2020-03-01 - Why is Space Broken?

There is little right with this week. Maybe this is a good thing. Time going stagnant is something the wise concern themselves with. Still, there was very little right with this week.

Another night if totally interrupted sleep leaves Bax sitting in Sparrow's tub with a notebook filling with scratch notes fueled with nihilistic emotion and bringing Grant no closer to space. he's not left 7 Oak but that night to go to the hospital after a head injury ending in stitches, a band-aid, and a tupperware box of cookies. Being snippy and mean hasn't alleviated his anger nor his want to help people, but something about the intangible box he's stuck in has been prohibiting him from achieving this.

Either that or almost 2 weeks with little actual rest is clearly affecting him. Thankfully not so much so that he's made any personal attacks on Sparrow who's bust her ass to keep all of the Bax-crumbs of himself swept into a Grant-like pile so they do not get lost.

Bax was sleeping when Sparrow had last checked on him, but that must have been an hour or so ago by now. Just before Alfie got home. She almost fell asleep in his bed, nudged from the brink to ask if that's really what she wanted to do tonight. And maybe it was. It could be. But not until after she checked in on her BFF again to make sure he was managing some rest. And maybe to have a hard conversation with him if he wasn't. Wouldn't be too difficult to figure out which way the night was going when she doesn't come back.

When she creeps back into her room to find the bathroom light on, the door open, she moves, first, to her backpack to pull a little baggie out from the little hidden compartment in the back, then to go check on Grant. Though it's almost certainly unnecessary, she knock-knocks on the door before she steps in, climbing up onto the broad ledge of the ridiculous bathtub to sit roughly across from him. "How ya feeling?"

Grant is half absent and looks up at the motion and the shifting light rather than teh sound of her coming in. He igns back Fine. There's a pause and his jaw tightens, pausing and looks up to her eyes squinting. Do not bear teeth at her. Right. Got it. Signing he answers honest now that the flash bang of a response went off. Waiting for the world to happen and let me go. The world is not happening.

It's not much of an answer and he sets the sketchbook aside. He slouches into the tub and his eyes lid watching her. There's no signing, no speaking, but that doesn't mean nothing is being said. She made the effort to show up. He's making an active effort not to lash out at her too the way he has the world as of late. Sitting still they're both truly incredibly busy people.

His fingers ask on his behalf: Same dream. I yell for help. The world is deaf too. It can't hear me screaming and neither can I. I can't tell if I'm even doing it right or if everything is frozen so the sound can't move. You understand? You ever feel that?

With one bare foot to either side of the tub and one elbow braced against one knee, Sparrow sinks forward, shaking her head in earnest answer to the signed inquiry. She looks more tired than usual, like it's been a rough couple of days, couple of weeks, more than just this one situation bearing down on her. And still, there's not one inkling of irritation for Grant's mood, for his continued wakefulness. There's just worry, uncertainty, a crease to her forehead which adequately prefaces the conversation to come. Not confident that lip-reading will be sufficient here, she signs, I hear you, first. I think maybe we can't wait. I keep waiting for you to get some sleep, for you to be in a better place before we start. But maybe we can't. Maybe we need to just go. Go under. Delve. Trip. See what's going on inside of his head and try to untangle that mess. We can do that tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you're ready.

Grant has settled in; There's also a tupperware box with a bunch of snacks that were rummaged from Sparrow's collection of snacky snacks like some sort of junk food bento box. All the Dorritos are arranged to line up in order, with the pretzels stacked and the tiny nut selection metered out. the gummy worms have been hung over the edge of the container... he put some time into this. Then again he also hosted a wake for an eggroll that Daisy and Greg threw out before so.

Wait for what? The world is... it is. He sighs and watches her, molars lightly tapping together and signs back not in accusation but not /not/ an accusation. You're not ok. Looking to the door and the world beyond and back to her he signs, a bit through the Earth's bullshit, I need to kick someone's ass? As if he is at all qualified to.

