[Ronan sucks in a breath as he comes to life again, finally able to move after his recent awakening. The inside of his mouth feels cut on the jagged edges, his head hurts, his stomach is turning over itself. The wasps are still there- he can hear them as they start to scatter, some of them flying out from under the cot.]
Shit.
[He winces, lifting his gaze toward Bruce, as if only just now discovering that he's here.]
[Bruce is hit with a tremendous shot of adrenaline, such that he would likely take the clinic wall down in a pile of green rubble if it weren't for the strictly parental overtones. Instead, he gathers Ronan up practically by the scruff and heaves him fast off the bed and for the door, not particularly caring if his feet touch the ground on the way.]
[Ronan staggers to his feet and damn near falls over as the world rushes to meet him and his stomach roils dangerously. It's difficult to figure out at first what the fuck Bruce is trying to do to him, and he fights the older man on it at first as he lurches out toward the door.]
-the fuck is your problem?
[As if he hasn't just spat up insects or summoned a dozen more of them into reality right before Bruce's eyes.]
[His head is still pounding, but at least they're not moving anymore. Ronan sags against the door that was recently slammed, squinting an eye open at the lone buzzing from the insect that managed to make it out with them.
This could have gone better.]
Chill the fuck out for a second, god.
[Ronan's own mind is sluggishly trying to make all the connections it needs to so that this conversation can happen. Bruce knows- maybe? Or he just saw something, which is... bad, so how does he deal with it now? Ugh.]
They'll clear out. I don't think they're poisonous. [Which is, you know, helpful, especially since upon closer inspection, they don't really look like any sort of insect known to man. They're vaguely wasplike, but jet black, with pointed edges and needle-sharp legs, impractical for anything but hurting, more like a polished weapon than an actual living creature.]
[The demand irks him, but Ronan is aware that he has little choice but to comply. Bruce is trustworthy, isn't he?
It doesn't make him any less defensive when he speaks, his voice almost accusatory, senselessly angry despite the fact that Bruce has done nothing wrong.]
Where do you think all of it comes from? The medicine, the bandages, the goddamn autoclave? [He sets his tight, rounding on Bruce.] That shit- all of this- it doesn't come from the fucking caves. You knew that.
[Ronan looks to him sharply, his eyes dark and measuring. The insect buzzes off toward the main area until the sound dims and there's just silence between the two of them.
Ronan has been known to stare at people until they crumple. There's something weaponized about his full attention, and when he gives it, it's never a good sign. But Bruce, who has stared down far worse monsters than a seventeen year old boy, doesn't fold. In the end, Ronan finds what he's looking for and part of him relents, just a fraction.]
It comes from me. From my dreams.
[It's a blunt fact, not spoken softly or angrily anymore. Just the truth. Bruce probably deserves that by now.]
[But this is probably not a conversation for the hallway, so he moves back toward the main area, toward one of the sinks for water. Without a glass, he just bends down and drinks straight from the stream coming out of the faucet, pulling back after a moment and wiping his face on the back of his sleeve.]
Look, I can try to explain it, but it's complicated. [There's a pause, and his expression darkens again, threatening.] And I'm dead fucking serious about secrecy. You say anything, and there's no limit to what I can send after you. You know that now, right?
[Bruce tells him- mildly exasperated is the wrong word for it, because that's too close a cousin to irritation. But let's head this off here and now.]
Back when I thought I couldn't cope, and the world would be better off without me. I turned green and spat the bullet back out. So please stop trying to frighten me. I am older than you, calmer than you, and you can't hurt me. But more importantly, you are not going to need to.
[Ronan goes quiet at that, introspective for a moment. Ultimately, he shakes his head, fingers twisting nervously around the leather bands he wears at his wrist.
When he speaks, his voice is less hostile, but colder, matter-of-fact.]
What happens when someone decides that they want- I don't know, a fucking missile launcher? A weapon of mass destruction? [And then, quieter-] -what if someone loses a person they love? What if they tell me that they'll kill Parrish if I don't do what they want?
[He's not quite looking at Bruce anymore.]
People die for this. Have died. The consequences are very fucking real, and I'll say all the threats I can to avoid them. I don't scare you, I get that, but I should.
[Ronan grudgingly follows him, somewhat mollified by his answer. Liquid in general sounds good right now, if the raging headache and upset stomach are anything to go by. Describing his powers while hungover is not the ideal scenario, but at least this will make it a bit better.
