bakerstreet | Words, words, words

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Words, words, words

the quote prompt meme

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sockies (Source)

[ ota, castmates doubly encouraged. ]

a) If I find the answer on Google in less than ten seconds, can I have another cookie?

b) They told me there would be no side effects.

c) Last time I was here, your sister tried to kill me.

[ They'd been taking full advantage of the empty Washington residence, blasting a Star Wars marathon on the flat-screen and being less than careful about dropping over-buttered popcorn on the ninety-nine dollar rug under the coffee table. Josh's parents are off at some fancy party, spending the night at an equally fancy hotel. Chris had half expected Josh to throw a party once the news had dropped because, honestly, that was the norm; loud, less-than-sober get-togethers were obviously a thing for them. But they'd ended up alone, deciding not to dial everyone and instead letting the evening pass by while they stretched out on the couch, lazy and unbothered.

But Josh has been in the bathroom for almost twenty seven minutes now, and by Chris' typical standards, that has to mean something's wrong. Fifteen is pushing it; half-an-hour is an invitation for awkward check-ups.

The hallway is pitch black apart from the tiny crack of yellow light leeching out from under the bathroom door when Chris pads out of the living room, wobbly from sitting for so long. The house has fallen into darkness, both of them to captivated by swinging lightsabers and bad puppets to realize it was twelve a.m. and they could use some light other than the flickering color of the television screen. Chris hesitates outside the door, feeling tired and suddenly embarrassed and maybe a little paranoid. He can't hear anything on the other side; no water running or cupboards opening, just silence, and he's not sure if that's a good or bad sign. Eventually he convinces himself he has to say something before Josh opens the door and finds him standing there like a voyeur, so he leans against the wooden frame and raps a knuckle against the door. ]

Hey, uh, Josh? You okay in there? [ He tucks his hands in his pockets, unsure of himself despite the fact that he's standing there alone. ] You didn't... fall in, did you?

[ Which is such a stupid thing to say, but he's hoping Josh'll make some smartass remark, come sauntering out, and things will be normal again. ]

[Josh remembers getting his first Prozac prescription with the caveat that medication is not an exact science. It often took trial and error to find the right drug and dosage. He wasn't supposed to think about it as trying to be happy all the time, but feeling like the best version of himself. Better. And he just really wanted to not be depressed anymore without feeling sick or (for some fucked up reason) even more depressed than when he wasn't on pills.

His doctor promised that this new prescription never gave her other patients any problems, but there's still some skepticism that makes Josh opt for a movie marathon night instead of throwing a huge party with a bunch of people. Take it for a test drive, first.

He starts to feel queasy when Luke is training in the Dagobah System with Yoda, even if he doesn't say anything to Chris and makes it casual. Then he gets there, and he can't puke. The sick feeling just hangs in his stomach like a roller coaster in a hurricane with food poisoning. He just hangs over the toilet for god knows how long trying to inspire himself. He even thinks about putting his fingers down his throat. But he just sits there and waits to either throw up or for the nausea to pass on its own. He doesn't even realize how long he's been gone.

At least until he hears Chris on the other side of the door.]

Nah man. [And then he can't really think of another excuse. And he probably sounds like he wasn't expecting Chris to come by.] I was just texting.

[ He can't imagine who Josh would be texting. A girl, maybe? Could he honestly be bored by Star Wars?

It feels like a lie. Chris would like to believe him, and in most cases he would; Josh has never really given him a reason to distrust him, apart from those times when pranks were pulled, but those are special circumstances. Not to be counted. But this doesn't feel like a prank. Right now, there's something off about Josh's voice, small but to someone like Chris, who's spent more than half of his life with Josh around, blatantly obvious.

The easiest thing to do would be laugh and say "alright, dude" and return to the cool leather cushions and safety of the living room. But that's not Chris. Chris is a worrier. Chris can't walk away when there's a chance that something is up and things aren't as okay as they could be. He knows things have been rough; they don't really talk about it but he knows, and the idea of not being able to help leaves a little stone of nerves and discomfort in the pit of his stomach. And so he hovers there for a moment in silence, trying to decide the best course of action while listening to the soft sounds of droids beeping in the other room, and the almost deathly quiet that Josh seems to be engulfed by. He wets his lips and says: ]

Oh. Did you want me to pause it?

