deercountry | Mostly Closed Catch-all for November

[Even after he won that fight, killed Reaper, his demon, hearing his voice still chills him to his core. Especially when he calls him that. And he doesn't think, immediately, he's firing a blast of energy in the direction of said voice. An instinctive shoot first, ask questions later policy after, well, everything.

The thoughtless action has him losing his balance on the rafter that he's sat on and he flails before falling down to the ground. Though he told the locals that he was better suited to be up there because of his Sleeper resilience, he neglected to inform them that he was still seriously injured.

The fall won't kill him, but it does set him back in healing. He rolls onto his side and coughs up some blood before wiping it off hastily. Then he glares up at Reaper as he struggles to his feet, it doesn't quite hide the fear. Killing him might have done a lot for processing what happened to him, but he's currently extremely vulnerable. He couldn't fight the man off any better than a kitten could in this state.]

What do you want? [He manages to grumble as he leans against the wall for support and breathes through the pain.]

[Reaper didn't need to disappear where he sat, but he simply tipped his head to the blast passed by him with only heat that sheered his hood. He would have teleported down and saved the kid, but he knew better than to get that close. It might come off as cold for any onlooker, but he and Lance had contentious enough of a relationship where any changes would have to be made slowly.

He watched Lance fall, and he gestured slightly so Wraith swept down from the roof to follow and land close by where Lance had landed. The peacock swished tail feathers back and forth and pecked at the ground close to the young Latino, giving Reaper a view that still allowed him to keep his distance.]

To check in on you. [He said that simply and rather honestly.] You've suffered from that fall. You should be resting.

[God, he hates that Reaper is being honest, he hates that by now he understands the man well enough to believe that. There's still a whole lot he doesn't get about him and probably never will, and even this he doesn't understand in the way he can understand why someone normal is sad they dropped their ice cream. This is more an understanding based on a lot of thought and enough experience with a crazy person.

Slowly, he turns so that his back is leaning against the wall, it's a marginally better position to be in than with his back facing Reaper. Then he summons his own Omen in a burst of smoke from his chest: a coyote with dark reddish tinted coloring and a mythical quality to it. It stands in front of Lance and watches Reaper and his Peacock steadily, carefully.]

I'll live. I just bit my tongue. [Not true, but he doesn't see it as anything he can't just walk off like he already has been.] Well, you checked and I'm fine. That means you can go.

Edited 2021-12-06 02:11 (UTC)

[Wraith the peacock remained at a safe enough distance, but much like Reaper would, the Omen was steadfast. He wasn't going to come down, aware it wouldn't be welcome, so Wraith would keep an eye on things down below.]

Somehow I doubt it's just a bitten tongue. For one thing, you aren't slurring. [He said simply, calling Lance's bluff. He knew there had to be internal injuries, since he hadn't lost his memories and knew how their fight had gone. They had not been gentle on each other.

He dropped down to the spot where Lance had been standing before the fall. He eased his way into a crouch, resting his forearms on his knees.]

I think it would be better if you had some assistance with the repairs. Would you let me do that?

[Lance clenches his jaw, not sure how to handle this all of a sudden. Reaper is staying at a distance and he's asking him if it's okay, but he doesn't trust him. This is different from what he's used to and he thought that he could predict what might happen next, but it wasn't this he saw in his head. It wasn't this based on other experiences.

He feels sick and confused and scared all at once all of a sudden and he's coiled tight. His omen backs up closer to him so that its haunches press into his legs. After a tense silence, he gives an equally tense and guarded response.]

It's not like I can stop you.

Edited 2021-12-06 03:30 (UTC)

[His own Omen made a show of cleaning some wing feathers, as if unbothered by the reaction of Lance's Omen. From experience, most wouldn't find a peacock intimidating, and, if anything, Wraith did what was necessary to be disarming and at ease, acting like relatively normal peacock.]

Can you stand and make your way back up here then? I will be your mule for the repairs.

[As in, he would carry and hold things into position. He would willingly put himself into a vulnerable position. expecting that Lance would be able to hold off blasting him because of the innocent people around. Reaper had no interest involving them.]

[Lance stares at him guarded and thinking, trying to read the situation and just not able to figure it out. His Omen increases its size a bit and looks over to him. In response, Lance pries himself away from the wall and grabs hold around the coyote's neck. The omen then sprouts translucent mythical wings and flies him up to one of the rafters, the wings then dissipate.

Lance sits there straddling the beam with his jaw tightly clenched against the pain and unease for a moment. Then he reaches into the dark long coat he's wearing and pulls out Reaper's mask. He tosses it over to him without looking or saying anything.]

