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singillatim2025-07-10 06:42 pm
singmod) wrote in singillatim2025-07-10 06:42 pm
Entry tags:
- *event,
- casper darling: mimi,
- chloe frazer: tess,
- danny rand: laus,
- edward little: jhey,
- eren jaeger: lyn,
- frodo baggins: tossino,
- john irving: gabbie,
- konstantin veshnyakov: jhey,
- levi ackerman: dem,
- levi jordan: cirape,
- louis de pointe du lac: tea,
- maelle: alex,
- randvi: tess,
- root: liv,
- rorschach: shade,
- sameen shaw: iddy,
- snow white: carly,
- teddy roberts: faye,
- wynonna earp: lorna
I'm allied to the winter
JULY 2025 EVENT
PROMPT ONE: BURIED ECHOES: The green fog from fissures that had begun to appear last month takes on a new form of attack, and Interlopers find themselves forced to share their greatest betrayals and deepest shames.
PROMPT TWO: ADURERE: The Interlopers are not the only ones caught in the current machinations, and return to Milton House once more.
PROMPT THREE — TERRITORY: Interlopers who venture out to the Last Resort Cannery come face to face with the Timberwolf packs who have claimed the place as their own — high risk, high reward.
BURIED ECHOES
WHEN: The Month of July
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: atmospheric changes; mild mental manipulation; memory sharing.
In June, a green fog began to curl upwards from fissures dotted around the Northern Territories — warping Interlopers into frenzies of rage or fear. These afflictions have ended up easing as the month turns over into July but the vapours themselves don’t dissipate. At first, they begin the mingle in the air, like a drop of ink in water — causing a green hue to taint the atmosphere. When one looks around, it's almost like the faint sepia tone that obscures the lens of daylight at sunset some days. The skies feel darker, the days are dull, and green.
There’s a distinct tingle of fear in the air. Something low rumbling — a constant drone in the background.
The reach of these green vapours extend even further as the month goes on. The fogs will grow thicker in places and at times will extend to filling huge spaces of areas quickly and silently. You could be out in the wilds, travelling alone the tracks in Lakeside, or making your way down the Coastal Highway when the fog drifts in.
It doesn’t take long before it encompasses you entirely.
With it, the skies darken further. The world turns to night, lit by the eerie green, and everything feels empty and fraught. For plenty of Interlopers, this is a familiar experience, and a sensation of fear washes over you. Or most of you.
You hear whispers in the fog: a chorus of frightened voices chittering nervously. And then out of that chorus comes a voice that is old and terrible.
She binds me, but she cannot banish me. I am coming for you, Interloper. You cannot be rid of me. The Darkwalker, you realise. It is reaching out to you within the fog.
The Yawning Grave has been opened, and I am so very hungry. One way, or another — I am coming for you. I will break you, consume you. You will go into the Dark.
The Darkwalker has its ways of coming for Interlopers, that is well known by now. The fog shifts and swirls around you. As you watch it, familiar shapes begin to form — a room, a place. Somewhere familiar to you, but it doesn’t fill you with comfort. You remember this place, and you find yourself within a moment of your history. It is not a fond moment.
The memory that forms around you and begins to play out is a memory of your greatest betrayal, your deepest regret. The thing that brings you the most shame. You and your companion will witness this — and there's no escaping this.
The Darkwalker has ways of coming for Interlopers, yes. It has ways of trying to break you down. Your deepest fears and insecurities, showing you for what you truly are; isolating you from the world around you, finding ways to lead you into the Dark. You are the Interloper, after all. You are not part of nature’s design. One way or another, it will break you down and put an end to you. To pull you apart. Now it seeks to show who you truly are to others — a moment where you find yourself at your worst.
Bonds between Interlopers are strong, but are all secrets revealed to the ones you’ve come to know and trust? Do you still have skeletons in your closet? A moment you have tried so desperately to keep buried and hidden from those around you?
No more. The question is whether the people you’ve come to know and trust will be able to look at you the same way again.
ADURERE
WHEN: Late July.
WHERE: Milton House… ?
CONTENT WARNINGS: fire; house fire; death of a child/children; hauntings; illusions of burning/being burned; potential injuries via falling/unstable building collapsing; dead bodies; gore/blood/maimed bodies; body horror; eye-related trauma/horror.
You wake up in a bed that is not yours. The air is still and cold, and for a moment everything is calm. It is night time. You are not the only one who wakes up with you, another Interloper has found themselves sharing the bed with you — maybe it’s someone you know, maybe it’s an Interloper you’ve yet to meet. But you’re in a strange home you don’t recognise, and you’re not sure what’s happened.