[ It's a safe thing to ask, casual and unassuming. He doesn't really want to pry and he doesnt want to jump to any conclusions, but he wants Josh to say something else. It's weird but he shifts a little to press his ear to the door. ]

[The lameness of the excuse hangs in the air before Chris even responds, like getting a paper back in school with red writing next to it saying, "what the fuck was that?" At least he didn't go with something embarrassing like he was taking a massive shit or something.

Of course the easiest thing to do would be to tell the truth. He didn't talk to anyone about it, except his parents, even his sisters didn't know that he was in therapy. But just because he doesn't talk about it with Chris doesn't mean it doesn't sometimes feel like he's sensed that something's up, and they're just hedging around it. He'd give it to Chris: that kind of attentiveness would make him A-plus boyfriend material if he ever worked up the balls to ask out girls.

But Josh feels the glaring spotlight of concern shining on him, and wants to push it away.]

No. I mean I've seen it a hundred times, it's fine. [He sits up a little as a wave of faint-headedness rolls over him, making him cringe as he waits for it to pass.] Just go back. I'll be out in two seconds.

[That's another lie. He might not be out that fast, but he'll make himself, if he has to. The last thing he wants is for the entire night to get fucked over because of him and his meds.]

[ It's possible that Chris is a little too perceptive for his own good. He's noticed a change in Josh the last few months; small things in his behavior and the way he talked sometimes, but nothing overly strange, nothing blatant enough to ask about. So, Chris decided that he'd keep his mouth shut and just-- wait. Wait until Josh either opened up or returned to normal. Maybe even tell Chris to stop so obviously worrying about him because there was nothing wrong. But none of those things have happened, and it's slowly getting to the point where Chris has to either stop being so concerned or possibly explode. ]

Okay, man. [ He shouldn't not believe Josh if he says nothing's up, even if he sounds off. He should trust him. Chris pushes off from the door and starts back to the living room, determined not to get hung up on this.

Except he is. And if he would just ask - really ask - if Josh was alright or if he needed him, then maybe things would stop being so weird between them. Maybe Chris could help.

He turns and walks back, telling himself that 'no, this isn't stupid' and 'it's the right thing to do'. And if he's been wrong this whole time, they can laugh about it later. He hesitates for a second before he raps gently on the door. ]

Hey, um, Josh? Look, if there's something wrong, you can just tell me, dude. Are you sick? Do you-- you need anything? I mean-- [ He pauses, and laughs a little, trying to make this less serious. More normal. ] I've seen it a hundred times, too. I can help.

[It's a weird combination of guilt for lying to his best friend and relief for getting away with it when he hears Chris start to walk away from the bathroom door. Josh has no reason to think that he'd make another appearance, but then five or ten seconds later, he's knocking again.

Goddamn it, Chris. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and tenses his jaw.

They had different ideas about what was going to bring things back to normal. Josh was hoping to just sweep this under the rug until he got it under control, and then they wouldn't need to talk about it.

He pushes his feet further from his body until he hits the bathroom carpet, linking his fingers and hooking them around his knees.]

Did you want to come in and hold my hair for me, dude? [It has a teasing lilt to it. One last attempt to diffuse the situation.]

[ It's such a Josh thing to say, and usually that would be comforting, but at the moment Chris isn't sure how to take it. If there really wasn't anything wrong, Josh probably would have just said so. This - the small attempt at a joke, still in that slightly odd voice - reeks of avoidance. Chris sighs heavily through his nose, still trying to figure out what's going on beyond the door. ]

If you had hair that required holding, you know I would offer. [ His own brand of humor, but less of an attempt to put this situation to rest and more of an attempt to convince Josh that he only has good intentions. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad, can it? The playfulness doesn't last though; right now it's too forced and out of place. ]

I'm not trying to be a dick, I'm-- I'm being serious here.

