logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: january 20-29.
content: the lanterns begin to malfunction.
warnings: body horror and psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

you'll become one

January 20th arrives the same as all the days before it. There's no great pulse of warning that throbs through the air, no ominous wind that causes the bonfire to shudder. The spirits are neither agitated nor do they hide. You could almost miss the change, if the lanterns weren't always by your side. There's no explanation that comes with the way that it's changed, but it's impossible not to worry when it's happened so suddenly.

Maybe it takes a few days, or maybe it only takes a few hours, but suddenly it isn't just the lanterns that have changed. You, yourself, have become somehow different. It's possible that you won't even have the right state of mind to wonder how long it will last. At the very least, it appears you aren't alone. All across Beacon, lanterns are changing, and changing the people with them.

Out in the distance, the lighthouse's beam has turned green.

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It's good she's sitting, otherwise something about this sentiment would have bowled her over. "How do you know?" She has to ask. "Being there at all, it might mean I'm not." Mean even the opposite, chillingly. She wants this to bear out, but she's long since reached the point where it's self centered to wonder if she isn't the common variable. Her, that ruins everything.

All of this said between slow, comedically crunchy bites of grilled cheese. It's just a little funny.

"You were to me. From the start." They balance in their crouch easily, watching her eat now, rather than focusing on her eyes further. "You didn't have to be. I'd have done whatever you wanted even if you were cruel, but you were kind."

"Doesn't cost anything to be kind," she notes, with a jadedness ordinarily left unspoken. "More reason to do it, but doesn't always mean someone doing it deserves much in return." How much could it cost? What is worth what without sacrifice. She's bemused, but still aware. "Hardly ever does."

"No one was kind to me that I could remember, before I died and came here," the Soldier answers, looking away entirely, vaguely awkward in admitting a thing that handlers, even partial handlers, aren't really supposed to know. "And I like you. So. I want to do the same for you. Take care of you. Keep you safe. Be kind."

Her cheeks are still a little cold-stung, so crying - for him or herself - seems unwise. So she nods. Tries to absorb it passively, to little avail. There's no moving the ice, so the sandwich is set down that she might, carefully, offer the only affectionate gesture she can pull from the murky well of memory.

It hardly even qualifies as a head pat owing to an unwillingness to use her food hand, but the inside of her forearm comes down gently onto the top of his head. A slide that wants to be a ruffle. Brief, and then it's retracted. She's still hungry, she's coming to realize.

"I don't think I've ever had this kind of luck with someone, you know. I don't think anyone ever says that."

They see it coming clearly, settle themselves for the touch, and don't move. Even manage to smile at her and tilt their head into the touch as if it's okay. It mostly is, properly prepared for, but forearms, they decide, aren't as nice as beaks in hair (thanks Owl Friend!). Maybe fingers would be better, but they can understand not wanting to, especially as addled as she seems to be still. The thought of not wanting to get butter-grease in their hair doesn't even cross their mind. "Then I'm glad you have me. No one should be alone."

If there's one thing they've internalized in the past months, it's that: being alone, with no one to protect and care for and have as a reminder of good things, is harmful. No one should have to be alone.

Well, now she's crying again. Hit the nail on the head, Soldat. She doesn't even notice initially, it's so sudden - isn't sure what, if anything, to do once she does notice. And so continues eating, albeit much more slowly.

"Plenty of people are, you know. I always am, when it's important."

Aw, fuck, she's not supposed to cry more. There's the powerful urge to reach up and brush the tears away, but that would absolutely be more touch than they know how to manage. Their hand kind of twitches towards her, then falls again. "Maybe. Don't mean it's right or good, though." Even the Soldier wasn't alone, exactly, for all their decades of time with HYDRA, always surrounded by technicians and handlers, field teams and scientists. Beacon is better, though-- by far.

He's just so nice and it's so weird.

"Please don't be lying. I don't think I can take more lying." This is so warm, turning out to be insincere might properly, fully crush her. It's got to hold water.

"You'll stay, right?"

"Misty. I will never lie to you." Said with the same solemnity and sincerity they said it that first time, on the very first day they met, if maybe with slightly less disbelief that she would even have to think such a thing. They understand a little better, now. "And I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Fuck patrols. And sleep. This is much more important. (Maybe not food, but they can get food and keep Misty company at the same time.)

Against judgment that's only loosely arguably better, she wants to accept this, and so does. If nerves spike, she'll pretend it's temporary. Just enough to eat, numb her hand, sleep. He seems to have a better understanding of what's happening, and if he won't lie, there's an important question. "Will I wake up back there?"

Though they're still not sure where "there" is, they can at least confidently say, "You'll wake up here. Wherever you fell asleep. Probably in bed, unless you'd like to rest on the couch." The couch might be a better idea, rather than making her climb stairs to the bedroom in her current condition.

"Couch." That's easy, at least. "Too much going on to move." Wants the last of her drink, last of her dinner, his very comforting presence close by, and to sleep for a month. Realistically, she'll settle for merely more hours than might be usual. That would be a pleasant end. Her shoulders sink a little, lost tension rather than concern. "You won't be missing either?"

It's... touching. That she wants them to be here when she wakes up, even in the state she's in, even not knowing them. Even if they hadn't already made the decision to stay, her asking would have made it for them. "I'll be here waiting. You can sleep as long as you need to and I won't go anywhere." They have some music they can listen to, some lunch to make themselves, a little bleeding to clean up on their own back so they don't drip onto Misty's clean floor, and maybe a nap they can take next to the couch if she sleeps long enough. They'll have to message Javert and let him know they can't make their usual patrol time, but he'll understand.