He hops up on the counter when they reach the kitchen area, quiet for a moment before he speaks:]
I dreamt about Gansey. He's allergic to bees, you know. He was running from me. When I finally caught up, he turned into those things.
[Nothing is unintentional in his dreams, in what he brings back. Even if he doesn't mean to take it, part of him wants it. Cabeswater just doesn't differentiate Ronan's logical desires from the self destructive ones, and it causes problems, results in situations like these.]
It's- I don't know. I meant to do it and I didn't.
[There's not really another way to describe it. Ronan inspects the pills he's handed for a moment, recognizing the familiarity of them before he takes them, washes them down with a deep drink of water.]
Unless you're hung up on the people thing. Believe me when I say that taking Dick goddamn Gansey out of my head would create a hell of a lot more problems then it would solve. He turned into wasps in the dream, and I- you know, it just happened.
I'm hung up on every part of it. It's like nothing I've ever come across, and on a scientific level, it's fascinating. I'm sorry that you have to be this secretive about it because I'd love to study the ability properly- but as someone with a similar problem, I can understand why that's never going to happen.
[Promising, assuredly.]
So what happens when you're doing it on purpose? How did you bring back those pills for me?
[Ronan watches Bruce for a moment, nodding in agreement- it's not going to happen. Gansey was the one who wanted to know more about this from a logical, scientific perspective, and Gansey is gone.]
You know how sometimes you can imagine how something feels before you touch it? It's that, like- dreaming is the imagining and actually touching it is real. Like- fuck, I don't know, I have to hold it and then I really hold it, and then I wake up and it's in my hands.
[He looks down at his hands then, which are still clasped around the water- which he drinks from, almost draining the glass.]
The place I go to, it's different than how other people dream. That's why it works, I think.
[That manages to get a little smile out of him, sharp and dangerous, like barbed wire.]
You called it 'junk science'. [But he takes the tea gratefully, despite having already drank quite a bit of liquid. He's dehydrated, he feels like shit, and this is better than anything else he could be handed right about now.]
It's a real place, but it's also not. Like, if you were in my world, you could go there yourself, but I can go there when I'm asleep. I can shape it, do whatever I want. I don't get- what, alien invasions or zombies or whatever it is you guys dream about. [He shrugs.] Just there.
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Shit.
[He winces, lifting his gaze toward Bruce, as if only just now discovering that he's here.]
...shit.
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[Ronan staggers to his feet and damn near falls over as the world rushes to meet him and his stomach roils dangerously. It's difficult to figure out at first what the fuck Bruce is trying to do to him, and he fights the older man on it at first as he lurches out toward the door.]
-the fuck is your problem?
[As if he hasn't just spat up insects or summoned a dozen more of them into reality right before Bruce's eyes.]
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[He slams the door behind them. One is in the hall, but just the one- a helpful reminder that that just happened.]
What in God's name, Ronan?
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This could have gone better.]
Chill the fuck out for a second, god.
[Ronan's own mind is sluggishly trying to make all the connections it needs to so that this conversation can happen. Bruce knows- maybe? Or he just saw something, which is... bad, so how does he deal with it now? Ugh.]
They'll clear out. I don't think they're poisonous. [Which is, you know, helpful, especially since upon closer inspection, they don't really look like any sort of insect known to man. They're vaguely wasplike, but jet black, with pointed edges and needle-sharp legs, impractical for anything but hurting, more like a polished weapon than an actual living creature.]
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[He says, giving it, then him, then it a look again.
What the heavenly fuck?]
Start talking.
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[The demand irks him, but Ronan is aware that he has little choice but to comply. Bruce is trustworthy, isn't he?
It doesn't make him any less defensive when he speaks, his voice almost accusatory, senselessly angry despite the fact that Bruce has done nothing wrong.]
Where do you think all of it comes from? The medicine, the bandages, the goddamn autoclave? [He sets his tight, rounding on Bruce.] That shit- all of this- it doesn't come from the fucking caves. You knew that.
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[Bruce points out, very, very quietly.]
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Ronan has been known to stare at people until they crumple. There's something weaponized about his full attention, and when he gives it, it's never a good sign. But Bruce, who has stared down far worse monsters than a seventeen year old boy, doesn't fold. In the end, Ronan finds what he's looking for and part of him relents, just a fraction.]