[ He's not planning on busting in without warning, but he raises a hand to test the door-handle, wondering if Josh has locked him out. Tough love may be his only option here. ]

[His lips stretch out into a thin smile. Lobbing tongue-in-cheek comments at one another was a big part of their friendship. Normal was nice. What wasn't nice was being on the brink of this conversation and still feeling like he was going to hurl, more than ever.

The smile fades and Josh rubs his face with his hands. He knows that Chris's intentions were nothing but good. He doesn't think that Chris would misuse the information if he were honest with him.

On some level, he feels like bottling it up also stops him from fully acknowledging his frustration about the mess in his head right now, which makes him feel like he might lash out with nothing solid to be pissed or exhausted at. The pills, yeah, though he's going to have to keep taking them. His shrink for prescribing them. Or himself. Like a big cloud in his skull making it hard to pull apart what brittle train of thought was the medication and what was him, organically.

Josh didn't lock the door either, so if Chris comes in, he'll be pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, little white stars appearing behind his lids.]

I'm being serious too. What are you going to do?

I don't know yet. [ He's just being honest; maybe if he practices what he's been preaching, Josh will be more responsive. Chris can't really make a plan of action when the problem is still mostly unknown. But it seems like maybe the bridge Josh has been trying to keep Chris from building might actually hold - at least for the moment - and Chris isn't about to back down and let it crash. The doorknob turns in his hand, and he figures it's all or nothing. ]

But I'm coming in. [ It seems only polite to warn him. He pushes open the door.

Any frustration he'd felt about the situation gets shoved to the back-burner to make way for concern when he finds Josh on the floor, hands half-hiding his face and knees drawn up. His hands don't hide the pallor of his skin, though, and he looks very small and very vulnerable, two things Chris has never really contributed to Josh. He's seen him sick before, if drunk off his ass counts as sick, but this is a lot different than the slightly queasy yet still giddy Josh who's had too much tequilla. This is weak and quiet Josh and Chris, for one, doesn't like it. It's a bit of a shock to the system. ]

Dude, what... [ He swallows, brow furrowing as he takes a single step over the threshold of the room and stops. He doesn't want to crowd. He bites the inside of his lip, bending slightly to get a better look at Josh's complexion, sickly and unnatural. He immediately feels bad for staring and looks instead to the bathroom cabinet above the sink. He sees a possible solution and jumps on it, pulling the cabinet door open. ] It's your stomach, right? Maybe you should take something.

[Josh lets out a puff of air and feels tension in the back of his neck, like some stunted attempt to react to Chris opening the bathroom door and coming in. He finally drops his hands and his vision needs to readjust with the little starbursts everywhere.

Though it does stop him from resorting back to to sarcasm and waving or opening his arms like Chris finding him in the bathroom after they've been talking through the door was some kind of magic trick.

After that, it's Chris to the rescue: getting a closer look at him and then going into the medicine cabinet above the sink with his deodorant and Hannah's emergency contact case. Even if Chris wasn't trying to hover, it still feels awkward sitting on the floor while he was standing--and Chris was not a small guy, to begin with. He braces himself and gets up. He feels shaky, but at least he's not coming off as completely pathetic.]

Forgive me if I'm not jumping up and down at the idea of more pills.

[ It feels a little intrusive to be digging through the Washington's bathroom cabinet, mostly because the bathroom cabinet seems to be a place where a lot of personal items end up. He pulls out a box of hair dye and some medicine bottles labelled with names about five syllables long, searching for something simple like tums. He glances over his shoulder when he hears the soft rustling of Josh shakily getting to his feet. Josh is definitely not stable, and he almost reaches out for his shoulder but holds back. It's obvious Josh already feels pitied; he doesn't want to make it worse. He doesn't look like he's in immediate danger of crashing down, at least. ]

Hey, careful. You don't need a concussion, too. [ He offers this weird, probably obviously worried half-smile before turning back to the cabinet. He catches sight of the word "stomach" on a small white box and reaches for it before he realizes what Josh has said. ]

Wait, more pills?