You have a little time to get your bearings, at least — to explore the room itself. The furniture is a little more refined from what you’ve come to know in Milton: well-made and old. The master bedroom is that of a husband and wife. There are family photos on one of the dressers: a wedding photo of a happy bride and groom in the late 1970s or early 1980s; a photo of two small boys stood in Milton Basin, holding up freshly-caught fish; a photo of a sad young girl on a tree swing.
Interlopers who have been in the Northern Territories for some time will come to realise that the family in these photos is the Barker family. The young girl is Enola. You have found yourselves within Milton House, before the fire.
If you had turned on a light to explore, power goes out. There is smoke in the air.
You hear the crackle of flames from beyond the bedroom door. Opening it into the corridor will reveal a fiery inferno, and the distant screams of children.
But there’s something different about this place, just as there has been last time. Even with the blaze, the home does not look at is should. While it looks like the burning, ruined insides of Milton House, it feels more like a maze than anything. The walls warp around you and at sudden moments, tree branches will break and jut out from the walls, burning and snapping and falling before you.
Together, you must work to escape the burning home. Getting out of this place will be far more difficult than those who found themselves in this place well over a year ago. Turning down the corridor in search of the stairs brings only more corridors, opening doors to bedrooms in search of a window will bring you to more corridors, too.
Persist, and you’ll find the stairs eventually. And like last time, the heat and smoke feel real and may even cause you pain but the flames won’t actually burn you. Whatever this is, as real as it feels, there’s some kind of illusion to all of this just as it had done before.
But what didn’t happen before is the sight that greets you as you finally head downstairs.
In the ruined mess of the blazing inferno that is the living room, bodies litter the floor. They pile on top of one another, covering every inch of floor, slumped against the walls. There must be some seventy or more bodies here. Some are harder to look at than others: some are coated in blood and wounds, some caused by animals, some by humans; some lie in crumpled, contorted messes; some are half-frozen; some are barely recognisable.
Looking at these bodies, as difficult as it may be, will bring the awful realisation: these are the bodies of Interlopers who have died within the Northern Territories. Some you recognise, people you knew only too well. Interlopers who have died at the hands of the Darkwalker, of Mother Nature itself, of other Interlopers; each of them appearing just as they had died in this place.
What’s more: scattered in amongst these bodies are the bodies of the Barker family: Thomas and his sons — half-charred and blackened by the smoke and flame.
In amongst this carnage, there’s a figure kneeling on the floor. A woman, dressed in furs, her hands covering her face. Some may recognise her as Enola, and you realise: this is Enola’s deepest regret. What brings her the most shame, her greatest betrayal.
Interlopers may choose to leave, if they wish. Making a break for a window or a door will bring them out into the snow and the world will snap to normal — you find yourselves outside Milton House, green fog swirling around you and fading with a low echo of laughter: the Darkwalker.
But others may choose to go to Enola, to try and help her, to try and end this memory of hers.
Enola feels real when you touch her. Managing to pull her hands away, you’ll realise something is very wrong. Even more wrong than all of this. Those who have seen her before in dreams, or when she appeared to Interlopers in June last year will note that she appears very different. Enola looks gaunt, exhausted — and more frightening: her left side of her face is black and withered, her eye absent from the socket.
It’s hard to say what’s happened to her, but Interlopers may draw their own conclusions and suspicions.
“It’s my fault.” she’ll whisper. “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault. I caused it.”
Enola seems almost catatonic, and cannot seem to engage with Interlopers at first. She will rock slightly as she kneels, her one blue eye staring into nothing, her expression wounded.
“It’s my fault, it’s my fault— I couldn’t.. I couldn’t make it stop.” she continued. “I didn’t mean it, I— I tried, I tried so hard to stop it— I never meant for it, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The house groans and shudders around you. Enola will look up, tears streaming down her face.
“I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t mean it.”
Speaking to Enola softly, offering words of encouragement or comfort will slowly begin to calm her down. It will take some time to calm her in this terrible place, but she will respond to it. She seems almost child-like: cowed and broken and small. She looks so tired.
“They were meant to be home.” she tells you. “And I ruined it.”
When Interlopers have calmed her down enough, she’ll finally look at you, like she finally sees you again. For the first time in this moment, she sees you in a way that’s hard to put into words. She reaches for your face, your chest, touches you gently — her expression is so sad, quietly crushed by the care from you.
“I’m sorry.”
In a blink, everything snaps to normal. No bodies, no flames. No Enola. Just the rotted insides of a broken, ruined home — curls of green smoke drifting upwards, out through the cracks of the walls.
