notafuckingnut | [029] If I was a tree growing tall and green all I'd want is you to shade me and be my leaves

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[029] If I was a tree growing tall and green all I'd want is you to shade me and be my leaves

[VIDEO - (accidental) public]

[He doesn't want to be here.

That's obvious enough to anyone, receiver or no. He said yes to get the angel off his case, to make him go away, and he's here so he won't come looking for him, but that doesn't mean he wants this. He doesn't understand why he needs to, what he could possibly get out of it, and so what if he said it would be Good for him, that it would Help; he doesn't care if he graduates. Not really, not right now anyway. Not if you can leave without it, not if people that are supposed to matter don't stick around. He's defeated, and miserable, and apathetic, and abandoned, and PISSED, all roiling together in an incomprehensible and disjointed mess, the whole thing colored with a sense of wrongness that creeps at the edges of awareness and slips away just out of reach under closer scrutiny, and he feels like he's going to split apart at the seams but he can't articulate WHY.]

Why do you need to work in a greenhouse anyway, doesn't it all just grow? It's not like you need to help it with that, it can do it on its own.

[SPAM for Castiel]

[Knock knock on the greenhouse door; you're going to have to let him in.]

[A/N: Richie is completely affected because pshh sticking to the original plan, what's that? GIVE HIM YOUR FEELS.]

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[It will...work? Fuck if he knows what, but if he had an idea, a way to spin this so he can get out of it, it would absolutely work. He's convinced.

Now to figure out what.

He glances around the space for anything potentially useful; lots of gardening tools. Most of them with at least one sharp edge; that could be useful.]

Don't you have to pull it out to see that? Pretty sure that kills the plant.

[Things never grew again when he tried to put them back in the ground as a kid. Never.]

Edited 2012-04-13 10:38 (UTC)

Well, it's clearly not making you feel better, is it?

[His tone's condescending, but none of it comes through in his feelings. He's hoping that being belittling will chase you off so he can stop feeling your stupid feelings.]

Even if that had been intentional, I doubt you could consider bumping into you something that required physical force to defend yourself from, particularly after you'd been holding my arm and not permitting me to leave for a few minutes and yet I hadn't done anything further to you.

[He waits to see how Richie will react emotionally, curious now. It was incredible how much Richie twisted the truth, but how would his emotions spike when someone pointed out what actually happened?]

No, it's...That's not what happened. You were gonna tell the fucking Nazis in the medical ward that I was a nutcase. And who the fuck knows what they woulda done with that, I'm not getting...poked and injected with shit. It was self defense.

[More certain, defensive, indignant, no trace of division this time. This he believes completely, thoroughly, but it's coated in wrongness, invaded completely until it's impossible to tell the difference between what he believes and what he knows or the conflict between the two. He believes so he knows, and it doesn't matter if the information's unreliable, he can't separate fact from fiction.]

And how the fuck do you know? It's none of your business how I feel, so get the hell out of my head.

[WHAT DO YOU SEE IN THERE get out get out get OUT. Panic increases, paranoia increases, both shooting up through the roof and warring with blatant anger, and a hand goes to his head because his headache's only getting worse, while the other reaches into his pocket, feeling around for the pen he knows is in there. It's reassuring, more or less, but he'll feel better once Jim's not there.

There's a sudden impulse for violence circling around in the mess somewhere, Jim. You might want to be careful.]

No, I wasn't. I was going to go there for my own needs, but you are far too self centered to even think of that, aren't you?

[There's a surge of disgust at Richie's refusal to see the truth.]

[Normally Jim would just choose the path of least resistance, brush it off as a bad time and a bad flood, and get out an insincere apology before making his exit.

Then again, normally, Jim would have no feelings on the matter. Instead, every angry, paranoid, stab that runs through Richie runs through him as well. The thirst for violence the other man feels? He feels as well. So instead of feeling that urge and avoiding it, he answers it in kind. Striding out onto the deck with a flawless arrogance. In the capacity to do harm, he considers himself more than human, he doesn't think he has anything at all to be afraid of.]

