Easing in, he squints at Steve's face and, with all the verisimilitude of a peeved siblings, grimaces. ] Oh jesus, man. You weren't kidding...
no subject
in the end, Steve doesn't have much respect for it, but supposes everyone needs something to keep them from crawling up the walls and going out of their goddamn minds, so, why not grubbing around in the dirt like a gremlin. there's probably worse things.
it's funny, in the stilted uncanny calm of a space outside the campfire — being in a place just on the sidelines of blood soaked trial grounds, nearly there and yet not quite — distracting himself with whatever nonsense Quentin is up to, he almost forgot. that he's here for an honest opinion since he can't trust his own. that his face just might have sealed back on slightly off, like it might still look half melted and bruised and mottled and somehow in the numbness he just can't tell. and since it's a genuine fear, his heart clangs around in his chest like someone tossed dead batteries in an empty coffee can and gave it a good shake before he remembers who this is and god fucking damn it could Smith not be a dick for three seconds???
Steve has his emotional support flashlight in one hand, but spares the other to shove Quentin. hard enough to rattle him if he doesn't plant his feet. playground bully move. but Steve tries to limit his bullying to kid shit these days. )
Fuck you, ( Steve says. annoyed and anxious. it's a potent cocktail. ) Could you be serious for once in your goddamn life? ( a beat, and honestly he could have asked... almost anyone else, really, besides Nancy or Jonathan, but he's already here and he might as well just be done with it. ) Is it really that bad? ( he prods his own numbed cheek, skin cold and a little foreign under his fingers. )
no subject
[ Stepping back in feels like a little bit of a risky proposition, but defusing angry jocks used to be something Quentin was pretty good at. Hopefully he's still got the touch. He bows his head, eyebrows up trying to catch Steve's gaze in the dim light out here. Don't kick the puppy again, dude. Lower, less bossy: ] Hey.Â
I'm sorry. Okay? It was a shitty joke. Let me help.Â
no subject
still, he hands over his flashlight, which is about as obvious a gesture of trust Steve can manage without invoking protecting Nancy. Quentin can be a dick sometimes, but, not a bad guy. that venn diagram is a little confusing but as a former asshole (reformed asshole? mostly. mostly reformed), Steve can appreciate the complexity better than most. )
Yeah yeah, ( Steve huffs, which is as close to accepting an apology as he can get without this feeling weird. and then, since maybe Quentin is taking it at least a little seriously now, ) Doesn't feel right. You ever get some teeth yanked out? Like that, only just on the top. I dunno. ( does that make sense, or is he somewhat compromised by his face melting off? honestly might be a mix of both. )
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You're a little bruised. [ He wets his lips and breathes in deep. That's odd. It's rare for people to bring back marks when they've died. Not impossible, but not common at all. Maybe she hasn't ironed out the Singularities work yet. Quentin's palm braced along Steve's jaw, though he might only feel the tips of Quentin's ring finger and pink brush near his ear. A thumb gingerly sweets the hollow of his eye socket, which is a sickly yellow-blue mottle. ] Not crazy, it just looks like--I mean. It looks like someone slammed a pinball around in here. How long since you noticed you can't feel your face?
no subject
it's sort of avoiding to the doctor with a growing dread of something being wrong. maybe he shouldn't have come at all. the schrödinger's cat of physical deterioration, as long as he doesn't think about it too hard, it can't be that bad. still, having his face sealed on sideways is terrifying enough he can't just leave that one to the unknown. Quentin's fingers feel distinctly strange, far away, and somewhat reassuring in that he can feel them at all. weird combination.
Steve grimaces at the prodding, breath caught behind his teeth. tries looks at Quentin, squinting through the overly artificial glare of the flashlight, and then looks up because it's too hard and too weird to try and look the guy in the eye. ) Since I woke up. I dunno. Twenty minutes. ( his watch doesn't work in the fog, and it's always thinking of new inventive ways to be nonfunctional. so that's a guess at best. fog time is pretty wiggly. but, not that long, is at least a fair estimate. )
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Panic attack. It wasn't — it was a robot attack, asshole. ( HE HAS BEEN VERY CLEAR ABOUT THIS HASN'T HE ??? this is not an PANIC attack, how can you panic about something that HAPPENED? )
no subject
[ He takes a precautionary step back, both hands coming up for a second (easy, easy) before he counts off on his fingers: ] Agitation, obviously, since you're acting like a pill. Anxiety? Numb in the face, we know this. How's your chest feel? Is it tight?