TERRITORY
WHEN: The Month of July.
WHERE: Last Resort Cannery, The Coast.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; gore; human remains; (wild) animal attacks, altered wildlife, possible character injury/death, possible (wild) animal injury/death.
Moving towards the south east from the village of Silverpoint will bring Interlopers along the cracked and crumbling road that loads to Last Resort Cannery: a complex of several warehouses and workshops, and has long since fallen into disrepair. Most of its staff were employed by the village of Silverpoint, and with some even coming from Milton to work — but economic decline has seen the company fall into hard times.
Murmurings from around the village will have Interlopers discovering that there may be some leftover stock that is still usable, such as canned goods, but the villagers have found it incredibly difficult to scavenge there, due to the increase in hostile wildlife. Many villagers that have attempted to travel there have never returned, and those who have, have returned maimed, injured, often dying due to their injuries — and Silverpoint residents have often persuaded Interlopers not to go there.
Interlopers, however, are made of sturdier stuff these days, and maybe it’s worth checking the place out in hopes of finding some useful loot.
The Cannery itself sits right along the coastline, and incredibly bitter and open — much like most of the Coast’s area. As Interlopers head closer, they will soon discover exactly what the villagers spoke of: the frozen, grisly and often skeletal remains of those who have tried to venture forth scattered around the area, torn backpacks and clothing — as if the bodies have been consumed by animals.
Not even Jace has been out here to scavenge, either out of safety, or respect for the dead.
Most of the buildings are open to the elements, having been hit hard by the extreme weather — and provide little in the way of shelter. But not all of them are so open. There are some buildings that will provide ample shelter: warehouses and factory floors, even some small staff breakroom quarters. There are even spaces where it appears that some of the workers even lived on site, with bunk beds and shower facilities.
There will, indeed, be crates filled with canned goods that remain in relatively good condition: mostly canned sardines, tuna and salmon. Interlopers may find seafood soups, too. But there’s an overall theme: the Cannery is a processing place of fish and seafood, after all. However, that is not everything that is housed within the Cannery’s site. Explorers will be able to find heavy but durable work clothes and boots, along with survival tools and equipment that belonged to workers. There are workshops that could be used during the Aurora — which can be used to repair tools and… interestingly: craft ammunition.
A spray painted wall reads: THEY HATE THE LIGHT. Another reads: LOUD NOISES = GOOD FOR SCARES. Another, more ominously: THIS PLACE WANTS US ALL DEAD.
Why would such a plan require a workshop in order to craft ammunition? It might have something to do with the culprits behind the grisly finds Interlopers have come across in their approach to the Cannery itself: the packs of Timberwolves that have made their home here and often prowl the area. And soon enough, they will come running.
A lone howl on the wind, carried on the air. More joining the first. Then, the demonic chittering and growling as one of the packs descend upon the Interlopers. Fortunately, these timberwolves are not quite like the wolves faced by Interlopers right at the very start of their time in the Northern Territories — but they are still altered in terms of the Aurora: smarter, and far more aggressive that wolves have ever been known to be.
They do function in a similar manner, at least. Pack morale is important, and breaking that morale can send them back. If they’re broken, their morale is depleted. Fire is your biggest friend: torches, campfires and flares will keep them mostly at bay and only the bravest of these packs may attack. Striking them with flares or flames will actually send them into brief retreats. Bullets and arrows are effective with both noise and injuring the wolves, and although hitting one will be difficult due their speed, it’s possible. Killing one of these wolves will dissolve the pack’s morale entirely, and the rest will flee.
And at least then, for a while, you might be able to scavenge in peace — and make it out alive.
FAQs
1. The memories cannot be interacted with in any way.
2. Interlopers with Darkwalker’s Revenge will feel slightly revitalised in general during the month of July and be extra revitalised during these heavy fog instances. They will feel fit, hale and alert — probably the best they’ve ever felt in a long time due to the polar sun.
3. Memories can be from a character's future in their canon, not just their past.
1. All Interlopers who have died in game can be found within this prompt. This will also confirm the deaths of Interlopers who have been missing but never confirmed dead and also confirm Interlopers who have simply gone home. You can check out the Interloper Masterlist for further details.
2. Interacting with Enola is optional. Interlopers may choose to simply escape house and the memory.
3. Interlopers have limited interaction with the memory. They can look at things, or even touch the dead down in the living room, but not remove anything from the house.
4. Characters will not be physically burned in the fire, but only feel as if they have been. The effects of this illusion will last a short time after they're out the house before they will fade.
5. The only real injuries characters can sustain will be from fall damage, or if the floor gives way and their feet go through, etc. whilst in the house.
