insomnia meme

[sockerballs]

the i n s o m n i a meme

It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they? i n s t r u c t i o n s • Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject). • Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10. • Have fun! o p t i o n s 01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet. 02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops. 03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it. 04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them... 05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort. 06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help? 07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on. 08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them. 09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you. 10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario.

Comments

6 for space-prince; choose your own adventure

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Thankfully, the parts Peter pulled from his and McCree's misadventures at the omnium have jumped the Milano repairs up by leaps and bounds.

(Specifically, Rocket had thrown his hands into the air and shouted, "Finally, some decent tech.")

And it's a damn good thing, too, because before the shopping trip, any questions of when the repairs would be completed were answered with uncertainty (mostly), frustrated grunts (sometimes), or stony, rage-filled silence that promised some form of violence (rarely, but with increasing frequency up to that point). Peter and Rocket manage to put aside their egos and put their heads together, adapting the pilfered equipment with some difficulty. Eventually the ship's engines smoothed out (a few of those worrying rattles even disappeared), and deep space travel seemed a far less suicidal prospect than before.

A week and a half of work, and the Guardians close the gap on a prospective launch date almost exponentially – a fact that all the Guardians are glad for, Peter most of all.

... Probably.

Should he be glad? He's not sure. He itches to jettison himself off this hunk of dirt, feels that compulsion to run away before all the problems he had swept under a rug had the opportunity to creep out and snatch him by the ankle. He's home, but he's not home, and while a better man than him would take this opportunity to fix those issues, to face those monsters, Peter Quill just wants to leave it all behind. But he can't, can he? Not really. Because once they go, they'll have McCree aboard – which isn't bad in itself, except for the implications. Because it means taking McCree aboard, but it also means bringing him back.

And he likes the guy. In the short time they've spent together, they've got a decent rapport, and Peter's surprised to find that, while the Guardians get him, McCree just sort of— gets him on a different level, in a way that's completely unfamiliar. (Completely "alien," if one wants to be thematically appropriate.) Not deeper, or even nearly as well in a lot of cases, but there it was. It's weird, but it's pleasant, and Peter's not entirely sure what to make of it.

So here he is, still on an all but defunct naval base, sitting cross-legged on a dock as he stares out at the Atlantic Ocean. His headphones hang from his neck, "Come And Get Your Love" playing softly from the speakers, and Peter absently turns the Walkman over in his hands. It's probably something like, two? three? in the morning, and he watches the water rise and fall, the light from his lamp glittering on its surface. The stars and the moon are obscenely bright from out here, without the lights of a city to dampen it, and it's really goddamn pretty.

(He thinks he might miss this, once they're gone.) ]

[twelveoclock]

[ Overwatch’s penchant for sending their agents globehopping at any given moment means McCree tends to keep odd hours. There are times where his body isn’t even sure when daylight even is anymore, so it’s not so unusual for him to be awake in the wee hours of the morning.

Like right now. A few hours of fruitless attempts as slumber and he’s given up, opting instead for a walk around the base to get some air. He doesn’t often see the base’s other temporary residents up this early (or late, depending on your perspective), so it’s a surprise when he spots Peter over by the water’s edge. He meanders over, inviting himself to take a seat next to Peter. Given the hour, he’s forgone most of his battle gear- the serape and the chest plate and the chaps are nowhere to be seen, though he still has Peacekeeper holstered at his hip- opting instead for plain jeans and a t-shirt.

He stays quiet for a long moment, exhaling a puff of cigar smoke to drift away over the waves, then, ]

Mighty nice view, ain’t it?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Wrapped up in his thoughts as he is, he doesn’t hear McCree approach. But points to Peter: when the brush of his step takes him completely off-guard, he doesn’t leap out of his skin.

He does jump, though, yelping out a startled curse and letting out a full-bodied sigh as McCree sits down. ]

Jesus. Wear a bell next time, would you?

[ Not that McCree was likely trying to sneak up on him, but somehow, this was his fault. Obviously. For once, Peter is without his signature red jacket, dressed instead in the clothes he usually sleeps in – an old, worn t-shirt and loose-fitting pants. The breeze flitting through is chilly, but Peter’s used to the cold of space, the draft on his ship; this is almost nothing.

As McCree settles in, he lowers the volume on his music, resting his cheek against his fist. The question earns a one-shouldered shrug and a light, ] I guess it’s nice.

What’re you doing up? [ asked the pot of the kettle. ]

[twelveoclock]

[ It’s not like he was trying to be quiet- cowboy boots don’t typically lend themselves to stealth. McCree just shrugs, as if to say “sorry not sorry”, and takes another drag of his cigar. ]

Same thing as you, I reckon. Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d get some air.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He offers a quiet, noncommittal grunt. It was an acceptable answer, he guesses, but it doesn’t stop him from being a smartass: ]

You know, you could just say you wanted to spend time with me. I wouldn’t judge.