[ He feels stupid for not understanding, but he has to ask. He can't really blame himself for being out of the loop; Josh has been trying pretty hard to keep him far out of it. ]

[It's more for Chris than anything that Josh leans against the wall for more stability. Then he crosses his arms over his chest.]

I just don't want to get poked with a stick all night to keep me from falling asleep. [He allows himself that little nugget of black humor about getting a concussion.

Chris asks him about the pills, and he shifts his weight onto his other leg while pressing his lips together into a thin line. He triggered the conversation in the most offhanded way possible, almost like it was an accident. It sure as hell wasn't the most graceful way to talk about it. But he was talking about it, finally.]

So you know those commercials with the cartoon blob that's kind of hopping around under a rain cloud?

[ Chris honestly feels a little relieved when Josh uses the wall for support. He isn't really a fan of the whole "having to keep a groggy Josh from falling asleep all night" idea either. Or the idea of having to explain that to paramedics and Josh's parents. ]

And I don't wanna have to go get a stick so, sounds good. [ The humor is flat and the weird tone his voice has taken on doesn't help. He braces a hand against the counter, brow furrowed deep as he watches the way Josh fidgets. They're getting somewhere - finally - but all of a sudden it doesn't seem fast enough. He just wants to get this and his brain kind of stops for a second at the commercial thing. ]

What? I, uh-- I think so?

[ He stops, thinks, tries to wrap his head around this strange tactic. He chews his bottom lip for a second. ]

Josh, are you-- what are you saying?

[Josh would much rather deal with paramedics than his parents, who would've grilled him about why he was so sick in the first place, and they wouldn't have been happy about him bringing so much attention to his problems.

It's irrational, and he knows it on some level, but he gets frustrated that Chris doesn't catch his meaning/media reference and forces him break it down, even further.

There's a twitch in his limbs and a look in his eyes like he wants to pace in the very limited amount of space that he has on his side of the bathroom. What he ends up doing is gesturing with his arms.]

I'm the blob, Chris. I'm the fucked up, emotionally-malfunctioning blob. Like therapy every week and pills, and they don't work right away, you know? And there's all these fucking side-effects. I could show you, there's whole paragraphs of them. Like once you get past the nausea and the nightmares and shitting your pants, you'll be good to go.

[ Chris starts to question why he had so badly wanted Josh to just say it, outright, what was wrong after he actually does it. Because, yeah, he had an inkling about where this was leading after the zoloft commercial thing, but he wasn't really prepared for the truth to come out like this. Harsh and frank and awful. He feels like utter shit for pushing Josh to this.

And on the one hand, it's admittedly a relief to know that Chris hasn't just been paranoid about nothing this whole time, but on the other hand, Josh is sick, and that's infinitely worse than any kind of embarrassment Chris might have felt if he'd been wrong.

Now, he feels guilty for not knowing, stupid for not figuring out it earlier, and all-over unwell at the idea that Josh has been carrying all this - all these horrible things he's described and probably much, much more - on his own. ]

Oh.

[ It's more a release of breath than an actual word; all this pent-up emotion escaping in a much less dramatic way than he might have imagined it happening before. He doesn't know what else to say, because what do you say when your best friend seems on the edge of breaking right in front of you? He wants to ask since when? and why didn't you tell me? and, most importantly, are you gonna be okay? but none of that comes out. What does come out sounds incredibly stupid but it's supposed to be reassuring. ]

Josh, you're not a... blob.

[ He makes a noise of frustration at himself a second later and scrubs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses slightly askew. ]

Fuck, I mean-- I mean, you're more than a blob, man.

[ ooc: i'm going with an in-game au where chris discovers josh after his faked death, if only for the chance to see them actually talk some of this out and be angry and sad together before things get even worse. let me know if this works for you! ]

[ Josh is dead.

Josh is dead, over and over in his head, everything he is trying to make sense of the three words that just don't fit together like they're supposed to. Because Josh has been his best friend since third grade and he's not supposed to be dead at twenty. It doesn't make any sense.