6. Please see the January 2024 Event Prompt ‘Adust’, or the Areas Page, or the October 2024 Mini Event under the February 1994 for further information/context.
7. Interlopers who are in Milton will find themselves in Milton House when the memory/illusion ends. Interlopers in other areas of the world will find themselves in a random, rundown/dilapitated home found in that area.
1. You do not have to kill a Timberwolf to scare off the pack, simply defeating the pack's morale with noise and flame is sufficient to scare them off for several hours.
2. Timberwolf packs typically range from three to seven wolves.
no subject
It was just a nightmare. Normally he could pour himself a drink and get over it, but this one sticks. It's sunken into his bones, seared into the backs of his eyelids. There's blood on his hands that he can never wash off.
He's not in danger. He knows that logically, but Raylan tries to gently pull the gun from his hand, and it feels like the only thing keeping him alive is that embossed metal against his palm. His fingers tighten around it, drawing it away and down to the bed, pointing at neither of them. He doesn't lift his head, shoulders rising and falling with each rapid breath.
"I know," he says, but his voice is hushed and the words are tight and frail. "I'm fine, you don't have to--"
Stay. The last word catches in his throat with his breath, his whole body tensing with it.
no subject
"No 'have' to about it... But if you want me to go." He didn't finish the statement, trusting that Tim would catch the inference. "I ain't gonna ask about it either, if you don't want."
There was an idle thought, something that would be slotted away for next time because there would most certainly be a next time, that maybe Tim would take his concern better if he were on four legs instead of two. Maybe there wouldn't be the inherent pressure of sharing a language and the vulnerability those words came with.
no subject
He sure as fuck isn't about to tell Raylan about the memory or the way it's bled into his nightmares. As of right now, Bigby is the only person who knows about it, and that's one person too many. It's better, though. Better than Raylan having been there to witness it and look at Tim a little bit differently now.
No, he doesn't want to talk about it. However, his heart rate is slowing just the littlest bit, the edges of the panic attack his body has been trying to throw itself into dulling somewhat. Which doesn't normally happen until after he's gotten a couple of drinks in him.
The sensations are still there -- the sun hot on his neck, the sand gritting against his skin, gunpowder and smoke. Those will take longer to fade. They always do.
"Can you--" He starts the sentence and almost changes his mind halfway through, stopping and hesitating. He feels raw, frayed. Vulnerable. Like he's asking too much despite it being nothing, really, and Raylan wouldn't be here if he didn't want to help anyway, so fuck it--
"Can you keep talkin'? Doesn't matter what about."
no subject
"Ya know, if I had known we were gonna be here, I woulda brushed up on mushroom huntin'. As it is, I'm rackin' my brain for any way to use these birch trees. Who'd've thought we needed to know tree species.."
He continues on, talking about the sap and the bark and what few uses he was aware of from this or that, having read a Popular Science magazine here and there in various waiting rooms. None of what he said really mattered, filler to fill space, but all said in that easy going, southern warmth cadence that he knew was comforting to some people. For a man that didn't ramble a lot, he sure did have a bank of useless knowledge that was well mixed with practical knowledge, some of which had been enhanced by his time out here in the wilderness.
The urge to wrap Tim up was still there, now accompanied by the urge to drop a distracting, reassuring kiss on his shoulder. Raylan resists for now, not sure how that would mix with Tim's current state of mind.
no subject
It's Raylan's voice. The ebb and flow of his easy tone, the honey'd accent that's not unlike his own. Warm and rich and familiar.
That's what he wants, the thing his mind is craving. Desperately spinning as it reaches for some amount of familiarity to hold onto. Maybe he should've realized it with the comfortable weight of his gun in his hand making him feel a little more secure, but he was too far lost in the lingering nightmare and skewed senses to understand it.
Raylan is the only piece of home he has. He doesn't feel like he deserves it, but the fog memory has him feeling like he doesn't deserve much of fucking anything right now. When he pulls in a deep breath, his nose doesn't burn with the smoke that isn't there, and he realizes the warmth to his back isn't the sensory memory of the desert sun, but some part of Raylan propped up behind him.
After a moment more of his partner's rambling, Tim unwinds himself a little. He shifts slowly, leaning back until he finds himself propped against Raylan's shoulder. The contact loosens something tight in his chest.
"Heard somewhere it makes good pancake syrup," he says quietly. "Birch sap."
no subject
His hand shifts to come settle lightly around Tim's hip, holding him with a gentle grip that suggested it would only take a shift of Tim's weight to discourage him from the embrace. The engagement from him was just as good a sign as the uncurling. He studies Tim's profile with a quiet interest as he continues.
