dinosize | anomaly 009 . excuses, excuses

anomaly 009 . excuses, excuses

[ private to Bucky, thursday morning ]

[ He lies blithely and calmly. His truths are generally understatements, so the worst tell he could possibly give is putting too much emotion and too many words out there. ]

Sorry, can't make it in today. Wrenched my knee a bit on the stairs yesterday, and it'll need a couple of days before I'm sure it's fine. Won't be any good to anyone if it gets worse.

[ spam : CW for injuries, blood, vampire things, very very unhealthy post-death mental thought processes. ]

[ He stays in.

The adrenaline crashes fast and hard, and he takes a short and fitful nap, waking up with his heart pounding and anxiety receding into his subconscious. The restlessness doesn't stop. He paces, he rearranges books and drinks enough water to restore blood volume.

He doesn't understand what's happening to him. He feels insane, and then he feels saner than he's ever been. He remembers the rush of darting so close to death and not being the one to decide if he comes back or not, and thinks, What's wrong with me? and I want to do it again. It's the first time he's felt really alive since - since dying.

Stephen has jumped off cliffs and out of planes before. He's dived down sharp slopes with the wind blistering cold on his skin. Half the fun of the anomalies was surviving, just his wits and his weapons. This felt a little bit like that. Only, more. It taps into a darkness that's been shifting and surging for weeks now.

Speaking as a mammal, I'm all in favor of cheating. So he's run into a predator that he can't beat, or didn't beat, one who all but promised he would come back.

One thing is sure: he can't tell them. They wouldn't understand.

Helen, he thinks. Only Helen would understand how this feels. ]

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[Either way, Bucky's got enough of his own secrets. If they were closer, he might pry, but they're still mostly strangers. Maybe getting closer to friends, but it's not like he knows the guy super well.]

Don't worry about it. You need anything from the mess or whatever?

Thanks, no. I've got plenty here.

[ He cooks. A lot. ]

Sorry. Probably been running a bit too much.

Seriously, it's fine. I'll let everyone know you're taking a couple days off.

Thanks.

[Mickey doesn't understand, it's true. He doesn't know, and he wouldn't understand if he did. But he knows how he feels, he's finally starting to understand that much, and even though a part of him is still hurting from what had happened in the dining hall, he recognizes the frisson of worry in his gut when Needy offhandedly drops that Stephen didn't show up to Bucky's dumbass boot camp that morning.

He's overreacting, he tells himself. He's too sensitive to this shit now. Too worried about missing the signs again. Even if he's not, why should he do anything about it? Stephen obviously doesn't want him around anymore. Fuck him.

But then he learns -- he makes it his business to learn, so so much for pretending not to care -- that Stephen's out for a second day. And then Stiles says there's a vampire on the loose. And maybe Mickey's radar for bad news is still going haywire, but he'd been right about Iris's distress over Zombie Harvey...

He briefly checks the usual spots, but he's grimly unsurprised to find Stephen at none of them. It's not long after that he's oh-so-casually rolling up to Stephen's cabin with a backpack on his shoulder and a six-pack in hand, knocking the cans against the door.]

[ He answers the door in a turtleneck, running a towel through damp hair. His expression goes through some complicated twists and turns when he realizes that it's Mickey. Takes in the beer. ]

What is it?

[ His tone isn't hostile, and it isn't cold, either. He's actually a little bit worried that something's happened while he was ignoring the network. ]

[Mickey almost loses his nerve at the look -- or looks, really -- on Stephen's face. It would be easy, if not completely convincing, to say that he knocked on the wrong door, that he'd gotten Stephen and Stiles confused or something. Stephen doesn't want him here, he's sure of it.

But then his eye catches the turtleneck. A chill goes up his spine, and he knows he can't leave yet. He keeps his voice determinedly light.]

Was going through some of my wife's old shit and I found these. [He tugs the half-open zipper of the backpack to show Stephen the contents: firecrackers.] Didn't use 'em up last summer. Figured we'd go out to the CES and toss off a few.

[ The sight yields an amused exhale from Stephen. Not quite a smile, definitely not a laugh, but not stone cold either. It's so typically Mickey, to show up with a backpack of firecrackers and not a single safety precaution in sight. ]

Sorry, I'm not really in the mood.

