Jerry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
400yearsofsurvival) wrote2014-12-15 11:21 pm
400yearsofsurvival) wrote2014-12-15 11:21 pm
14th Bite // Change you like a remix
[ Closed Spam: Arkin ]
[ Backdated to sometime after his encounter with Dillon. ]
[ He'd retreated to his room. The encounter with Dillon left him not only weakened, it left him human. A deplorable and unfavorable state to be in. He could feel each beat of his heart, hear each drawn breath. His senses were dimmed far beyond even the limitations created by the barge and he moved far too slow. This wasn't like any previous touch of Dillon's power. And at first, he thought all that had changed was his body. He thought the boy had just sought to weaken him. The rage he felt, far more acute than it had ever been before, was merely a result of the indignation. Thanks to Ben's delivery of blood and apples, as he'd previously arranged, he didn't need to leave his room. Even if the blood no longer appealed to him, the apples were very much needed. He could figure this all out and return to what he'd been before.
He didn't contact anyone. Not even his warden. He paced his cabin, frustrated. But soon, he grew exhausted. And this left something of a problem. What served as his bed--the dirt at the back of the cabin--would suffocate him now. He dropped down into the chair that had once been in front of his TV. It had been so very long since he'd felt this exhausted. Down to his very bones. Enough to make his head fuzzy...
He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, still in that chair. But he'd woken with a ragged cry, coated in a cold sweat. He rubbed his hands over his face, the blurred images of the dream--No, the nightmare--still stuck in his mind, dripping with blood. And he felt something he thought he'd never feel again. The icy touch of fear in the pit of his stomach. ]
[ Open Spam: Recent ]
[ The emotional impact had been slow, but far faster than the reverse. Each day it seemed a new emotion resurfaced from the depths of his psyche, as if waking from a long sleep. But he'd yet to experience anything remotely positive. Fear, regret, guilt, paranoia, anger. He'd stuck to his room for the most part, but apples could only sustain him so long and he'd rather not explain to Ben the reason he needed anything other than what he'd originally requested.
It was the middle of the night any time he ventured out of his cabin, when most of the ship was asleep. This was the only time he left, now. For the showers or the dining hall. The latter was his target tonight. He gave Stephen's door a cautious glance as he passed. He'd been forcing himself go that direction every time he left, rather than taking the shorter route to the stairs. To prove the guilt didn't control him. He felt nothing for what he'd done. Stephen brought it all on himself. But each time, the argument felt weaker than the last.
He made his way up the dining hall, lacking the predatory grace he'd once had. But it was also more than that. It would be easy to mistake him for the human version that had been here previously. He looked wrung out and exhausted. Only for this one, the torments he faced were entirely his own. In the dining hall, he intended to snag just what food was out for the night, and head back down to his room. He'd been lucky so far, to not encounter anyone else. But his hearing was far from what it used to be, so he couldn't be sure if no one else was around. ]
[ Backdated to sometime after his encounter with Dillon. ]
[ He'd retreated to his room. The encounter with Dillon left him not only weakened, it left him human. A deplorable and unfavorable state to be in. He could feel each beat of his heart, hear each drawn breath. His senses were dimmed far beyond even the limitations created by the barge and he moved far too slow. This wasn't like any previous touch of Dillon's power. And at first, he thought all that had changed was his body. He thought the boy had just sought to weaken him. The rage he felt, far more acute than it had ever been before, was merely a result of the indignation. Thanks to Ben's delivery of blood and apples, as he'd previously arranged, he didn't need to leave his room. Even if the blood no longer appealed to him, the apples were very much needed. He could figure this all out and return to what he'd been before.
He didn't contact anyone. Not even his warden. He paced his cabin, frustrated. But soon, he grew exhausted. And this left something of a problem. What served as his bed--the dirt at the back of the cabin--would suffocate him now. He dropped down into the chair that had once been in front of his TV. It had been so very long since he'd felt this exhausted. Down to his very bones. Enough to make his head fuzzy...
He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, still in that chair. But he'd woken with a ragged cry, coated in a cold sweat. He rubbed his hands over his face, the blurred images of the dream--No, the nightmare--still stuck in his mind, dripping with blood. And he felt something he thought he'd never feel again. The icy touch of fear in the pit of his stomach. ]
[ Open Spam: Recent ]
[ The emotional impact had been slow, but far faster than the reverse. Each day it seemed a new emotion resurfaced from the depths of his psyche, as if waking from a long sleep. But he'd yet to experience anything remotely positive. Fear, regret, guilt, paranoia, anger. He'd stuck to his room for the most part, but apples could only sustain him so long and he'd rather not explain to Ben the reason he needed anything other than what he'd originally requested.