"We could try it out. Do like the Canadians do, pour it out hot into some snow and get sticks to wrap it up in as it freezes. Though I gotta say, a Denny's grand slam would be right up my alley right now. Some blueberry pancakes and coffee..."
Shame that comfort food was so far out of their range.
no subject
Raylan's hand settles against his hip, warm and comforting in a way he knows he doesn't fully deserve but accepts anyway. It's grounding, holding him in the here and now without being restricting. There's a balance apparently that he didn't know about until now -- or maybe it's just because it's an unfamiliar setting.
There's a reason why he doesn't let men sleep over, or ever stays the night himself after a romp between the sheets. The same reason he couldn't stay with his mother after coming back from the war for more than a few weeks before getting his own place. The help and concern is suffocating and unnecessary because he's fine, really, once he's had a few drinks in him.
He doesn't have that here but he has Raylan, and instead of pushing that away like he normally might, he tips his head back to rest against his partner's shoulder. He still doesn't trust that he can close his eyes without seeing all the blood and lifeless gazes, so he stares up at the ceiling.
"You ever been to a Waffle House drunk off your ass at three in the mornin'? Nothin' tops that damn butter pecan syrup after way too much fuckin' jager."
no subject
"Can't say that I've been lucky enough to experience that, no. But knowin' what I do about a Waffle House, I don't doubt it in the slightest. But now I gotta ask," he continues, wanting to encourage Tim to talking more even if none of it was strictly important. It was anything that wasn't whatever haunted Tim's sleep. Despite his best efforts, his thumb brushes back and forth a little.
"You a hashbrown man? I don't imagine you like 'em plain."
no subject
His partner sits behind him, supporting nearly all of his weight, soothing a thumb back and forth against his hip and distracting him with a conversation about hashbrowns of all things, but not because Tim's asked him to. Truthfully, he can't fully understand why Raylan has stayed -- maybe he never will.
He certainly can't afford to question it right now, so he turns his head where it rests on Raylan's shoulder, allowing his gaze to settle on his partner's face for the first time since he came into the room.
"Smothered and covered," he answers. The hand not still holding the gun loosely against the bed lifts, one finger tapping gently against Raylan's temple. "You better remember that for when I eventually hallucinate us a Waffle House."
Yes, he's absolutely making jokes about hallucinations while actively fighting them. Probably the real sign that he's going to be fine.
no subject
Tim had already done fantastically well. He was an established and respected US Marshal. He didn't use his trauma as an excuse to abuse or take advantage of anyone and lent himself as a resource to other military men who had returned home and weren't having such a good time with the adjustment. Some large part of Raylan feared Tim's trauma looking like Arlo's in its affects, but the image of Tim curled into himself as tightly as he could be without being fetal hurt to think and struck itself an entirely different flavor of management. Likely character in a base level, too.
He smiles a soft crooked smile at the joke, free hand coming up to lightly hold Tim's chin so he can brush a thumb across his lower lip. Of course Tim was going to be fine, Raylan knew that they were both the kind of men to 'be fine' no matter what inner discipline it took to ignore the slumps and stumbles of carrying a weight, but he also knew that it was a rare privilege to be allowed to help ease some of the emotional turbulence.
"Now I just need the rest of your order, don't I. Just make sure you hallucinate some strong coffee and onna those country ham slices they have for me and I'll be happy." And bet your ass, if they made it back home, Raylan would take him out to a Waffle House and order exactly all of this.
no subject
It's different. This isn't an attempt to stitch Tim back together, to try and make him more whole than he's capable of being at this point in his life. This is support in its simplest form. This is providing him something to lean on while he pulls himself back together the best he can, because the only way to really get through this is to face it himself.
Raylan's just making sure he doesn't have to do it alone.
He's not sure when it happened, but he realizes he feels safe. Somewhere between that honey sweet voice talking to him about breakfast foods and the steady hands holding him, the remnants of the nightmare have finally faded. He hears the stillness of the cabin, tastes nothing but the bitter dryness of his mouth from hollering in his sleep. He smells smoke, but only that of the fire smoldering from the living room and not the putrid kind from the war.
It will only take one loud noise, one unexpected shadow to throw things spiraling again. This sense of safety is precarious and he's hesitant to do anything to lose it. He moves slowly, shifting his body to face his partner properly. His free arm loops around Raylan's waist, and the other hand leaves his gun for the first time in three days to take the fingers at his chin and tip his head down, placing a kiss against Raylan's rough palm.
"Fully loaded omelette," he says, because it's nice to think that they'll one day make it to a Waffle House and Raylan will have remembered this conversation. "I'll try to hallucinate us a waitress that'll slip bourbon in our coffee on account'a your smile."
no subject
It was easy to move in kind as Tim shifts, keeping his arm around his partner as he makes room as needed to accommodate the closeness. The turn of his hand and the kiss that's pressed into it makes his heart flutter and jump in his chest with an inarguable warmth. If he wasn't in trouble before, he was now. It was the kind of move he would pull and he couldn't help but hope it meant what he thought it might.
That hope was quickly shoved into a little box and put aside; this was about Tim, not Raylan's stupid romantics.
It was about Tim and how he was finally relaxing a little and leaving that gun behind. Raylan wasn't stupid; he knew that gun was a security they both clung to in their ways. The one thing that's always promised to keep them safe.
He can't help but hitch up another crooked smile, both at the kiss and the elaboration, thumb brushing up and down again on Tim's side.
"Even better than if I slip in myself." Raylan wants to kiss him again, to kiss him and lay down and wrap Tim up properly in his arms. "It's a date."
He lets a beat pass, soft mirth ebbing slightly before continuing quietly. "Nightmares always this bad for you?"
no subject
He could leave it at that. Raylan would probably let him. This warm bubble of safety feels so fragile and that thumb feels so nice soothing up and down his side. He's just pulled himself from the clinging grips of the nightmare, and he's not particularly eager to walk right back into the memory.
His head tips down until his forehead is resting against his partner's shoulder, keeping his eyes open to study the individual threads of Raylan's shirt. There's familiarity in the scent when he breathes in, though it's not what he's used to from home. It's the scent he's come to associate with Raylan here in Milton, simple soap and wild, earthy nature.
"Sometimes, when there's a trigger and I can't get it out of my head."
He says the words carefully, like he's testing each one of them as they come out of his mouth. Waiting for the one that cracks the barrier holding him in this moment of security.
"I was doin' a pretty damn good job of avoidin' that fog until I wasn't. It showed a memory from my first deployment. A bad one. Other people saw it, too."
He won't detail the memory. He doesn't want to relive it, and Raylan doesn't need to hear shit like that. Those war time moments that make someone question all their morality. He breathes for a moment, finding the safety net still miraculously intact. He gives a laugh, short and soft and with more surprise than humor.
"I didn't even mean to fall asleep. Think I almost made it three days."
no subject
The revision of his answer was good too - it felt more honest. Despite everything they weren't talking about, Raylan liked to think they didn't lie to one another. Not on the important things. Raylan's wolfiness. Tim's wilder nightmares.
His embrace didn't move, save for the thumb that was unconsciously sent back to a brief, soft brushing, as Tim talks about it being bad. There was nothing more cutting than to be Seen, for better or worse, by people who would judge you for what they saw. Raylan knew that all too well.
"Maybe one day we'll talk about it." But that day wasn't today. "And I noticed. The not sleepin'. This place has a way of takin' that bit of control outta our hands. Seems like to to do it, actually. Wasn't but two months before you showed up that none of us could sleep without someone watchin' over us because.. Well, terrible shit." Because if they hadn't, the Darkwalker would have eaten them. Fucking wild thing to say and not something that would help Tim in his current condition.
"If there's a way I can help. Maybe do the same. Wake you up if you get too restless... Go find and shoot whoever saw it so you don't hav'ta worry about it.."
Okay, that last one was a joke. Kind of.
no subject
He really doesn't have the capacity to think about what that means right now. Probably, it means he's screwed. But Raylan is warm and secure against him, offering safety without hesitation, and Tim still feels a little bit like a burden, but not as much as he normally might. His partner is all to familiar with the mind fuckery of this place.
He tips his head to place a soft kiss against the side of Raylan's neck, feeling the way his voice reverberates as he jokingly offers to go shoot a couple of poor bastards who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's kind of a nice thought, in a really fucked up way. Tim thinks he would probably offer to do the same, maybe with just a touch more seriousness to it, though.
Historically, he's done a lot of stupid things on Raylan's behalf.
He breathes, the moment feeling tenuous with the internal battle of whether or not to ask for more. But after a few seconds, the toxic stubbornness loses over the sheer exhaustion of his mind and body, and the warm comfort of Raylan's arms.
"Could you-- lay here with me? Just for a minute, and not let me fall back asleep."
It's not healthy, and he knows that. It's the first time in days he hasn't felt like he was under attack, and it doesn't matter when or how he wakes up. If he falls asleep again, it's all going to reset back to the paranoid panic he's been unable to shake.
He just wants to live in this moment of reprieve for a little bit longer.
