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001 ☾ tick tick boom
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[He wakes up in bed with a mouth full of ash, or at least that's how it tastes and a splitting headache like the vodka he'd been mixing his punch with finally caught up to him. But Scott said that didn't work for them, that they couldn't get drunk, let alone hungover, and anyway it wouldn't explain the taste in his mouth.
Slowly, it comes to him. The pulsating sound in the back of his head, the feeling of being drunk even when he shouldn't have been. Getting dragged somewhere, blurry, dizzying shapes passing by, looming. Hard, cold metal at his back, and then getting doused in kerosene, the shadowy figure with the booming voice asking him questions, and once everything caught up, he bolted out of bed. Lunged for the door, jerked at the handle a few times before finally just pushing. It gave way easily as panic rose, as the rest of sense memory returned; the buzzing in his head, the harsh smell coating his skin, the inside of his nose, the blurry image of cops standing over them, and he could feel himself losing it, claws pushing out of his fingertips, the growl building in his chest, but he didn't care.
They tried to kill him. It wasn't new but he was sick of it, sick of getting hurt, sick of being afraid, but he wasn't the only one who'd gotten hurt because of him this time. Scott, Malia, he needed to find them, needed to make sure they were okay, like the shadow-man had said they would be, and the howl that clawed its way from his throat as he stepped into the hallway, as he scampered down the hallway in search of familiar scents, desperate and plaintive like it had been when he was stuck in the well, was all instinct.
Help. Pack. Where are you.]
[PUBLIC -- Video]
[Later, after he's had a chance to calm down, after everything's broadened out, dulled into something he can process, something less intense, he retreats to his room. He remembers now, more clearly. He washes the gasoline off, scrubs and scrubs until he can't smell it anymore, trashes the clothes and finds the phone that isn't his, sorts through the functions before getting it set up.
Not that he has any clue what to say.
He looks more than a little lost. Looks entirely too young to be on the ship at all, but he can't do anything about that now, and judging by the determined set of his jaw he doesn't seem to think it should matter too much. He chews his lip absently, takes a breath.
Okay. He can do this. No sweat. Never mind that he's already made an impression in exactly the way he didn't want to.]
Hey. So you got stars here. That's...cool, I guess?
[Yeah nobody mind the kid who was running around as the wolf boy earlier. He's fine. You didn't see that, right?]
[He wakes up in bed with a mouth full of ash, or at least that's how it tastes and a splitting headache like the vodka he'd been mixing his punch with finally caught up to him. But Scott said that didn't work for them, that they couldn't get drunk, let alone hungover, and anyway it wouldn't explain the taste in his mouth.
Slowly, it comes to him. The pulsating sound in the back of his head, the feeling of being drunk even when he shouldn't have been. Getting dragged somewhere, blurry, dizzying shapes passing by, looming. Hard, cold metal at his back, and then getting doused in kerosene, the shadowy figure with the booming voice asking him questions, and once everything caught up, he bolted out of bed. Lunged for the door, jerked at the handle a few times before finally just pushing. It gave way easily as panic rose, as the rest of sense memory returned; the buzzing in his head, the harsh smell coating his skin, the inside of his nose, the blurry image of cops standing over them, and he could feel himself losing it, claws pushing out of his fingertips, the growl building in his chest, but he didn't care.
They tried to kill him. It wasn't new but he was sick of it, sick of getting hurt, sick of being afraid, but he wasn't the only one who'd gotten hurt because of him this time. Scott, Malia, he needed to find them, needed to make sure they were okay, like the shadow-man had said they would be, and the howl that clawed its way from his throat as he stepped into the hallway, as he scampered down the hallway in search of familiar scents, desperate and plaintive like it had been when he was stuck in the well, was all instinct.
Help. Pack. Where are you.]
[PUBLIC -- Video]
[Later, after he's had a chance to calm down, after everything's broadened out, dulled into something he can process, something less intense, he retreats to his room. He remembers now, more clearly. He washes the gasoline off, scrubs and scrubs until he can't smell it anymore, trashes the clothes and finds the phone that isn't his, sorts through the functions before getting it set up.
Not that he has any clue what to say.
He looks more than a little lost. Looks entirely too young to be on the ship at all, but he can't do anything about that now, and judging by the determined set of his jaw he doesn't seem to think it should matter too much. He chews his lip absently, takes a breath.
Okay. He can do this. No sweat. Never mind that he's already made an impression in exactly the way he didn't want to.]
Hey. So you got stars here. That's...cool, I guess?
[Yeah nobody mind the kid who was running around as the wolf boy earlier. He's fine. You didn't see that, right?]
no subject
[It's almost a whine, even as it gives way to a growl that reverberates in his chest. Golden eyes watch her intently, body swaying as he remains unsure whether to attack anyway or not. Clawed fingers flex at his sides; the urge is strong, almost impossible to fight, but he tries, at least.
Focus. Answer.]