It was the middle of the night any time he ventured out of his cabin, when most of the ship was asleep. This was the only time he left, now. For the showers or the dining hall. The latter was his target tonight. He gave Stephen's door a cautious glance as he passed. He'd been forcing himself go that direction every time he left, rather than taking the shorter route to the stairs. To prove the guilt didn't control him. He felt nothing for what he'd done. Stephen brought it all on himself. But each time, the argument felt weaker than the last.
He made his way up the dining hall, lacking the predatory grace he'd once had. But it was also more than that. It would be easy to mistake him for the human version that had been here previously. He looked wrung out and exhausted. Only for this one, the torments he faced were entirely his own. In the dining hall, he intended to snag just what food was out for the night, and head back down to his room. He'd been lucky so far, to not encounter anyone else. But his hearing was far from what it used to be, so he couldn't be sure if no one else was around. ]
[Spam]
It's not like he's not conditioned to be wary as fuck of even a sleeping Barge -- for one thing, there's plenty of people here who really never do -- but it's late and he's tired and he's distracted by the mess his own mind has been lately. He's not paying much attention to his surroundings until he actually gets into the dining hall and spots Jerry there. He stops and looks at him for a long moment, jaw tight, stomach roiling.
Then he moves forward anyway, going to grab an apple, even though it would hardly normally be his first choice. He bites into it with a defiant smirk.]
'Sup, fuckhead.
[Spam]
He feigns a look of disgust, one that had been practiced for centuries. But he says nothing. He just continues to select his food. Which seems to contain no fruit, instead is made of up of mostly carbs. ]
[Spam]
Holy shit.
Mickey looks from Jerry to the plate, and then back up to his face, squinting, leaning in a little bit to pinpoint the change. His smirk widens.]
Getting sick of the Bad Witch diet there, asshole? No more blood and fruit? [He starts to circle him slowly, eyes brightening.]
[Spam]
Are you offering?
[ He even got that old, threatening tone right. Almost. ]
[Spam]
Why don't you try it?
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[private spam]
[He just shows up at Jerry's cabin. He knocks then lets himself in, one of the perks of being a warden. Provided Jerry hasn't physically barred the door.]
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He didn't exactly relax when he saw Arkin, but there was a certain sort of relief that came with warden's appearance. But still, Jerry just watched him without a word, looking somewhere between apprehensive and ill. ]
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You've looked better.
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It'll pass.
[ Not even the tone was as convincing as it should have been. ]
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Could just sleep it off, if you remember how. Got enough food? Gonna need more than apples to keep going.
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As usual whenever she spends some time drawing something that doesn't include premonitions of death, she feels relaxed. She even has a smile on her face as she walks into the dining room to make herself some tea before heading over to Stiles' cabin for the night.
She doesn't even notice him at first as she heads toward the kettle. Then she sees someone standing there and stills because he looks like Jerry. She hasn't seen him in a long time. Not since-- probably not since the human version of him was there. Certainly not after everything he did with Allison.
But he's lacking a very important element that Jerry always has. Death. She doesn't feel it, any of it. No chills, no lightheadedness, no dread. She doesn't want to approach him. She doesn't want to talk to him or see him, or even be reminded he's still around. But she has to understand what's happening. So she takes a couple of steps towards him.]
Jerry?
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When Lydia addressed him, there was a subtle tension that settled over him. He focused a little too intently on what he did, struggling to contain his emotions. An issue he'd never had to deal with before. It was easy enough to quell ripples and small swells. But this was crashing waves that couldn't be so easily smoothed over. His voice wasn't as smooth as he would have liked. ]
You're getting brave.
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So, yes. Maybe she does feel a little braver than usual. Because she holds her head up and arches her eyebrows as she eyes him up and down, eyes narrowing.]
You seem to have changed. [Can't lie about being undead to the banshee, Jerry.]
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He shrugged, plucking a bag of chips up. ]
Spending three days as a child has an...effect on a person.
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[ Spam ]
He's fairly certain he noticed within two days that something had changed with Jerry; he's definitely noticed it, after all, he's just not certain how long it took him. How long it's been there to notice. He's also not entirely certain what it is that's changed, so he doesn't say anything, merely watches, listens, smells, takes note, and then goes about his day. Jerry's denial of anything being different or wrong are his business, and it isn't Ben's place to force him into another course of action as long as he isn't harming anyone else. As far as Ben can tell he isn't, so he lets it slide.
