orderfromchaos | 3 - open spam + public + maintenance filter + private to Elsa

[Open spam]

[Dillon looks like he just crawled out of a vat of blood, ash, and partially coagulated human organs - because, as it happens, he did. There are strange patterns in the carnage, pathways where muscle fibers wriggled across his cheek to clump together or shards of bone forged thin wedge paths across his drenched clothes to rejoin a scrap of synovial cartilage, concentric webs of extraneous blood vessels plastered over his pants in bizarre, gridlike patches. His eyes are raw, and his cheeks are streaked, almost clean from sobbing. He's slumped against the wall, dripping dark ruddy muck, gulping down air, starting and staring furtively around, one hand braced against the wall, the other reaching out to no one, taut, shaking.]

- Winston!

[Another gulp, involuntary, unsteady. He pulls his hand back, almost covers his eyes, remembers it's filthy just in time. His eyes flutter closed, and he groans, then tries to stumble to his feet, but he feels nearly catatonic, cored out by the horror he's observed - absorbed - and bereft without the others. He's on the barge. He's - some species of safe, here. No one stays dead long enough to drag him into it. He laughs, quiet, brokenly, with the space of one breath.]

[Public, later]

[His hair is still damp, and his skin looks pink, a little raw. He's been scrubbing and scrubbing. His eyes are deeply, terribly sad, but he can't quite look straight at the screen.]

I'm sorry for the - mess. If you saw it. It's not. Anyone on the barge. I'll clean it up now.

[Private to the maintenance crew and possible future maintenance crew]

That shouldn't - it's not in you guys' job description. But if I could borrow some supplies. That'd be good.

[Private to Elsa, also later]

Please tell me you're okay.

[OOC: multiple respondents to his arrival totally okay; if any flood is good for wibbly time, it's this one.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Your room's still closer, unless the flood changed that.

[He offers him a hand, not sure if he'll take it or not. Honestly, there's a small part of him that's not sure if he wants him to take it, but putting on a brave face is pretty much second nature.] Come on.

[He does take Jack's hand. His is sticky, but not as coated as it could be, some of the much left behind as he braced himself here and there.]

Thanks.

[He could see Jack's reluctance, if he looked, but he doesn't - the barge keeps him in, and anyway, this is first time in his life he's ever felt drained.]

[It's been easy to slide back into that role of being the leader, the protector now that he's had an opportunity to get to know the people on board. He cares about Scott and Dillon, and enough of the others that being here is less difficult than it was, even if he still hasn't forgotten where he needs to be, and that isn't here.

He still doesn't feel like he's supposed to be an inmate.

Still, holding back the discomfort is easy enough as long as he focuses on pulling him up, and even then, he doesn't back away, making sure the teenager's on his feet and not about to collapse.]

Lean on me if you need to.

[And Dillon, conversely, wants so badly not to be in charge, to let the cup pass from his lips. He does lean, heavy and grateful. He's tired down to his bones.]

[Jack doesn't say anything else in favor of accepting Dillon's weight and carefully establishing a pace he's comfortable with. He's lucky he lives on the first floor and not the eighth - the elevator helps, obviously, but there's still probably going to be a bit of a trail wherever they go, and it'll mean less clean up and awkward questions at the end of the day.]

[A little effort - and it actually does take effort, outrageously, like walking the day after a marathon - and he can stop himself dripping, at least. Surface tension is cohesion too, one of the first kinds he mastered. A little more effort and there are no more tracks. When Jack lets go of Dillon, he'll be clean. This is his to carry.]

[That's... handy. He'll still probably want to burn his clothes and shower himself afterwards though, because even if he's not really dirty, it's still hard to shake the idea that he should be.

Anyway, he keeps walking until they get to Dillon's room, and he doesn't let go until he's sure he's not going to collapse on the floor without the support.]

Do you have a key?

[The door is from his childhood bedroom; it never locked. This is not ideal on the barge. He shakes his head, once, flicks the doorknob just so, and things snick back into place.]

It's just jammed.

Thanks.

You're welcome. I'll be in the infirmary if you need anything.

[Which is really code for you better get your ass down there if you are hurt, or he'll come back and be quite displeased. B(]

[A dry, thin laugh, like the light crackling of a dessicated leaf.]

If I need anything I'll be in the pub.

[None of it is ever his blood. He got shot repeatedly in the face once and he was up and running minutes later.]

But thanks.

Then I guess I'll see you there.

[Maybe. He's still sort of terrible at the whole being a shoulder to lean on when it comes to this kind of stuff, but. Dillon's just a kid, and he's trying to not fuck up as badly this time around.]