Scott. Malia.
no subject
[She is genuinely surprised; although a moment later, putting this boy's condition together with Scott's in her mind, Iris reflects that she shouldn't have been.]
Well, Scott's 'ere, all right. You're another one from Beacon Hills, are you, Liam?
[And then she remembers Scott's in a coma and well, that's inconvenient, but he's at least here, provably in one piece, and that's better than most of the inmates that arrive here in a frantic state about someone else. She hates explaining that one, and she's had to do it far too often.]
no subject
[It's almost mournful, certainly disappointed and frustrated. Even now, with humanity slipping further and further away, he knows he needs help. Knows letting it go that far is bad, but it's only been Scott who could get him out of it. And he's not here.
He grunts at the question; could be agreement, could be dismissal, but it doesn't matter because he lurches forward again. Tries to pin, tries to bite. It's instinct, the wolf wants to fight, wants to attack, wants to lash out, and Liam's never been especially good at fighting impulse.]
no subject
She reaches out to flick him hard on the nose - the kind of blow that won't really hurt but will make his eyes water and might stop him enough to think - and her voice is practically a bark, sharp-edged with authority.]
Liam! Get a grip on yourself, you daft sod, before I find a catchpole and a sodding kennel. That's enough.
no subject
Stop it. Stop. It. You can do this.
It's not like Scott never tried to help him do it on his own. He just always needed help. He digs his claws into his palms, hard enough to break skin, hard enough to keep the focus, and tries to remember what he has to do to shift it all back the other way besides getting knocked out.]
Don't need a kennel.
no subject
[She does, in fact, say it exactly as she'd say it to one of her dogs, but it's not deliberate, not meant as a jibe; she's just honestly pleased that he does have some measure of control. More importantly, she's pleased that Liam's visibly trying to be in control.]
This boat does 'ave a way of pulling you 'ere from the most stressful moments, I know. You're not the first that's showed up a little overwrought. Listen to me, now: we're outside of time, 'ere. That means that your friends? The ones you're so worried about?
You'll be in time to help 'em. That'll be taken care of, no matter 'ow long you're 'ere. It'll be all right. And you 'ave a lot of friends 'ere, sweetheart.
no subject
[It's forced between grit teeth, closer to a growl than anything else, but he's not attacking. He stands his ground. Digs claws in deeper, deep enough so red drips down palms and the curve of fingers to leave droplets on the floor at his sides.]
I know they'll be fine. That's why I'm here.
[They can't die. He needs them. But the cops are still there, the Benefactor is still there, people are stalking them...]
no subject
[But Iris says it fondly, already smiling; and then the pieces of what else he's just said click into place for her.]
'Old on - you know where you are? You came 'ere on purpose?
[Good grief, they're getting younger every day. Even more than policemen.]
no subject
[Shoulders heave as he fights the urge to attack, body instinctively hunching as if to pounce, but he doesn't move. Not yet.
He nods when she asks. The gesture's jerky, bobbing, but deliberate.]
Yeah.
no subject
[You are so not ready for this.]
All right. If I try summat, Liam - I'm going to take your 'and and think calm thoughts at you. This isn't control - I'm just going to give you some calm to catch 'old of, if you see what I mean. Will you let me do that?
no subject
[Granted, it takes a couple seconds to get out, but he does.
He drags a few deep breaths in, tries to dig his claws in deeper. He doesn't want to attack her, but he doesn't know how much longer he has until he can't stop himself. If she can help, he can't afford to turn her down. He doesn't want to hurt anybody, isn't sure he could live with himself if he did.]
Okay. If you think it'll help.
no subject
[She reaches out, takes his hands gently. She reaches out with her mind as well: not aggressively, not to overwhelm or probe, but he should be able to feel what Iris is projecting.
It's a vast, cold ocean of stars. It is infinite time and patience, breathing deeply in and out to a deliberately slower tempo than Liam's own elevated heartrate. Iris can control her own hearts: in the bright cold space she tries to show Liam how.
When she speaks, it's very soft and low.]
Can you feel that? Can you try and catch 'old of it, my love?
no subject
I can try.
[Focus on the pulse. Focus on breathing. Try to match. It's hard, feels impossible right now, but he's trying. That's the important thing.]
no subject
But now isn't the time to get drawn into it: now it's a thing Liam has to master, and she surrounds him with her quiet, uncritical affection, making herself the the solidity against which he can brace himself, the handle he can pull himself up by.]
You'll be fine. You've got this, sweetheart. You'll be fine.
[And Auntie Iris has got you.]
no subject
He drags in a breath, growl still rumbling, and grits his teeth. Bites his lip. Pain helps, pain gives him some room to think more clearly, so he bites down, feels teeth slide into flesh, blood pooling on his tongue, and drags in another breath. Find her rhythm. It's the only way this is going to work. Find her rhythm. He tries to focus, tries to match the pulse bounding away on his tongue, in his ears, to the one surrounding him everywhere else.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow it down. Focus.
It seems to take an eternity, but eventually it starts to work. Things slow, breathing eases. Pulse slows.]