[Reaper watched the little show, and a part of him was surprised - and pleased - that Lance willingly made the journey up to where he was. They were generally not in close proximity with each other willingly after all. Perhaps more so in recent times thanks to memory loss and fighting and all that nonsense, but here they were.

At the sight of the mask, Wraith materialized to pick it out of the air, wing tips brushing Lance's cheeks as the peacock twisted in the air to come and land on his shoulder. He reached up to take the mask from his Omen, turning it over in his hands.]

This wasn't your trophy. [Then he offered it back to Lance.] It's yours. You earned it fair and square in combat. You took control of yourself and your life back from me in that moment. [Which had always been the point of pushing Lance in the first place.] If you don't want it, fine.

[That is not exactly what he expected to hear, but it does confirm some things he thought about what Reaper was trying to do. The amount of conflicted feelings he has about it is almost too much and his nose crinkles against those emotions being expressed against his will.

He's angry, but also strangely comforted, and that fact makes him more angry and confused. And hateful towards Reaper and towards himself. There's a lot to be said, but he has no real words right now, just a lot of heavy warring emotions. So he defaults to something more simple and undeniably true.]

I told Varian I would give it back. [There's a roughness to his voice that wasn't there before and he turns his face away.]

[Reaper withdrew the offer when Lance replied and the mask simply wavered and melted into black smoke that reabsorbed into his body. Like he had mentally had enough of himself present at all times to keep the mask solid this whole time.]

Then consider it returned. [He then shifted where he stood, examining the repairs that Lance had been making.] What materials do you need to make these repairs? [He knew what he would do, but this wasn't his undertaking. He was assisting and nothing more.]

[Lance had turned back in time to look at that mask get absorbed into him. The look on his face probably says it all: grossed out, incredulous and a little freaked out.]

That thing… was part of you? …And you were just gonna let me keep it??

[This is definitely the most pressing thing in his brain right now.]

[Reaper was used to such a reaction, though normally people didn't actually have an item of his to begin with. They were usually dead or abandoning it so that such items would naturally return to him.]

If you wanted to keep it. [He wouldn't say it, but likely he would have used the mask to keep track of Lance or Lance's living arrangement.] But you gave it back, so that's that.

[Though he's an empath, he can't discern at all what Reaper's intentions were with that offer. And he's being suspiciously dismissive of it. But Lance's feeling about the man just make him extremely in edge and paranoid around him in general. He watches him tensely and his omen huffs in agitation. Then he repeats slow and guarded:]

"That's that." [A scoff as he shakes his head and reaches up to wipe a sleeve over his face, catching the stressed out tears before they have a chance to fall.] What are you doing? You don't care about fixing all this, or about me… what game are you playing?

[He was always someone who kept their emotions tucked away, restraining himself from objectively giving his intentions away. He was even more diligent about it with Lance, a young adult he had a complicated history with. After all, killing him made very little difference to him, but if Lance were to discover more about him, it could be used as actual harmful ammunition.

Besides, in restraining himself, he allowed Lance an opportunity to deal with him being close enough. Perhaps it might even provide a new opportunity to reconcile the shit they had pulled on each other.]

This damage was caused due to my death. I have no issue assisting in repairs. [Wraith hopped up onto one of the trellis and wandered as all peacocks were likely to do.]

[Lance scoffs again, turning to glare at him.] Why do I get the feeling you're getting some kinda sick enjoyment from that?

[His feelings about Reaper are so tense and complex, he can't tell if he's picking up on that as a legitimate feeling or if he's projecting his feelings about Reaper outward. Or perhaps he's come to know the man well enough to make that judgement on raw instinct. It's hard to say. He could be completely wrong, but he's on edge and upset enough that he doesn't really care if he is or isn't.]

[Reaper took the glare without even a flinch. Lance wouldn't be the first or the last person to glare at him, and he had learned a long time ago to let it roll off his back.]

I don't care much for death. Besides, that's not the first time you've blown me up.

[He gestured to the beams above them. He knew that getting Lance on task was the only hope for getting them to feel productive.]

Do you have supplies to get this started? Or should I start with Wraith to assist? With no thumbs, he's going to be a poor producer.

[Lance's jaw works and clenches at the reminder of the last time he blew up. He'd been the one to die that time, though. It struck a terrifying chord with him in how he feels about his powers, himself, and Reaper. The fact that the man scares him that much, that when he was just the right amount of vulnerable, he exploded from his own ability… it terrified him more. An added layer of fear of himself on top of the fear of the psychological power Reaper had over him just by his mere presence.]