Today, though, he brings a thermos full of stew and a few bottles of water in addition to the apple and the bag of blood. He knocks on the cabin door and stands back a polite distance, at neutral attention just as he always does, relaxed but formal.]
[ Spam ]
Every time that knock came, he jumped, startled by the sound. He was still waiting for someone like Dean or Stiles to show up wielding fire again. But that paranoia always eased when he saw Ben, even if he did look like a slightly younger version of Dean. But today was different. He reached to take the day's offerings, with his usual terse remarks. But he saw that Ben held more than just the blood and apple. ]
What's that?
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It's important to remember that, Ben thinks. Not to assume anything, but to remember that sometimes if there is enough basic common ground, there is less than people think preventing one thing from becoming another.
Ben holds out the thermos first, but makes no other move to come closer, voice and eyes calm.]
This is a very basic recipe beef stew that Riddick put on to simmer this morning. We served most of it for lunch, but there was enough left over that I was able to bring some to you now.
It's a popular dish in the dining hall, especially during the winter months, and very high in protein as well as incorporating a variety of vegetables.
[ Spam ]
It was because of that mild amusement that he actually took the offered thermos. Otherwise he may have found a quick reason to refuse it. He twisted it in his hands, as if inspecting the surface. ]
I meant...
[ He shook his head, making a conscious effort to not sound mocking or condescending. ]
...what's it's for? I never asked you to bring this. It's not part of my diet.
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Or, well, most of the time. He always had good gut instinct, but justified paranoia and decades of surviving as a hunter have honed that particular one. Or maybe it's just that he's learned to tell the difference between human levels of grace and superhuman, more than, other; the part of his brain that can tell at a glance can't pinpoint any one, single, particular tell, couldn't explain it to someone else if he tried, but he usually knows. If anyone can, it's usually him.
He knows when it goes the other way, too.
Dean has been laying pretty low, keeping quiet since he woke up; it's a luxury he knows better than to take for granted, mostly, especially in the wake of being his teenage self. The strength of that memory - that energy, that resilience, that optimism - will fade if he holds absolutely still; if he holds absolutely still it will do the least amount of damage possible. It won't stick. He's not nineteen anymore. Better this way.
The Barge has a better night life than a lot of places; Dean is amongst them, sometimes. Tonight is one such night. Jerry goes to the dining hall - when he returns to his cabin there's a hunter leaning casually in the closed doorway, drinking a beer calmly as though he belongs here, as though he's not completely out of place.
His hands are empty except for the beer bottle. He doesn't smile.]
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He stopped so suddenly, he almost dropped the food he carried. He hadn't been expecting Dean. He'd barely seen the hunter since they'd both come back to the barge. There was no hiding that sudden look of shock, no matter how brief. He really needed to learn how to stamp down those damn emotions again. But that twist of regret and guilt in his stomach was too much to ignore. What he'd done to Dean was one of the things that haunted him on a frequent basis.
But he was able to get back to his usual look of indifference with a little effort. But he doesn't say anything. He just stands there, waiting to see what Dean wanted. ]
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He sips his beer, swallows before he does speak, eyebrows raised slightly and gaze steady.]
What's the matter, slick? Having a little trouble seeing in the dark? Sinuses a bit clogged? God, I hope it's not a cold.
[Never was there a less sincere statement involving common ailments.]
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Still haven't quite adjusted after that month on the other side.
[ He watched Dean for any sign that the hunter might try to attack. He didn't know what he could do, since he'd been bested more than once when he wasn't so extremely limited. But really, he deserved anything Dean threw at him, after what he'd done. ]
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He's already heard from Dillon, so he knows what happened. But he's not going to draw attention to it, necessarily - though he is going to try to catch Jerry's eye and toss an apple at him, slow enough for him to catch, hopefully.] Looks like you'll be eating more of these, huh?
[Yeah, he's not going to ignore what he knows, either. There is the fact that he asked the Admiral for it, before Dillon got to acting first.]
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He moved his hand instead to buff the thing on his shirt. He tried to feign indifference, but it was frustration and irritation that settled on his features, his jaw clenched tight for a moment. ]
He told you.
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He did, but it's pretty obvious, either way.
[He's quiet for a moment, but then decides it's worth saying,] I asked the Admiral for the same thing, you know. Before this happened.
[Maybe trying to take some of the 'blame' off Dillon, in Jerry's eyes, and put it on himself, too.]