[he buries his fingers in the dirt to reveal the roots.]

You don't have to pull them out - you just move a little of the dirt aside to observe them. You can wear gloves, if you'd like.

[Fingers close around the barrel in a white-knuckled death grip, face tugging into a vicious snarl. He feels, then Jim feels, which only exacerbates his own tenuously balanced emotions, and when he gets the burst of arrogance, the fearlessness, the invulnerability, it's the last straw, the final push he needs to pull the makeshift shiv free and step forward, shoving it towards whatever patch of flesh it meets first and throwing all his anger and frustration behind it. Give him long enough and he'll pull it free with a wet squelch to stab again, and again, and as many as he can get in before he's forced into stopping; it's cathartic, a valve for the surplus that he can't handle any longer, and the sound that escapes from his throat doesn't even sound human.]

Bullshit. I was there, I saw you. I know you were thinking it.

[The disgust's reflected back; it's not too far off his own sentiments anyway.]

[He's looking at a fungus growing on some of the sunflowers and considering the best way to clear it up when he realizes that there's a sudden lack of Richie complaining about plants. It gives him a bad hunch, and he's learned to trust his hunches between his own mistakes and Dean. He glances over to where he left inmate and sees nothing, which only makes him feel worse. When he looks outside the greenhouse, his eyes go wide.

And then he's there with the sound of wingbeats, and there's that sickening sound of puncturing flesh. It doesn't hurt, but now he's angry, and it's not anger like a regular human being - there's something hard behind it, hot like the sun. Wrath, with a capital W. And there's more, and you don't have to be effected to feel it, sheer grace like heat on pavement making the air around him tingle with static. He wraps his hand around Richie's wrist and he has a grip like a vise.]

This is an inappropriate manner in which to deal with another person, Richie.

Edited 2012-04-13 17:38 (UTC)

Oh? You read minds, then? [Raistlin returns a deluge of smugness.]

...Why would I need gloves? It's just dirt.

[Jim takes a half step back, because the angel has appeared into the space he was occupying only a moment ago, and suddenly there's the sound of something sharp sinking into his flesh and Jim can only watch as the makeshift weapon is driven into him again and again.

At last, it is easy for him to distinguish his feelings again, because the hot wave of righteous power that fills his mind is all too clearly not him. Instead, as he contemplates the fact that but for a brief second of intervention from a superpowered warden, Richie's weapon would have been forcing itself through him, tearing into his flesh and draining the blood from him? He feels an overwhelming sense of indifference.

And that is definitely his own mind speaking.]

[It hurts.

Without and within, nerves already strung too tight thrumming like discordant notes on a piano as Cas fills the space to brimming, and he tries to pull away on instinct but he can't, and he'd panic or shout but there's no room left in his own head for it, only anger like none he's ever felt before.

Richie's grip on the pen loosens, plastic falling to the floor between fingers slick with all-too-human blood, and it's a few long moments before he can find the means to speak again, though it's little more than petulant mumble.]

He wouldn't get out of my head. I couldn't...it wasn't my fault.

Edited 2012-04-13 18:34 (UTC)

I didn't need to.

[That's okay, Richie doesn't really recognize it as the wizard's. As far as he's concerned he has the upper ground here.]

Edited 2012-04-13 18:40 (UTC)

[When Richie relaxes, so does Castiel, that hot wrath leaving him all at once. He's not angry by nature, really, and watching the other man basically fold under him seems to solve the problem quite well. He glances down at the bloody holes in his chest with some irritation, but it's weak at best. Instead there's something empathic there - accepting, sympathetic. He glances over his shoulder to Jim, making sure he's okay, but his attention is obviously focused on Richie.]

No one can get out of anyone's head, now. These things must be tolerated. You must be patient. You can't immediately react with violence.

[The cooling of tensions comes as a quiet relief to Jim, who has stepped to the side of both men and is now eyeing the wounds in Castiel's chest with a mild, and detached interest. The lack of grief at the sight of the wounds is pleasantly familiar, and he finally glances back up at Richie.]

This clearly got out of hand. Let's blame it on the flood and be done with it.

[He smiles, and the lack of sincerity is even more obvious during this flood than it would be otherwise. Now that the immediate anger's gone, he just doesn't care what becomes of either Richie or his warden.]

But he was in my head.

[But the receding of Castiel's Presence seems to have eased up most of his anger and frustration, for the time being, anyway, because he just feels...empty now. Hollowed out. Like his skin's too big.

It's quiet, for once, and consequently the arguments and complaints don't have much of the venom they would ordinarily.]

You can't just...be in there and expect to get off like it's nothing. Because it's not nothing, it's an invasion of privacy. It's not public fucking property.

[He's getting your feelings quite well though, Cas, and he can actually figure out that they're yours, since Profit's...emptiness and he knows what's his own right now. Which would be why he's giving you a doubting look, like he's trying to figure out what to make of you because YOU SHOULD STILL BE ANGRY.

Seth would be.]

[Castiel isn't angry. He's gently insistent, sort of like a father. There's no blame to be found in there, no accusal. Just understanding, and a desire to make things right.]

It was the flood, not him, that caused this. Do you understand?

[Jim's entire intention in starting this argument had been to get out of Richie's head, and a small tendril of accusatory thought rears it's head. Indignation pressing back against the willful goodness and desire to mend which Castiel communicates so strongly.

It occurs to him that if he concentrated hard on this indignation, on this rage, on this desire to blame Richie for what had passed here, he might be able to send the other man violent again. Drive him back into attack mode and get him dragged off to level zero, because he clearly wasn't safe to be around.

There wasn't any practical reason why he should do it, there was nothing at all to be gained, but the idea interested him.

A thin vine of temptation crept across from Jim, before he began to focus on that sense of mild indignation, and building it up into anger again.]

[Richie wouldn't know what a father's supposed to be like if one kicked him in the nuts; his own wasn't much of one from what he can remember, and the stuff he can't...he's mostly sure that's a good thing. Too much shouting and red. All of what Castiel's projecting, or what he's reading, anyway, is foreign, like trying to understand another language, and he instinctively doesn't trust it anyway.]

But he could've stopped it. He didn't have to be in there.

[Emptiness filled, familiar emotions creeping back like invasive vines, clamoring over the alien to fill the spaces between, fan his own reticence, and if he'd taken the time to stop and think he might have recognized that he was being played, but why would you question what's there ordinarily? Jim's forgotten by now anyway, obscured by the angel, he's got no reason to assume it's anything other than himself at work. The wrongness is back with the negatives to feed from, and it coats it all, oily, greasy, soaking in the indignation and fanning the flames. It's a conspiracy, intention, the man was out to get him, to cause this, and fists clench again. He's lost his pen, there's nothing to jab with, nothing to gain silence from, but he'll step forward anyway, try to move around Castiel to get to the hated man behind him.]

He's trying to get me into trouble, can't you see it? Why're you being fucking Mister Magoo? I get you're a screw, doesn't mean you gotta be an ass about it.

[Castiel has a strong hunch that something's going on above his head between these two minds right now, and he doesn't like it. He feels helpless, and for a being of his might that's unusual enough to be frustrating. He takes a mental breath and calms himself down, trying to exude as much peace and serenity as he can. He shifts with Richie, not allowing him to pass. Then, with an steadying sigh, he nods.]

You can't control what he does. You have to adjust to him.

[He looks over his shoulder to Jim, studying him; at this point it's probably not safe to take his eyes off Richie for Jim's sake.]

Please cease.

Clearly, you did. We come from different worlds, and where I'm from there would be little point in reporting madness. The mad where I'm from are simply taken care of by their families, rather than being treated in infirmaries.

In other words, [He said, giving off more of a sense of smugness,] you were acting the part of a fool, but I'm sure that's not unusual for you.

I'm. Not. Crazy.

[Determinedly deluded about this, but still piiiissed.]

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