fridgetothefire | 074 ☣ Snicker-snack

[Public video]

[The post comes thirty, maybe forty-five minutes after Kara's. Even with the major broken bones and butchery repaired, from just the shoulders up, Anya looks an absolute wreck. She has a swollen, mottled lump at her temple, ugly purple dripping under her skin like a watercolor stormcloud. Her throat is bruised too, the wide brumous darkness there slashed through with line of red lightning, gleaming and raw rather than simple rusting scab, where she thrashed against the rough iron wire binding her neck. Her mouth has a dab of blood that wasn't all washed away, her lip ragged where she chomped partway through it. Her hair is a sweat-matted mess. Most of all, though, is the look in her eye, an unhinged lurching snarl.]

This. Is done. Now. This thing, with Dean, it's me and him, and we are square. Whatever private wars you've got to settle, I don't care, but any one of you touches him in my name - no vengeance. None.

Or I will take it out of your fucking hide.

[She is not entirely sane right now. And she is not even remotely fucking around. The feed cuts out. And then, fifteen seconds later, still broadcast to everyone.]

Including you.

[Private to Ricki]

[Slumped, quieter]

...except you, I guess. Sorry.

But please don't.

[Private to Stiles]

[Also quiet, eyes downcast, exhausted.]

If he can't be bothered to tell you, I think he thought I was the admiral. That he could get free, save the people here. I know you have to do something, I know you'll do. Whatever you decide is best.

But I'd like to be. Informed.

[Private to Iris]

Thank you.

[Infirmary spam]

[She stays there about thirty-six hours, too worn out to do very much, letting the minor surface wounds that didn't get mended with magic stay cleaned and bandaged and iced. She'll see visitors if they come, will be wan and weary but lucid, without the vicious freneticism of the immediate aftermath. After that, she can't stand it any longer despite the advantages, retreats to the sanctuary of her cabin.]

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[He frowns, mouth twisting a little.] Here's the thing.

I know, I know that he has been through hell. Literally. And I know there is probably not one person on this entire Barge, maybe in the entire universe, who actually understands what he's been through. But since that's the case, how the hell is anyone supposed to get through to him? If he's never going to respect anyone else, let alone himself, he's never going to stop waiting to hit rock bottom and start climbing back up.

[He stops, looking frustrated, because he is. ] I want to help him. I respect him. I realize I'm not the guy for the job. Still, I've gotta live with him, you've gotta live with him, and I can respect him and still stand here and say he's been a fucking problem and it's got to stop. Something's got to stop, and I refuse to give up on him, but whatever we're doing, it's not working, and we need to find another way.

[He shakes his head.] It's not my business. The only way I'm stepping in on this is to support whatever Stiles does, but... I still care.

You can't make him heal because it's frustrating. Or even dangerous. That's never been what this job is.

I know what you're saying - hell, I've been trying to get through to Arthas and I'm about ready to tear my hair out, he's so goddamn obstinate - but it just. It doesn't work.

[More easily,]

Supporting Stiles is probably a pretty good way to go.

No. It's not. [He lets out a breath.] But he is frustrating and dangerous.

[It's not like Steve's not used to dealing with stubborn. He is. Hell, he understands it from the inside out. But that's the thing - part of him feels like he does understand Dean, just a little, and that little part knows how he feels and... it's awful. Feeling that way is awful, and he wishes he could change it, even a little.]

Then that's my plan. I can't step all over people trying to do their job, and I won't. But I can provide support. And I will.

You want some ice for any of those bruises? Or - [He smiles softly.] You wouldn't believe the home remedies I've seen to take the edge off the ache. Some of them even work.

I don't.

[A brief, tight pinch.]

I don't want to be numb.

[It would feel too much like she wasn't here at all. She changes the subject.]

...when my wrists are better, we're practicing your knife work.

[He nods, and doesn't argue. He understands.

Of course, at the suggestion, he starts to say,] I already know how to -

[But then he thinks better of it. Yeah, he knows how to use a knife. In hands that are a different size, in a body that's much more agile and definitely stronger.] All right. When you're better, though.

Good.

[She pats his arm gingerly, then curls up a little, lets her eyes slip closed.]

[He can take that as a dismissal; he puts one hand briefly on the blanket by way of see you later - not anywhere near her actual body at all, because all of it probably hurts - and slips away to let her sleep.]