It comes from me. From my dreams.
[It's a blunt fact, not spoken softly or angrily anymore. Just the truth. Bruce probably deserves that by now.]
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[He infers, with a quiet nod.]
How does it happen? And how does the alcohol play into it? You said it makes it easier?
[But also, maybe, a little less controlled.]
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Christ, one question at a time.
[But this is probably not a conversation for the hallway, so he moves back toward the main area, toward one of the sinks for water. Without a glass, he just bends down and drinks straight from the stream coming out of the faucet, pulling back after a moment and wiping his face on the back of his sleeve.]
Look, I can try to explain it, but it's complicated. [There's a pause, and his expression darkens again, threatening.] And I'm dead fucking serious about secrecy. You say anything, and there's no limit to what I can send after you. You know that now, right?
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[Bruce tells him- mildly exasperated is the wrong word for it, because that's too close a cousin to irritation. But let's head this off here and now.]
Back when I thought I couldn't cope, and the world would be better off without me. I turned green and spat the bullet back out. So please stop trying to frighten me. I am older than you, calmer than you, and you can't hurt me. But more importantly, you are not going to need to.
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When he speaks, his voice is less hostile, but colder, matter-of-fact.]
What happens when someone decides that they want- I don't know, a fucking missile launcher? A weapon of mass destruction? [And then, quieter-] -what if someone loses a person they love? What if they tell me that they'll kill Parrish if I don't do what they want?
[He's not quite looking at Bruce anymore.]
People die for this. Have died. The consequences are very fucking real, and I'll say all the threats I can to avoid them. I don't scare you, I get that, but I should.
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Come on. I know you've got to be feeling last night, let's get a cup of the closest thing I can summon here to coffee. I am not going to tell anyone.
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He hops up on the counter when they reach the kitchen area, quiet for a moment before he speaks:]
I dreamt about Gansey. He's allergic to bees, you know. He was running from me. When I finally caught up, he turned into those things.
[Nothing is unintentional in his dreams, in what he brings back. Even if he doesn't mean to take it, part of him wants it. Cabeswater just doesn't differentiate Ronan's logical desires from the self destructive ones, and it causes problems, results in situations like these.]
So I took them. Now they're here.
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[He agrees, quietly, as he sets the blackest tea he has on to steep, and in the meantime goes to find him merciful painkillers, and a glass of water.]
You couldn't bring the real version of him back, that way?
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Not the real one. I mean- maybe, it depends on your definition. It's complicated.
[He shrugs quietly, slouching where he's sitting.] I wouldn't have taken the person, but when he fell apart, the pieces were just there.
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[He says, putting the pills and glass into his hands, to make sure he drinks.]
What do you mean?
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[There's not really another way to describe it. Ronan inspects the pills he's handed for a moment, recognizing the familiarity of them before he takes them, washes them down with a deep drink of water.]
Unless you're hung up on the people thing. Believe me when I say that taking Dick goddamn Gansey out of my head would create a hell of a lot more problems then it would solve. He turned into wasps in the dream, and I- you know, it just happened.
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[Promising, assuredly.]
So what happens when you're doing it on purpose? How did you bring back those pills for me?
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You know how sometimes you can imagine how something feels before you touch it? It's that, like- dreaming is the imagining and actually touching it is real. Like- fuck, I don't know, I have to hold it and then I really hold it, and then I wake up and it's in my hands.
[He looks down at his hands then, which are still clasped around the water- which he drinks from, almost draining the glass.]
The place I go to, it's different than how other people dream. That's why it works, I think.
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[Is the question that statement just begs. Bruce brings him tea next; black as pitch and a little bitter, but the best thing they have.]
What's it like? How's it different?
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You called it 'junk science'. [But he takes the tea gratefully, despite having already drank quite a bit of liquid. He's dehydrated, he feels like shit, and this is better than anything else he could be handed right about now.]
It's a real place, but it's also not. Like, if you were in my world, you could go there yourself, but I can go there when I'm asleep. I can shape it, do whatever I want. I don't get- what, alien invasions or zombies or whatever it is you guys dream about. [He shrugs.] Just there.
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[Is the 'junk science' conversation he remembers. But;]
How do those fit in to it being a dream? You know they're there in the ground?
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[He laughs, a little croaky in dehydration, and then winces at the sharp pang it brings to his head.]
I'm... connected to it, maybe. That specific place.
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