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The string of thought was broken as Tim kisses his neck. It makes his heart flip in his chest, makes his hand a little tighter around Tim and makes that urge to lay down with him all that much stronger. He couldn't do anything but hold him but Raylan was good at that. Or at least, he thought so.
The few beats of silence between Raylan's offer and Tim's answer was filled with a concern that Tim would take a deep breath and push away, try to shoulder it again on his own. Instead, Tim surprises him with the exact thing that Raylan's been fighting against since he sat down. It's enough to make Raylan huff a little breath of relief before answering with a quiet, exposing: "As many minutes as you want."
The gun at the small of his back is the first order of business - safety before all else - but once it's set on the nightstand next to them with a stretch of Raylan's arm, he's laying down and pulling Tim with him as naturally as if they'd always done this. Now that they were down, he could wrap his other arm around Tim, cocooning him in the security of Raylan's chest and arms and sigh as his weight settles fully.
"Ya ain't gonna hurt me either, ya know. If you do drift off.." His thumb was back to brushing up and down, a soft consolation as the rest of them stilled. "I'm harder to break now."
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If he were in any state to do so, he'd probably be thinking that he's getting too deep into this. Things like this make whatever it is they're doing outside of their conventional partnership more serious and real. Too serious and real, not because he doesn't want it, but because he doesn't know what the hell to do with it. It's not as if his track record with dating is good. Or even existent, really, outside the menial shit in high school.
He enlisted when he was eighteen. Don't Ask Don't Tell was alive and well during his time with the military, and when he got back, he recognized quickly what he had no business trying to navigate a relationship with the baggage he carried.
But that baggage feels lighter now, just a little bit, and that would be absolutely terrifying if he had any room to consider it. He's too busy clinging to this peace for as long as he can.
Raylan tugs him down, and as they shift and realign, Tim hooks his finger into the trigger guard of his gun to pull it up the bed and keep it within reach. He doesn't keep hold of it though, bringing his hand up instead to rest against Raylan's chest, right where he can feel the steady beat of his heart. His head settles into the comfortable dip of Raylan's shoulder, and it feels like they were built to fit together this way.
"Yeah," Tim agrees softly. He probably wouldn't have to worry about accidentally choking Raylan out or otherwise hurting him with his bare hands, because Raylan can overpower him easily now. But-- "You're not bulletproof, though."
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It was a joke. Sort of. How far away from baseline human would this place push him? Either way, he had gotten used to the 'gifts' that had been given here. Mostly comfortable with the peaks and valleys of that blessing, save for the few dark ones that still lingered, waiting to consume his attention and confidence to when he was least prepared.
With Tim tucked against him, that hand settled so warmly on his chest, Raylan couldn't help but think that if it happened again, that at least he had Tim. Tim would understand, insomuch as he was able to without his own 'gifts' to carry. He presses a kiss onto Tim's head before continuing.
"I think you know the easiest answer to that problem though, darlin'. One I think we might have to work towards, instead of just doin'." It was a quiet statement, said without any judgement. Tim would have to trust him to circumvent that problem and while Tim had trusted him thus far, Raylan knew that rope still had an end right now.
"If I'm awake, you might just shoot the wall or floor instead." He felt confident about his reaction times when he knew to watch out for something.
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Still. Raylan's gifts haven't been without their perks. Particularly when they happen to fall into bed together, which has been happening with more and more frequency. Laying in bed together like this is wholly different, without the preconceived notion or expectation to be stripping off each other's clothes. Intimate and domestic in a way he wouldn't really know how to handle if he had the capacity to handle anything other than his own precarious mind.
Right now, it's fine. It's good. He can feel the even rise and fall of Raylan's chest, and the steady beating of his heart beneath his palm. It's perfect and it's peaceful, and it cracks just a little bit with Raylan's words.
"If you mean me not sleepin' with my gun in reach, that ain't happenin'."
It's always within reach, here and at home, with or without a triggering event, and he can recognize that this is one of those times he really shouldn't have it within reach -- he's not a danger to himself, he's pretty sure, but literally anyone else runs the risk of getting dead. Just because he's not in his right mind doesn't mean he can't aim.
Raylan's reflexes are fast. If he's awake, if Tim can pull himself out of it within the first few moments. Too many ifs. He turns his face further into Raylan's shoulder, speaking almost directly into his shirt.
"I can't risk emptyin' my clip into you, Raylan."
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"I know." The words came with a tightening of his arms, lips pressed against Tim's head. It would be truly traumatic to end up dead because he decided to share a bed with Tim when he wasn't in the best place, but Raylan also had to believe that he could at least stop Tim. Or that Tim would stop himself before doing the worst. It wasn't reassuring to say out loud.