And yet Ash has his blood splattered all up her side and his body-- what's left of his body, bloody and torn up, is hanging in the barn about thirty paces away. And it's Chris' fault. He'd tried to save Josh, pushing down a wave of nausea and hysteria as he'd pulled the lever and yet he still watched him die. Chris watched his best friend get torn to shreds and now he's just full to bursting with hollow apologies. He doesn't think Ash will ever look at him the same.

Which is why he convinces her to go with Matt and Emily, promising to get Sam himself and meet them at the cable car so they can get the hell out of here. Ashley is shaking, arms wrapped tight around herself and knuckles white, but she nods and swallows and Chris watches the three of them go, heart clenched in his chest.

He stands in the snow for an indeterminate amount of time - it feels like hours but also seconds - trying to push himself towards the lodge so he can find Sam. But he feels pulled in the opposite direction, like most of him is still back in the barn and only a little tiny piece of him managed to escape. He realizes in a moment of startling clarity that he won't be able to live with himself if he doesn't go back. He can't leave Josh hanging there for the police to find twelve hours later, the saw still buzzing underneath him. Josh doesn't deserve that.

His feet feel like lead but he makes it to the door, telling himself that all he has to do is walk in, cut Josh down, lay him on the floor, arms folded or by his sides - it's this little detail that he can't seem to work out - and walk out again. Simple. Easy. The last thing he can do for Josh. But over the incessant sound of the saw, there's rustling, footsteps maybe. There's someone in there. Except, not just someone: Josh's killer. It has to be. There to collect Josh's remains or disfigure him further. A series of horrible images flicker behind Chris' eyes, but he doesn't feel afraid. Just very, very focused.

He doesn't feel like he can breathe, but he hefts a stray board he finds by his boot. If he can catch whoever is lurking in the shadows off-guard then this can all end right here and now, one way or another. He's already made the worst decision of his life tonight; there's this dry, mocking voice in his head that's telling him things can only get better from here. He inches through the doorway.

Josh is dead, Josh is dead, Josh is dead. And you can do something about it. ]

[OOC: It absolutely does! Sorry this is a day late!]

[The first of the night's main events is over, and it's over with huge success, Josh thinks. Does he? Oh, yes, yes, oh hell yes, he does. It sure took him by surprise. Not that the props performed like they should, or that Chris and Ash ran off screaming and crying and none the wiser, no - he'd sure be disappointed by a lack of the former, what with this whole past year to get 'em just right, and as for the latter, oh ho, boys 'n ghouls, we're just getting started! Ohh, this night is gonna be good!

The nice surprise is in that Chris did try. With his head through the hole, even while screaming at Chris to think about this for as second, he'd been daring Chris to turn the lever the other way. Say he couldn't bear to lose Ash, something - finish proving that you can know a person for all of what matters of your life and count on them for nothing. But no, he'd told the cute little study buddy sorry and turned the lever to cut her loose.

Between adrenaline from anticipation and diverted expectations, this is the strongest, the highest he has felt in - well, a year, he thinks. In any one clear memory from over that period, most definitely. Most of what he's mentally pinned from it has led up to here, every disappointment and reminder of grief standing out strong, with credit given to Chris and Sam, Who Care, earning them center stage for tonight.

He doesn't feel all-around good, though. No. Not by a long shot.

He's scared. Scared silly, for who-knows-what-reason-right-now. He'd waited and listened carefully with his head through the hole to give plenty of time for Chris and Ash to clear out and far, far away. He knew they wouldn't come back; he never would've called Chris the bold type, and he was still five times as bold as she was. He still didn't waste any time on pulling on the mask once that time passed.

With it on, and image complete - face of a character, lumbering figure, stomping, stomping bootsteps, a killer who can't be brought down until the last scene, which he, as the director, gets to call here - he feels a little more at ease with taking his time, picking through this setup of his.

He's there when Chris comes in, all right. Collecting footage from the cameras throughout the barn to splice up for Sam, and then for good ol' YT.

When the light shifts in the doorway, he looks up.

He only partly believes what he's seeing for a moment. And the part of him that believes it briefly thinks it's a joke on him, which it can't be, because no one knew about this. Not any of them.]

-- Fuck.