[ Which is the only way he can really put it. For the last day he's felt sort of bitter and numb at the same time, wondering if he should go after Jerry and try to hurt him, or if he should just ignore this and go back to whatever he was doing. He can't figure out what it is that feels like it's been so devastatingly changed by the brief bloodletting. ]

[The sound, whatever it is, doesn't exactly set Mickey at ease, but it helps. He wasn't really expecting this ploy to work, but it's an in, and Stephen's not pushing him away. Or not running away like he did in the dining hall, at least, or slamming the door in his face.

He shrugs and holds up the six-pack instead, moving for the door before Stephen can slam it shut, shouldering past him and into the room like an intrusive gnat.]

Want one? [He sets the pack down on the nearest surface and pops two cans out.] Heard you quit Barnes's dumbass fucking mini-ROTC thing.

[ Stephen blinks.

And then sighs, swinging the door shut behind Mickey.

He has to admit, he's a little relieved that Mickey isn't angry at his reaction in the dining hall. The reaction had been about Stephen and only Stephen, but he knew it looked bad. ]

I didn't.

[ Didn't quit. ]

Wrenched my knee on the stairs. It'll be fine by tomorrow.

That sucks, man. I was gonna congratulate you on seeing the light.

[He opens both cans and holds one out to Stephen, somewhat pointedly eyeing his knees.]

Been icing it?

[ He slides into one of the chairs. Just through this, he tells himself, and he won't have to lie again. Just convince Mickey this time.

Not too eager for the beer, but he takes it anyway, setting it aside without drinking any. ]

Ice, compression, elevation, thank you, Dr. Mickey.

Hey -- you're the one that wants to get back to that Full Metal Jacket shit.

[He leans on the chair next to Stephen and looks him over again, making absolutely no effort to hide his suspicion. He raises his brows slightly.]

Must've been some mean-ass stairs, man. Anything we should be on the lookout for? Flood thing? One of those rot spots?

I tripped, Mickey. Go ahead, make fun.

[He holds up his hands innocently.]

I'm just saying, Hart. Everyone's all saying how we can't be too careful, right? Going on about safety? Bad time to be all carelessly tripping over shit. You hear from Stiles yesterday? Dude says there's a fucking vampire on the loose, and not the teetotaling kind.

[You had better believe he's watching like a hawk for Stephen's reaction to that.]

[ He doesn't, really, because it makes sense to him that Jerry's presence is starting to be felt. ] Same one that bit Lydia?

[ He lets out a huff of air. ]

What's this about? Is it what you said, about your boyfriend?

[His eyes darken at that, stung. He might be here now, but that doesn't really mean he's not still smarting over the incident in the dining hall. It's just that his typical approach to problems he can't fight his way through is to pretend they don't exist. He can't do that if Stephen insists on bringing it up.

He looks down, takes a sip, goes right on talking like it never even happened.]

Bit Stiles, too. And a couple other people, he said. Me, I'm guessing even he doesn't know the real total. 'Cause there's gotta be some people that wouldn't come forward, right? Not everyone wants everyone to know something like that.

[ Stephen's fist slams down on the table. It's loud, especially since he hasn't cleaned up the dishes from yesterday. He finds himself on his feet, leaning over it. ]

Ask me.

Or get out.

[It's loud, but he doesn't flinch this time. Actually, it feels pretty fucking good to let the sudden flash of adrenaline carry him up to face Stephen across the table. It feels great to finally be able to yell about something.]

I fucking knew it! I fucking knew it! You did, didn't you -- you got bit and now you're holed up in here with some bullshit about your leg.

It's none of your business.

[ He pulls back, crossing his arms as he leans back against the counter. ]

Now tell me you're not going to go and make this all useless.

[He doesn't have a reasonable response to that -- it's true, it's not his business -- so he ignores that as well, bulling on.]

Make what useless? What the fuck are you talking about?

Are you going to walk out of here, get a gun, and do something stupid?

Because don't.

Against a vampire? Fuck no, because I've seen a fucking movie ever. I'm gonna walk out of here, get a fucking posse, and go deal with this asshole.

You do that, and we're done.

I mean it. Not like a row about secrets.

This ain't just about you, dumbfuck! Don't flatter yourself. People need to know what this creep's been up to. You make, what? At least four since he showed up? How fucking long ago was that?

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