"You don't need anything?" Only now, finally, does it sink in that the spikes aren't supposed to be there. That she has an acute and specific understanding of ordinary, daily Soldat, isn't connecting. But it feels off regardless. He seems too nice for what must be a discomfort.

Of course, even as she asks, his assurance rolls through her like a wave. Exhaustion can finally be met. The last bite of sandwich is unceremoniously packed into a cheek, and she's half-lidded waiting for a reply. The final okay before leaning wholly into the arm of the chair.

"I'll be fine." Yeah, the spikes and the horrible mangled plates of the arm aren't exactly normal, but it could be worse. They've ignored pain more dangerous than this, before. "You can rest. I'll clean up." Both the meal and themselves. She looks about to fall over, herself, so it's the least they can do.

As she leans into the couch, they gently take her plate in the metal hand, fairly sure it can't hurt the thing, and after a brief hesitation, does finally reach up to brush her remaining tears away with a couple fingertips. "You'll be fine, too. I'll be here."

There's a distinct want to press him for a promise, but the words can't quite find their way to her mouth. Too spent, too long a day. It's a comfortable couch, even if she's mildly surprised to find the arm underneath one cheek. Was she leaning? God--

No time to overthink the process of nodding off, fortunately. Touch grounds. Always. She feels, acutely, the delicate brush under each eye. The weight of herself being supported by furniture. The weight of the blanket, itself proving something of a useful anchor. Full, warm, solid ground under her. Her eyes are shut and her nod is feeble, but it's proof enough she catches it. Out.

Her lantern, tricky to gauge at any angle but one owing to colored panels, will switch innocuously back to its pristine condition and normal color roughly an hour afterward. She never so much as twitches.

By that time, the Soldier has finished cleaning up-- both the dishes from her lunch and an additional (very quietly made) lunch for themselves, and their bloody back-- and settled very carefully on the floor next to the couch, leaning the flesh shoulder against it and scrolling through the network on the tablet. They notice the change in color immediately despite the colored glass, aided by the sound of glass sealing itself up again. They twitch with the suppressed urge to wake her and check on her, but don't want to disturb, either. She needs sleep.

Instead, they watch, wait, and eventually nod off themselves with their head propped against the couch cushions and metal arm resting to one side, where it's less likely to cut them on accident in their sleep. Constant healing takes energy that not even food can always entirely replenish, unless they keep moving and keep the serum pumping. They'll be there when she wakes, though any movement on her part will wake them up, too.

She wakes three times.

Two are fleeting. Long enough to wonder where she is, and then to remember. The pain in her hand tempts her further, but ultimately it's an easy backslide into continued rest. Neither lasts more than a minute.

The third is proper, real wakefulness, though the fatigue will take some movement to complete shaking off. She's not inclined to kickstart this. Instead she remains perfectly still, surveying what of their surroundings is illuminated by either lantern. Piece together, roughly, what had transpired to lead her here. Then there's a crushing wave of embarrassment to ride out, thankfully buoyed by the sight of him still there.

Hard to focus on much beyond gratitude, after that. Contentment. No sense waking him, either.

And something just under a half hour passes in that fashion until she absolutely must pat the top of his head. Actual threading of fingers would startle even more when the movement at all will jolt, she's sure, but...he's still there.

Deserves tender patting of head.

The hand movement doesn't wake them, but the touch does. They twitch awake all at once, blink at her, then belatedly wince as the twitch opens up one of the half-healed cuts on their back, from the metal spines. Too close to waking to properly smother it. Ow.

More important, though: the quality of the light hasn't changed since they fell asleep, and Misty is awake. And touching them.

"Misty." Ugh, they even sound like they've been sleeping, a little rougher than usual. How embarrassing. "You okay?"

A wince right back. A physical 'sorry' before she could have possibly thought to say it.

Otherwise, it's nice. Tired Soldat is cute, even. Figuring the worst of the scare done with, the gentle ruffling of his hair might be taken as a sort of apology. Both tired. No sense wasting words when the standard of fretting is mutually understood to be high. "I'm okay. You?" Spikes...are...as bad as they are confusing. It's some doing, but she sacrifices a little blanket for him. Not quite large enough or arranged in a way conductive to covering him, but his flesh shoulder at least is a little warmer.

The ruffling of their hair is... actually kind of okay. Like preening. Better than the random forearm nudge, certainly. They drop their head back against the couch cushions. "Same as before. Little better. Managed to stay still long enough to heal some." And only a couple of the spines actually cut them, in the twitch, so it's not so bad. They decide to stay still a little while longer. "You sound more like yourself."

"Yeah, well..." There's no pride for what happened, and no shortage of discomfort towards what it implies for Beacon. No real explanation is at the ready. This wasn't ever supposed to have happened, but the landing was better than she'd have hoped. "Feeling it, mostly. Tuned in. Is there a weird loop in my head, or did I do this myself?"

She doesn't lift the injured hand, but trusts he'll understand.

"Not the lantern. Not the change. That's Beacon's fault. Like the metal on me. But the hand. Yes." They look at it, rather than her face. It's easier, and she'll be used to that. "You said you had to cut."

It's not quite a question, but it's definitely a tentative request for information. If she feels safe sharing.

It deflates her, just a little. Impressive that she can sink lower into the cushions without a sudden increase of personal density. False start, before she can speak.

"Wasn't in a great place before I got here either," she murmurs, tensely. As if acknowledging it in any way will suddenly drop incredibly immersive curtains around them and she'll realize she's been there all along. There's always another shoe waiting to drop. "Doesn't do good things to people."

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