…That time was different.

[He hugs his elbows, wincing a little at the action, and then looks around at the area. He's having trouble focusing, his fingers twitch on his arm in an agitated way and his eyes flicker to different points of focus that only he can see. Ghosts and shadows. He's so tired. But he answers in a tight, mumbled and reluctant voice.]

It's all by the cart on the street.

[Reaper was more than aware that Lance suffered from a very strong case of PTSD, yet the kid was relatively functional under most circumstances. He also was keenly aware of what someone living with a sense of fear and dread and anxiety looked like. It might not have been his job, but he had made certain to spend at least a portion of leave time visiting soldiers who had suffered from similar conditions back States-side.]

And yet, it's very much relevant to who you've become. You were emotionally broken before I ever came on scene, and I don't see that improving any time soon.

[He turned to look down on the ground where the cart in question was. He glanced up at Wraith then shrugged and stepped off of the beam to fall the distance to the ground. He landed heavily, sending up some snow around him before he was moving to explore the cart's contents. He picked out the raw materials and connections to be used. Beams were set to his shoulder, tools and nails in a bag in a hand and he took a run and jumped the distance back up to the beam.]

Let's get a start, since that's why you're here. Busy hands stabilize a wandering mind.

[For the second time in this interaction, Lance flares with intense energy as he whips his head around to look at Reaper. There's fear and hate there and an immense amount of dread and fierce denial.]

You don't know anything.

[But he knows Reaper is right on one thing: he was definitely broken long before Reaper got his hands on him. But he doesn't see why that matters, how it's relevant to anything. The rest… the rest is his greatest fears vocalized, everything his shadows whisper and laugh at him over and keeps him from sleeping basically every night. Then he continues glaring as Reaper goes to assess the materials.]

And I was doing just fine on my own.

Don't let your hatred and fear of me blind you from what I am saying. The truth for one's enemies can open doors for actual solutions.

[If he pushed Lance, maybe the kid would untwist enough to go and find help with friends and allies alike. One of the best parts of these encounters was that there were low stakes. The back and forth was typical, and he knew Lance would always hate him. So be it.

He tossed Lance hammer, and a bag of large nails, some brackets and a few other tools.]

And you're doing just fine with my assistance. Let's go. These repairs won't make themselves happen.

[Lance's omen catches the hammer in his teeth for him since Lance is busy simmering with something.]

Ugh, shut up you asshole! I don't hate you! [He blurts out in frustration. And then his mouth forms a tight line that turns into a frown as he looks away and clenches his teeth against the tears that suddenly want to come. His voice tremors as he speaks again.] You don't know anything… about how I feel. Or who I am or if I'm… if I'm gonna be broken forever. You don't know any of that, so just shut. Up.

[He's not sure if he really doesn't hate Reaper. At the very least, he would say that hate is far too simple of a word to describe how he feels. It's confusing and painful. He certainly doesn't have good feelings about him, but hate probably isn't right. Otherwise, why would he have just said so… what's in his heart might feel a bit like hate, but also not quite. It's an emotion he's never had before and has no name for. Or it's many conflicting emotions at once that he struggles to pull apart.]

I know more about how you feel than you realize. [Reaper had been there in the beginning, dragging or holding dying comrades in a vain attempt for help. He'd stared at ally's corpses, people he knew by name, had eaten and joked with. He'd stepped over them, carried them to the back of a truck to be sent home, watched them be mutilated by heavy machinery or artillery fire.] You won't be broken forever. You'll find a way to live with the breaks and cope. But it will change you.

[He was lifting a wooden beam up, shouldering it until he could use his hands to get it into position. He looked at Lance, and a part of him saw a younger version of himself, a hotshot with good skills that had seen too much, done too much, pushed too far. But there was no stopping. One foot in front of the other.]

Time to hammer. Physical work focuses the mind.

[The thing is, he has always suspected Reaper understood, and now with his empathic power, he knows it. And it's something that's always frightened him because he doesn't want to be like this man. But this man who caused him so much pain is... possibly the only person who has come and said things to him that he actually needs to hear, that actually help and resonate. Idealists and friends who have given him advice recently and over the years have said pretty words about how he gets to decide who he wants to be and that the past is in the past, that it'll destroy him if he doesn't let it go. And each time he's felt like he was fumbling to figure out how to apply that to himself, how to live it, and he's been left feeling hollow, lost and inadequate.