[He doesn't yell it, or anything. He doesn't get it all-at-once and urgently enough for that - it just slips muffled into the modulator.

But ohh, no. This is still bad news. This is still all wrong.

Chris, for fuck's sake...!]

[ ooc: not a problem, don't worry about it! ]

[ His ability to breathe comes back in a violent rush when he catches a glimpse of the figure, lungs hauling in air and puffing it out again too loud and too quick. The killer, standing in one of the barn's corners, is fiddling with something Chris can't see, shoulders hunched and turned half away. A perfect target, his mind supplies, which is terrifying in itself. Dark, stringy hair hangs down the back of the killer's neck and there's a toolbelt slung around his hips; he's the picture of a horror movie villain come to life, which might have been laughable under other circumstances, but right now, it's beyond disturbing. Chris would like to be the one lucky character that actually survives in those stupid films and just turn and run.

Instead, he shuffles - his clumsiness only made worse by the reality of the situation - further into the dimly lit space, noticing with a sinking feeling that Josh's body is gone from where it had hung, the splatterings of blood and a small pile of what can only be some of Josh's insides the only remnants left behind. It's all he can do to keep his nausea from overtaking him. He pulls his eyes away from the saw and the rusty tracks and tries to tell himself to relax, to keep concentrated. His pounding heart isn't helping.

His grip on the board tightens instinctively when the figure suddenly turns towards him, looking right at him from under the hideous mask, the light from the windows illuminating the white face and turning the eyes even blacker than they had been before. All he can see is the cracked nose and the rotten teeth, no clues as to the human face that Chris can only hope is underneath. There's a moment where neither of them moves, caught in this silent staring contest. Chris wants to do something, but everything is slow and heavy and, again, he can't think straight, how could he possibly think straight when Josh is in pieces and maybe Chris could have saved him but he didn't and now he's found himself staring down his best friend's murderer?

Then the killer speaks and that shakes Chris from his paralysis. His own voice is gravelly and broken when he forces out words, less courageous than he would have hoped, but he can't worry about that. At least he's managed to take the psycho by surprise. ]

Where the fuck is he?

[ He wants to move, but not even the raging adrenaline can convince him of bravery that he doesn't really have, and definitely doesn't feel. He raises his makeshift weapon in an attempt to look threatening, to look ready to strike. ]

Where is Josh, you sick-- [ He actually manages to take a step despite the fact that his throat constricts around an insult he hadn't worked out yet. ]

[Where the fuck is --

Something in his brain grinds to a stop and flares with the friction. He knows, but then -- ]

-- Oh.

[The body, it's just the body, and if he knew -- his asking would probably be worded a lot different.

He starts laughing. Short, quiet, dry, confused and with his head whirling, through the modulator. He's furious, he's getting a bizarre sick feeling he can't quite place, he's baffled, son of a bitch, Chris, this is wrong, wrong, wrong, you were not supposed to come back!

But it's okay. There’s still a chance to save this. Still plenty of chance. Chris is scared - he can’t be wrong to be so sure of that, and if he is, they’re both stupid. Both, because Chris doesn’t know. It’s not time for him to yet, not for hours, and if he doesn't know, then it is stupid of him to be brave right now.

Stupid...!

He walks to Chris standing put, not even that fast, but feels like he's storming, exerting all the intimidation he can – bluff all you want, Chris;

Instant reality check when he pauses in his tracks on Chris taking a step.

His lungs swell under the padding of the costume. He calls on the voice he used over the recording, cold. In control. Killer.

Channel Jigsaw. Channel Jigsaw.]

Don't you know where he is, Christopher? You were -- you were there.

[He’s forcing a smile under the mask and willing himself to feel it. That was good -- how do you like them apples?]

Josh -- [He lifts his hands.] -- ...is gone!

[And then he lowers both hands, and drops one to the toolbelt. Taps a finger on it. Erratically. Shakes his head, less erratically. Makes himself forget for a second that there's nothing all that threatening in the bag but a syringe for Sam and a backup; it's a bluff, helps him advance - doesn't want to use either.