"You're not gonna. It's okay. We'll figure it out."
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Raylan's not exactly wrong, though. There's sleeping with a gun on your nightstand, and then there's waking up with it in your hand before becoming fully cognizant, and they're vastly different things. What Tim does is concerning, even to someone like Raylan. He's broken and damaged and it doesn't feel like there is a reality where he can be any other way.
We'll figure it out. In this very moment, Tim can't fathom what part of him Raylan feels is worth sticking around for. And for a moment he stiffens, because he doesn't feel like he deserves this. It's not like he didn't willingly sign up for the war that made him this way.
"I don't--" Christ, no. He doesn't understand why Raylan is still here, but he doesn't think he can handle the answer to that question regardless of what it is. He exhales slowly and glances up. "I know we don't have Waffle House, but what do we have in the way of -- what fuckin' time is it? -- breakfast?"
He's not hungry. He just wants to feel fucking normal.
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He notices the stiffness and looks down as Tim glances up. He wouldn't ask about the cut off statement either. Questions and gentle line pushing could happen the next time.
"If it's been over eight hours since you ate last, I think whatever we eat counts as breakfast." He shifts a little, one hand coming to Tim's chin to urge his face up a little so Raylan could look at him.
"Don't you feel bad about this, about me bein' here, okay? I want to be here for you. I don't care what that looks like." He doesn't hesitate in following that with stealing a kiss from the sniper, a chaste and unasking kiss, and he smiles as it breaks.
"C'mon. We can go see what kinda goods this place has got." He starts to move properly now, unwrapping Tim and making his way to his feet. "Maybe we'll get lucky and find some more canned goods."
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He's getting ready to mutter something about how he's pretty sure it's been over forty eight hours since he last ate when that hand is urging his chin back up and he's looking Raylan in the eye.
Fuck. They've always been good at being on the same page, but those words target his hang-ups so perfectly that he's not convinced for a moment that Raylan can also read minds and just hasn't bothered to tell him. Except that's not something he'd do, Tim trusts that it's not something he'd do, but he hates that that sort of thing really isn't out of the realm of possibility here.
Here. At least now he's a little more cognizant of where that is than he was a few days ago. There's still flashes -- smells and sounds that are harder to shake, and the overwhelming paranoia will be sticking around for quite some time. The nightmares, too. But he seems to have somewhat moved past the point of needing to remind himself that he's in Canada and not the middle east like it's a fucking mantra.
Raylan doesn't really give him the opportunity to respond, stealing a soft kiss in the wake of the proverbial bomb drop and moving on like it was nothing, which-- that's good too, probably. Because even as Raylan's climbing out of bed, Tim still doesn't know what he would've said to that.
"Okay," is what he ends up saying, because his head is spinning a little bit -- which has to be from the lack of eating and drinking and poor sleep, and nothing to do with the way Raylan was looking at him just then -- and he's kind of dreading stepping out of the room that he knows is safe.
He follows suit, fully clothed with his boots still on when he gets out of bed. The gun is in his hand again, and he considers for a moment tucking it into the back of his jeans, but he doesn't really feel like he can, so it stays in his hand.
The words 'thank you' try to present themselves, but get swallowed down in favor of huffing out a breath that could almost pass as a laugh.
"I'd fuck up a can of them beanie weenies right now."
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Unsurprisingly, he already misses the warmth of Tim against his chest but he tries to ignore that and the sudden chill that starts sinking back into him. Neither does he miss the fact that Tim's firearm stays at the ready - it was more than a little heartbreaking and made Raylan want to dedicate himself to terrible, retribution type things to make it better, but that was a fantasy that could never happen. Instead, he focuses on leading them into the kitschy yellow kitchen and getting into the first set of cabinets at hand.
"Even worse, I'd kill for another can'a spam. Or eggs. Jesus," he breathes, missing real food so much it almost hurt. The Waffle House conversation had been a good distraction, but now the memory of the taste wouldn't leave the back of his tongue.
"A potato. We gotta stop - I just want somethin' that ain't dried."
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He's scanning the rooms as they walk through them, but he at least manages to talk himself out of checking behind every piece of furniture. It's fine. He's fine. He's safe because Raylan's here, and Raylan is always watching his back.
It's safe. He focuses on searching through the cabinets, trying to come up with something to eat that's not--
"Well. There's like--" A brief pause as he counts. "Six cans of dog food in here. If that holds any interest to you, Toto."
He pulls back from the cabinet to look at Raylan, brow arched, almost smiling. It's been a minute since he's told a good dog joke.
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