And many of his memories of the time he completely broke after killing Allura are spotty and confused, but he knows it was Reaper there, and he knows it was Reaper who found him when he was a baby, and he knows by now that both he and Moira saw something in him that was... familiar. He's conflicted and he's tired. His omen hands him the hammer and he grasps it without thinking with his most injured hand and it fumbles to the ground and his omen immediately goes to retrieve it for him. A pause, and then he starts to really feel how messed up he is physically. It's not been that long since the fight, and yet...]

I'm... not healing. And... [He doesn't know why he admits it. His emotional state reached a certain point and he feels like his very core broke under the pressure of his fear and his exhaustion and confusion and slightly shifted perspectives in a way. He reached a point where he couldn't deny that he was getting certain feelings and having needs he didn't realize he had met by this bastard.] Actually I... I'm pretty sure you're the only person who really... understands me. And I hate it.

[He punctuates that with hammering a nail down. If he sounds utterly petrified, but too tired to keep fighting it... it's because he is. It sounds like he's resigned to the fact that he's lost a painful war, more pain is on the horizon and he can't figure out if he has any real control over his fate.]

[Despite all of his gusto and keenness on reputation, Reaper knew that he was a broken man. There were parts of him that had come apart and been put back together again over and over, and he had learned very specific coping mechanisms. He had seen the worst of humanity through the war, through the peacetime and through the collapse of Overwatch. He had also seen the best with family, the birth of his son, the friends that he had made - then almost all of them lost - and the constant striving for a sense of peace with his allies.

He knew that to be broken and repair wasn't the worst thing. Nothing would be sunshine and roses except in short periods, but the scars of old traumas would remain. They didn't have to be present or on the mind all the time, but they remained a baggage that would shape a person's character and responses to future events. He had no time for rose-coloured glasses. Sometimes it was comforting to know things weren't okay and get on with it.

He was good at reading body language, but he was also very good at understanding subtle changes in the air around people. Because Lance toed a line a little too close for comfort sometimes, he could tell that maybe, just maybe, they had reached an iota of understanding with one another. The admittance didn't hurt.]

You will. It's okay to take time to rest and heal, you know. Read a book, sleep, eat something, stare into space. [That would work both physically and mentally. But Lance would heal. He didn't think the kid was so bad as to need intervention.] Better to have someone who understands and hate them then suffer alone. I'm proof things break and there's still a life on the other side.

[He didn't move, stoic in his stance holding up the beam. Lance could take the hammer to him, and he'd probably let the kid at this point.] But you will heal, Lance. The damage to you will scar up, and you won't be able to always do and experience things the same way, but you'll go on.

[He sighed through his nose.] Hate me all you want, but if you need to talk or yell or hit something, all you need to do is find me.

[He's shaking so hard with this shift not just in the conversation, but in himself. In the way he let go of the fight just enough to own at least one of the many things he's afraid of deep down. And to Reaper of all people. And as Reaper speaks up again, he lets out a rough and bitter breath, because of course using himself as proof that there's life on the other side isn't exactly encouraging to him.

If he ignores that part then the rest is fine. But of course, it sticks out and he sits there tense and silent, grappling with his mind, with the way it keeps flashing back every time he tries to dig deep and overcome. Hugging himself and hunching over, he tries to just breathe through it, and it comes out shallow and ragged. Then he finds words.]

Your life on the other side isn't what I want… I already told you I don't want to be you. [His voice is scratchy sounding, like he's got a dry throat or has been sobbing. But he's just trying to keep a grip on himself and his injuries are not helping either. And with all of that, his hostility has lessened. Not disappeared, but lessened. And taking up that space is fear and exhaustion.] And I meant I'm literally not healing.

[Hands still shaking, he goes to pull off one of his gloves, and it's hard with how unsteady he is. But this is something he can focus on that's more tangible than the torrent of everything else that's more existential. When he gets his left glove off, it reveals a bandage soaked in red around the meat of his hand with a little bit of black.]

M-maybe I shouldn't be out here. But it's like you said… it focuses the mind. [He shakes his head, internally already denying the idea that it's because he's pushing himself, he'd considered that.] Something's wrong. My… my old wounds are opening up too. I dunno that any laying and staring into space is gonna help.

[A shuddered breath is let out and he lets his hand fall to his lap as he finally gets to the rest of what Reaper said. He visibly struggles internally with his conflicted and pained emotions, shaking all over. When he manages to find his voice, it's unsteady and there's a frog caught in his throat.] And… I dunno what to say to all that because I hate your guts.

Edited 2022-01-31 07:36 (UTC)

Mostly Closed Catch-all for November

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