And starts forward again. Watching for Chris to move. Hoping he'll give. Even if Chris doesn't bolt, it'll be... leverage, maybe.]

Shouldn't have come back, Christopher...

There's nothing here for you.

[Nothing to see, here.

Holds the other hand forward, jumping the gun on trying to catch Chris's board when and if it swings.]

[ Chris' legs feel like rubber when the psycho starts laughing like that, like he's not sure if he's uncontrollably pleased a potential victim has come looking for him or if he's annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of-- whatever it was he was doing. It doesn't really matter the reason for the outburst; it sounds choked and strange and Chris feels vulnerable just listening to it.

The killer coming towards him, lumbering and loud, shakes him all over again, reminding his brain that this is a dire circumstance and that he isn't exactly equipped to handle it, but he holds position, swallowing around his heart in his throat. He raises the board a little higher, trying to steady himself.

The distorted voice vibrates throughout the barn when the killer speaks again, taunting, throwing Chris' stupid questions back on him. Yes, he knows Josh is gone. That reality is scorched on his brain, the blood and guts to prove it reappearing again and again under his eyelids whenever Chris squeezes his eyes shut. But he came back anyway. And maybe he's a complete idiot to head back into the danger zone, but it's too late to turn back. He's gritting his teeth when the killer throws up his hands and needlessly reminds him that Josh is gone, but he can't help the pathetic noise that escapes his lips, a shuddering breath bordering on a sob.

But he has to act. This isn't a ghost, the kind of thing he's good at shrugging off as fake; this is a person, a physical body with the capability and the drive to hurt him and more of his friends, so he has to act. He shouldn't have hesitated before. He should have rushed in and finished this before it even started.

He watches those fingers tap at the belt, mind racing with horrible possibilities. And the killer's getting closer again. And Chris has to do something. He counts three breaths. ]

Yeah? Well. [ Another heavy breath, painful and shattered. ] Well, I'm here.

[ Chris hasn't been in many fights in his life, but he sees the other hand rises as some sort of defense, so when he swings, he swings in the hopes of bypassing it, and when he swings, he swings hard. He's not as coordinated as Matt or Mike might have been, but he puts all the force of his fear into the attack. The head is the best target. If he can get the guy to stumble, then he'll have the upper-hand for at least a second. So, he aims for the head, sweeping the board down and across in the hopes of hitting both the killer's temple and ear. ]

[He can't say he's waiting, during those three breath's worth of time. He's urging, mentally pressing for Chris to hurry up and move, give him something to work with, come on, come on...

And then the swing comes.

All right -- !

-- Is what he thinks, but it's a good swing, all right.

A much better one than he was prepared for Chris to muster. He turns his head a little toward the board as it's incoming, he tries to grab it with under-measured force, and it connects. Hard. The turn keeps it from getting him smack in the temple, and the edge of the mask absorbs a little of the shock.

Not enough not to put a blast of white light on his head, send him stumbling in the direction of the swing with a shout garbled by the modulator. He immediately grabs the side of the mask - less-than-half-conscious panic that it's been knocked lose - never mind the toolbelt...

And the ringing in his head clears to hearing his own breathing. Dry, rising, furious heaving. Some of it at himself, ha ha ha, right! Fuckin' right. That shouldn't have happened, nooo. Chris is spooked. Chris isn't a fighting sort. This is still screwing up, this is still screwing up, this is still screwing up, and the brunt of the immediate part of it at Chris - some element of totally irrational betrayal, but that'll fizzle out fast. The instinct to retaliate, though...

No -- one of the breaths sticks -- ohhhhoho, no you don't...!

He's thinking screw it and gathering himself to bull-rush Chris -- in the last of a couple of beats off-balance and with his back still not unstraightened that'll allow Chris another move.]

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Words, words, words

chris | until dawn

(If any of these might work, also open to ideas!)

b!

Putting up a cautionary tw for meds and talking about vomiting

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(reminder to make new icons if there's going to be feels like this /_\ )

i had to do that exact thing ;u;

Only if you wouldn't mind another, of course!

tw for mentions of gore/death

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