[twelveoclock]

[ He snorts, plumes of smoke exiting his nostrils, and smirks at Peter around his cigar. ]

Ya caught me. I was just so starved for your company I couldn’t help it.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Peter nods, expression solemn. ]

Yeah, I figured. I definitely have that effect on people.

[ And then his expression sours as the scent of the smoke drifts to him, waving a hand to disperse it. ]

Ugh, that smell's gonna be a problem.

[twelveoclock]

[ Ah, he was afraid of that. The Milano makes for really close quarters, and he had a feeling that his little habit was going to ruffle a few feathers. ]

Sorry. Doc Mercy’s been naggin’ me to quit for years now and still ain’t managed it, but I’ll figure somethin’ out before we take off.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ A bit of a pause, then, ]

So that’s still happening, huh? [ Which is only a slightly more diplomatic way of asking, “You’re still coming?” ]

You ever try chewing a shitton of bubblegum? I hear that helps.

[twelveoclock]

[ He quirks a brow. ] There a reason it wouldn’t be?

[ As far as he knew, their little arrangement was still in place, and he was still prepared for an intergalactic field trip.

As for the other thing- he waves a hand, dismissive. ] I’ll figure it out. Gum ain’t really my thing.

[nostalgiabomb]

Lollipops, then. Or maybe cracking people’s skulls open.

[ He should probably stop trying to be helpful. ]

And, I dunno. Just wondered if maybe your bosses thought sending their favorite cowboy into space might need some reconsideration.

[twelveoclock]

[ Now both eyebrows go up. Yeah, Peter should probably stop trying to be helpful, because that last one was a little concerning. ]

Nah. They still figure I’m the best fit for yer little group. Why? Havin’ second thoughts about havin’ me along?

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He hangs out with interesting people with much more interesting forms of stress relief okay. ]

I am now, if you’re gonna be dropping ash all over the consoles.

[ He pauses to send the other guy a low-level glower. ]

If anything, I’d figure you’d be the one tryin’ to backpedal out of this.

[twelveoclock]

[ At the look Peter sends his way, he blandly taps the ash off the end of his cigar, letting it pile on the dock between them. Come at him, bro. ]

The team’ll be okay while I’m gone, and I don’t disagree with the logic of wantin’ ta send someone out there. Besides, I’m not exactly leavin’ much behind. Just a planet fulla people who still consider me a wanted man. Nobody but a handful’a folk will mourn the departure of Jesse McCree.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ The look turns into an outright scowl when he sees McCree purposely letting the ash lie where it falls. His lips part to make another protest, but McCree answers his unspoken question before he can speak.

—And the answer makes him frown.

He’s quiet for a long moment, the fingers of one hand tapping absently against the Walkman in his lap, and redirects his gaze to the ocean in front of them. ]

I was gonna ask if you’d be leavin’ anyone behind. Just your team, then? No family?

[twelveoclock]

Nah. I been on my own for a long time now. Part’a the reason I fell in with the Deadlocks.

[ He shrugs, taking another drag of his cigar and blowing the smoke upwards. ] I ain’t too broken up about it, though.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ Another noncommittal hum in return. The answer should make him feel better, knowing that he’s not parting the guy with too many people, aside from the members of Overwatch. Like Peter said early on, he’s not in the habit of taking on unwilling passengers, and he’s even less fond of the idea of coming between a guy and his family. ]

That kinda sucks. [ Is what he oh, so eloquently says instead, in much the same way someone else might say, “I’m sorry to hear that.” ]

[twelveoclock]

Don’t worry about it. I grew outa my angry, lonely teenager phase a long time ago. I met some good people, and they helped me out.

[ He tilts his head, in the vague direction of Overwatch’s Gibraltar base. Things may have gotten real bad near the end, but he has to admit that there were people there who genuinely cared about him, and helped him grow up into a better person. ]

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He regards McCree from the corner of his eye, as if trying to determine just how honest the guy was being, or how much of whatever he was saying was just a front. Tough guy attitudes came standard with most of the folks Peter’s met, but admitting to having friends didn’t. Most folks liked cultivating that lone wolf mystique, or whatever.

So at length, Peter seems satisfied after his examination, looking down to flick some imagined speck from his leg. ]

One of these days, we’re gonna have to hammer out these details. Figure out just how long this exchange program’s gonna last.

[twelveoclock]

[ If he notices Peter’s scrutiny, he doesn’t remark on it, and instead continues to stare out at the stars over the water.

He chuckles. ] I was operatin’ under the assumption that it was gonna last for about as long as y’all could tolerate me.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ A pause before a distant, contemplative look creases Peter’s brow. ]

I mean, I think it’d take the Milano about nine hours to reach the moon, so…

[twelveoclock]

Nine hours? That ain't very generous.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He clicks his tongue, hissing in a breath between his teeth. ]

I mean, technically, there and back would be eighteen hours.

[twelveoclock]

I guess at the very least I oughta thank ya for not leavin' me on the moon.

[nostalgiabomb]

Well, I wouldn't put it past your buddies to track us down through six systems for harming even the tiniest hair on your head, so—

[ He shrugs. ]

Welcome.