[Ronan doesn't reply to the text, nor does he come by the clinic at any point within the next day or so.
There's no church in the city, there's no cars to race and crash and destroy, there's no unlucky person outside looking for a fight- but there is alcohol, which is really, the last vice he's got here. The lights in the cave are dimmed and the display on the phones reads about three am when Ronan finally stumbles up the pathway to the clinic. Muscle memory.
His shoulder sags against the door for a moment, piecing together where he is and why he's here, before Ronan steps back unsteadily and delivers a firm kick to the handle, fully intending on knocking down the fucking thing to get inside. He doesn't really know what time it is, doesn't know if anyone is inside, doesn't even think to check if the damn door is actually locked or not, but he's tired now and can't exactly remember the way home from here and a roof over his head would at least be nice.
If nobody meets him at the door then he'll eventually manage to get in, knock some tools and delicate things over, and pass out on the floor.]
[Around what would be dawn, Bruce comes to lift him gently up onto one of the cots they keep for patients, to find him some water and something for the pain.
He leaves him there, to go about his morning work, getting a little food on, getting moving for the day- there'll be a warm, sweet not-porridge waiting for Ronan when he wakes up.]
[Ronan barely stirs as he's moved, doesn't seem at all bothered by Bruce puttering around in the clinic as the morning starts and the rest of the world wakes up. He's breathing, thankfully, but doesn't begin to show much other signs of life until at least midafternoon.
When he dreams, it's about Gansey again. They're moving through the trees and Gansey is looking over his shoulder toward Ronan, careless and happy. We've almost found him, he shouts, leaping over the underbrush. It's not real. Ronan knows by now how to tell the difference between dreaming and reality, but he follows him anyway, desperate for even a glimpse of his friend, his brother in all but blood. He knows the rules. He won't touch him, won't think to want him back in reality- creating objects is one thing, but pulling out a human, a dream-clone of his king is not something Ronan is willing to risk.
Gansey comes to a jumbling stop and falls still, staring toward a hollowed-out tree with his back to Ronan. His shoulders sag a little, and Ronan falls still behind him. He can't see his face. The air grows cold.
Ronan knows what's going to happen before Gansey turns, but seeing it is somehow worse. The other boy's head lolls down to his shoulder before he jerks it upright, trembling with the vibrations of the buzzing. There are hornets in his mouth, crawling along his lip, bees trickling down his nose, infesting his empty eye sockets in a heaping throng of motion.
He leaps backward as Gansey's body falls apart, turns into the hive, and Ronan falls to the ground, his heart pounding. The ground is made of fabric somehow, it's thin and cushioned and he lets out a garbled noise where he's lying in the cot, sputtering as a wasp spits out of his mouth and onto the clinic floor.
It's a wicked looking black thing, sharp and full of edges. Ronan gasps for breath but doesn't quite have control of his body yet, so he remains still where he lies.
[Bruce hears the buzzing. He really does. He thinks, quite consciously, 'that's weird,' before opening the door to check on him. He has absolutely no frame of reference to prepare him for the fact that the bees are coming from inside the house.
Honestly, he's just here to bring him more water, and he's nearly at the side of the bed when he freezes, and asks, quietly;]
[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
text
Date: 2015-12-29 05:17 am (UTC)text
Date: 2015-12-29 05:25 am (UTC)you havent seen him?
text
Date: 2015-12-29 02:27 pm (UTC)action
Date: 2015-12-29 04:22 pm (UTC)There's no church in the city, there's no cars to race and crash and destroy, there's no unlucky person outside looking for a fight- but there is alcohol, which is really, the last vice he's got here. The lights in the cave are dimmed and the display on the phones reads about three am when Ronan finally stumbles up the pathway to the clinic. Muscle memory.
His shoulder sags against the door for a moment, piecing together where he is and why he's here, before Ronan steps back unsteadily and delivers a firm kick to the handle, fully intending on knocking down the fucking thing to get inside. He doesn't really know what time it is, doesn't know if anyone is inside, doesn't even think to check if the damn door is actually locked or not, but he's tired now and can't exactly remember the way home from here and a roof over his head would at least be nice.
If nobody meets him at the door then he'll eventually manage to get in, knock some tools and delicate things over, and pass out on the floor.]
action
Date: 2015-12-30 02:30 pm (UTC)He leaves him there, to go about his morning work, getting a little food on, getting moving for the day- there'll be a warm, sweet not-porridge waiting for Ronan when he wakes up.]
action
Date: 2015-12-30 07:48 pm (UTC)When he dreams, it's about Gansey again. They're moving through the trees and Gansey is looking over his shoulder toward Ronan, careless and happy. We've almost found him, he shouts, leaping over the underbrush. It's not real. Ronan knows by now how to tell the difference between dreaming and reality, but he follows him anyway, desperate for even a glimpse of his friend, his brother in all but blood. He knows the rules. He won't touch him, won't think to want him back in reality- creating objects is one thing, but pulling out a human, a dream-clone of his king is not something Ronan is willing to risk.
Gansey comes to a jumbling stop and falls still, staring toward a hollowed-out tree with his back to Ronan. His shoulders sag a little, and Ronan falls still behind him. He can't see his face. The air grows cold.
Ronan knows what's going to happen before Gansey turns, but seeing it is somehow worse. The other boy's head lolls down to his shoulder before he jerks it upright, trembling with the vibrations of the buzzing. There are hornets in his mouth, crawling along his lip, bees trickling down his nose, infesting his empty eye sockets in a heaping throng of motion.
He leaps backward as Gansey's body falls apart, turns into the hive, and Ronan falls to the ground, his heart pounding. The ground is made of fabric somehow, it's thin and cushioned and he lets out a garbled noise where he's lying in the cot, sputtering as a wasp spits out of his mouth and onto the clinic floor.
It's a wicked looking black thing, sharp and full of edges. Ronan gasps for breath but doesn't quite have control of his body yet, so he remains still where he lies.
Beneath the cot comes the low hum of wings.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-01 01:48 am (UTC)Honestly, he's just here to bring him more water, and he's nearly at the side of the bed when he freezes, and asks, quietly;]
Ronan?
[He is. Spitting up wasps.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-01 10:58 pm (UTC)Shit.
[He winces, lifting his gaze toward Bruce, as if only just now discovering that he's here.]
...shit.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-02 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-02 08:46 am (UTC)[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.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-06 04:20 pm (UTC)[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?
no subject
Date: 2016-01-06 06:53 pm (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-07 01:54 am (UTC)[He says, giving it, then him, then it a look again.
What the heavenly fuck?]
Start talking.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-07 03:35 am (UTC)[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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-07 03:51 am (UTC)[Bruce points out, very, very quietly.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-07 04:07 am (UTC)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.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 12:26 am (UTC)[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.]
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 01:17 am (UTC)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?
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 01:40 am (UTC)[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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 02:03 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 02:56 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 06:15 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 08:09 pm (UTC)[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?
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 08:21 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-08 08:40 pm (UTC)[He says, putting the pills and glass into his hands, to make sure he drinks.]
What do you mean?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From: