2020-02-10 - Ghosts of the Present

It's 2:30 in the morning and Grant Baxter wakes up, alone covered in sweat and tasting blood in his mouth where he bit his cheek in his sleep. He's gasping for air as he sits bolt upright, his hand pressing to the ceiling above his loft. The world around him one disorienting hollow sound like there's the illusion of music inaudible and undefined and muted in such a way he can't hear himself screaming, but he can feel it. His head instead is an alarm of flashing colours and feelings so vivid he can taste them.

The color washes from Bax's face as he leans over the side, in case he's about to lose his lunch and is in that space where it would almost be much better if he did lose his lunch. Maybe he'd feel better. After a while of just nothing he collapses onto his side and pulls the covers back up and lies awake, shaking as his pillow and face stay damp with sweat and tears. The lack of exceptional insulation brings a chill back, skin cold.

After a half hour (or forever) of trying to face himself back to sleep he picks up his phone.
There's one number he's calling at 3:08 a.m.

(TXT to Sparrow) Grant : Please tell me you're up. please please please

Sparrow's awake. Not precisely her typical MO when she's got lab in the morning, but the depression nap that hit hard late in the afternoon has made sure she's wide the fuck awake in the middle of the night. She's even fussing with her phone when the text comes in, playing some mindless game while she listens to the shower she wasn't up for joining, waiting for Alfie to come to bed. Seconds tick by in stillness as she stares at the notification, knowing full damned well that she has an easy out, an excuse of sleeping that might let her avoid being there for her best friend in the whole wide world. Being awful takes no effort at all. Setting down the phone would be even easier than walking away.

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : I'm here 💜

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Whatcha need, beautiful?

(TXT to Sparrow) Grant : Everything's not okay and no one's home. I dug a hole to a place where the stars ate the sky and everything tastes like rust.

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Okay.

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Is this drugs or a Dream?

(TXT to Sparrow) Grant : I don't know. Maybe both but I don't really remember last night. It sort of feels like neither

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Okay.

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Do you need me to come get you?

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Are you at the trailer?

(TXT to Sparrow) Grant : Yeah.

(TXT to Grant) Sparrow : Gimme 20.

Grant lays there looking up at the ceiling. There's several packs of stick on glow-in-the-dark stars which still feel entirely too bright in their dim incandescence. HE takes some time, eyes fixed on one point walking his brain through the same exercises he finds for Bad Times. Finds a fixed point and focuses on breathing, and remembering his anchor is somewhere en route. Look at the stars. Space. All of it. Possibility.

God he's tired. He does manage to pull his ass upright trying to hop down without faceplanting (not that the bean bag isn't there). When Sparrow gets there he's sitting on the couch in a shirt he's not sweat through, a blanket wrapped over his shoulders like a Russian Grandma, and a miracle brownie for the sugar and hopefully to level his shit out. It isn't keeping his hand from shaking or that haunted look from going away. He is upright and to the couch with a sniffle.

On a good day, Sparrow could make it from her place to his in ten minutes, tops. With the weather all slushy, the travel time is easily doubled. Add in a conversation with AJ, pulling on some clothes, gathering some emergency supplies and just general lack of oomph? It's at least a half-hour before the familiar red Kia pulls up outside the trailer where Grant lives. The former redhead hasn't bothered with make-up or going out clothes, though there might always be an emergency party kit in her trunk, just in case. It's left there. For now, all she brings with her is a canvas bag and the big black coat which hides everything she's wearing except her smiling sunshine pajama pants and her worn sneakers. With purple laces. They don't even match what she's wearing. Either she was dead asleep or someone else isn't in a great place either.

She knocks before trying the door, heading right on in when she finds it unlocked. A quiet, "Hey," is all the blonde offers as she stills at the door to kick off her shoes, clearly expecting to be here a while. She sets the bag on the floor by the couch as she sinks down sideways with arms promptly wrapping around Grant, pulling him in... against her cold, damp, just-outside-in-the-icky-weather self to offer comfort. Or warm up. Possibly both.

Grant looks up to the door when it opens. This is not the first or last time his best accomplice is going to find him a jittery mess. She sits down. He leans sideways and slides an arm up to hug hers and just take solace there. His hearing aids aren't in , but he can still speak. how loud? He doesn't know. "I keep disappearing..." His eyes close and he can feel the sound reverb his throat, and his chest, and his head even if it's off. Way way off. Quietly in a croak of irritation and exhaustion he pleads with her, "I don't want to disappear. I'm sorry for trying to go."

Sparrow makes no attempt at verbal communication once she catches the absence of hearing aids. Neither does she try to draw away to use her hands. Everything she needs to say for the moment can be communicated through contact, through tightening that hug and tilting her head in against him. He's not disappeared now. She can feel him. He can feel her. He's here. Present. It's okay. One hand lifts from that snug hold to pet at his head, to keep him close as she presses kisses to his hair, lets him feel her breath ruffling those magenta tresses. It's okay.

Grant slowly unwinds and pulls his arm back not caring that she's damp, or fuzzy, or cold. He cares she's here and mores o HE is here. He keeps having dreams where he's not and it's starting to wear on him. He doesn't have to be anything, and maybe that's the relief; not that he's ever anything other than himself to the hilt. With Sparrow, bestie, dream wifey, partner in art..Artner(?!)... there's never a judgement. Fingers curl at the damp wool on the back of her shoulders and he hangs on as if there's threat to the contrary. Taking a deep breath he just repeats, "I'm sorry Sparrow. I don't..." His hands sign to her <<Know? I don't. Wrong. Something's wrong. me? I don't know.>> And there's the deep breath to try to keep him from making himself dizzy or sick all over again.

Sparrow finds Grant's eyes as best she can, unsteady as he is, and gives him a proper Mama Bird look, dark brows pitched upward toward pale hair. <<You're okay.>> Whatever else is going on, that seems true enough. He's whole and present and uninjured. Except that little bite on the inside of his mouth. He's okay. She shrugs out of her coat without getting up, letting the heavy black fabric slouch down around her hips, revealing the poorly matched tee shirt below, its black surface hosting the vestige of a long-faded logo at somber odds with her too-bright pants. She reaches down for the bag she brought setting it down on her lap, where they both can reach, and pulls out a couple of the treats within. First, a little plastic bottle of chocolate milk. Second, a small box of goodies Corey brought home from the patisserie. There's more in there, much of which is likely to be food, but she starts with her best stuff before setting in to proper prying. <<Take your time. Tell me when you're ready.>>

Grant just watches her and is, for all his mind wants to dig a deep deep hole and try to hide in it away and sleep forever to fight of the exhaustion? he nods. He's willing to trust her in this. He doesn't bother to go get his appliances. The world feels bright and the loud is unimportant to him. The quiet is nice really. Both eyebrows lift. Coreycakes!

In spite of his mood there's a smile that forms as comfort comes in second favourite form: food. He opens the box so what ever is in there can be put in his face to make the void maybe feel not so vast. His fingers start to weave a picture not wanting to paint it or put it in her head. He's still not wanting it to be in his but it may have to come out.

<<Winter sky. Trees, tall like shadows with fingers. Moon: huge and so very bright. Feel myself like a plant pulled from teh earth. Night too bright and cold. I was dead again. Again... and again.>> The distress is starting to wear on that a bit even as that line that was a hell of a scratch has faded fro the time he professed he died twice and it was 'no big deal'.

It's a little bit of a deal.

Dark eyes look to her to see if she's following this chaos trip as he drinks his chocolate milk before adding to that.

It's impossible to tell what the treats are before they're eaten, the petits fours all covered in chocolate or icing of one color or another, their insides layered with cakes and creams. Except the two teensy little bite-sized eclairs. Those are easy to identify. And while they're surely meant to help bring Bax back to center? Sparrow steals one all the same, a whole eclair popped past her lips as she watches. A hand sets to his arm as her brows draw together, a faint hint of anger at whatever did this to him underscoring the otherwise obvious sympathy. Rather than waiting for the more--who wants more when it's already this terrible, filled with the repeated death of her person--she offers in all sincerity, <<You can stay with me for a while, alright? AJ won't mind. Has his own room. You stay. I won't let anything take you. Okay?>>

Food is best when shared. It's why pop tarts come in twos; so one can show love. Or if you are Vyv that translates to contempt maybe. Look, there is room for argument both ways. He looks up and looks around and nods slowly. Company good. There is a deep breath and he tells her <<There were saws. Like I was building my rap but cutting me apart like trees over... and over... and over... like a ... garbage compactor or coffee grinder and then I was... I'm nothing.>> Looking up he pauses looking at her, scared, "Am I a ghost?? What if I'm a ghost?" A ghost that eats food and skates apparently.

The plastic bag between them crunches more than it should when Sparrow leans in at Bax's questions, suggesting there might be more snacks hidden therein, but who's thinking about that right now? Not her. Nope. Those snacks are getting squished cuz she's ignoring all that crinkling to squeeze Grant tightly as she tells him, "You're not a ghost. You are NOT a ghost." Nevermind that he can't hear her. Or even see her lips. She's mumbling right against his skin, and the intention translates very directly in a glint of glimmer, a transmission of thought, of emotions letting him know he's here, she can feel him, solid and whole. "You're alive, Baxy. And you are NOT nothing. You are the most not nothing thing I know."

Grant gets so damn tired for the fight to discern what is real. Some mentalists get thrown at doctors because no one believes things are too real they can't understand. Grant started life in reverse where he had to question reality which only got legitimately less real. That he could be convinced he really is a ghost haunting this earth? Entirely plausible after this month which could take a while to deconstruct. He's still not convinced he's not a Jedi of some flavor because he's made things move. That he can feel this assurance- maybe less like earth and more like brownie mix- helps. Swallowing he nods and presses a kiss to her temple and holds her there. "How I get shit done without you some days? I dunno." He signs I. bag. there. me. which is short form for lemme go pack a bag. This is happening. He sighs murmuring to himself (too loudly) "Fuck I am too tired to sleep. How is this a thing? That's a life foul."

Sparrow doesn't want to let go. Yeah, she gets it. Her invitation. Gotta move to follow through. But she's not ready yet. Even when his words fall too loud too close to her ear. She just keeps right on snugging Bax until she's worked through her own knot of emotion and can straighten up and play the part of strong friend again. Tonight, it really does take effort, pulling from reserves which are running severely low as life--and brain chemistry--has very suddenly caught up with her. The smile she works up below a quick little totally-wasn't-crying sniffle is sincere if not precisely standard issue, and it comes with an assurance of, <<We have drugs for that. And Netflix.>>* Ya know, depending on which way he wants to tilt. But seeing as they are leaving, she works to get her coat back on, to pull her sneakers on while he packs, while she runs through whether or not she'll be able to skip tomorrow citing a family emergency, making up the labs another day. It'll be fine. She'll figure it out.

Grant grabs his go bag, and really just throws his jeans and stuff in the bag. He zips up his hoodie and grabs his coat. There's a canvas bag to put all the snacks in because those are coming with, and his hearing aides are in for now. The recharger box in with his things. He stands and watches her for a moment, his face mottled and eyes still bloodshot from all of everything, but he smiles, just a bit. "Remarkable." he observes. "I think you're taller than when I left you last, Alice." Leaning over he presses a kiss to her forehead and hugs her again. There's stillness, but a better kind than what he woke to and says in heartfelt manner, "You think this is what two snowpeople dancing feels like?" So many winter layers. He's trying to rally. It's going to be a long ass night, but he's working on it. Does he bother locking the house? Who knows. (He actually does) and climbs into the Kia with her taking a deep breath he murmurs, "Thanks. for the rescue." Looking at the moon he squints.

Does he ever get to know why does he keep having dreams of dying and being a ghost? Who knows.
Not tonight though.