Sparrow points to Grant. Wait for him. Not that there's been much point in it so far. There's been no better to be found. Everything just seems to keep getting worse. Less sleep means less patience. Less patience means less of the Bax she knows and loves. The pseudo-accusation gets an uneven shrug and a smirk as she signs back, 'Neither are you.' As if the obvious needed pointing out. 'No asses in need of kicking. We are our own enemies, right?' Her expression isn't as sharp as it should be, softened by the weight of that admission, but she doesn't dwell on that somber note long, quick to refocus on her friend. 'If we're gonna do this, we need to focus first. Get your head where it needs to be, so.' Is that apology in her expression? Maybe just a little bit. 'Tell me how you're feeling. Tell me what feels wrong.'

Grant slides down in the tub letting his head against the porcelain. This tub gets amazingly more traction as a conversation pit-couch than an actual tub some days. The lidded look follows her fingers as she signs. Pausing his fingers sign back My war isn't with you. He makes the orbit with his finger vaguely suggesting it's everything else around here.

When she talks, he listens. The rhetorical question brings a long pause and a shallow, tired, but aligned agreement. They are absolutely their own worst enemies. There's a sigh and he looks up when she indicates she's waiting on him. And he? He signs, <<Fear. Anxiety. There's.. hands grabbing me and everything pulling me apart until my ghost falls out. Depleted. Tired. I feel... punished for existing? >> It's so very matter-of-fact, though there's a pause. <<Anger. I don't now I've ever really.. been angry like this. Like something I love is being run through the saws. Can't hear them. I feel them. The vibration in my bones until my self falls off and it keeps going making me... hate. Everything.">> His head shakes and he murmurs very quietly, "Space didn't feel like this." There's a sigh and his hand reaches out to hers to grab, not to strike. "I wish you could have been there with me. At least a little while."

Sparrow's eyes say what she doesn't, that this isn't a side of Bax she's ever seen before, all this anger directed everywhere at once. Agreement, empathy, concern, a whole volume of emotion that she doesn't have the capacity to express in her current state, this downswing seeming so much lower than usual. When he reaches his hand out, she accepts without hesitation, his fingers given a squeeze. Without yet letting go, she sinks down into the tub on the opposite end, her knees tucked in against his. With another squeeze to his fingers, she lets go so that she can communicate with her own again, signing, 'I'm here now, and we're gonna go in there--' She means his head, her gestures making clear that this isn't some nebulous somewhere, but rather very specifically into his psyche. '--together. Pretty sure there's no way this can not be a bad trip. But I'mma be right here, alright?' As she reaches toward her pocket to pull out that dark plastic baggie again, she switches to words, asking him to, "Hand me a cool ranch. You aren't gonna wanna take this straight."

Grant holds onto her fingers with that part of him that wants to snag her off planet and let the rest of the damn thing burn, and the other part of his years of therapy to identify that this is NOT a rational impulse. Still it's there which bothers him enough to be repulsed and angry about that also. Slowly he takes his hand back. He takes one Dorito and puts it in his mouth and hands her the box.

munchmunchmunchmun- ...ch He blinks and watches and listens to the grim news before nodding resolute. "Yeah, well. it's gonna be bad either way." The words are quieter than he intends. Controlling volume is hard and he's operating off rote with his ears out. <<I was in a good place. I just... I want that back.>> Too tired to fight he croaks, "This is a job for Dr. Jones."

Sparrow sets the box-o-snacks where they both can reach it then opens the opaque plastic bag, its contents unseen. Taking up one of the cool ranch Doritos, she holds it as flat as she can manage and very carefully taps a white powder out of the bag and onto the chip, shaping a small pile which works out to be a fairly sizable dose of whatever this is. Doesn't look like they're taking standard LSD for this trip. Slowly, she extends the chip toward Bax and warns, "It tastes terrible. Really bad. I'm sorry." She isn't kidding. The psilocybin analog tastes like chemical death, but the chip helps. A little. It distracts the tongue from all the awfulness erupting on its taste buds. He's almost certainly going to need a few more to get it down to a bearable level. And maybe some water. She should've brought some water.

Grant watches and while bones achingly tired his curiosity has him watching this process like a hawk. Instead of looking repulsed his eyebrows go up. Oh, he's not looking forward to this, but it's new and that's something even if it's awful. If anyone ever needs a fried they can say This tastes awful, try this and have the person comply without question? Look no further.

His fingers take the chip taking care not to spill it in her bathtub. That could get really really weird for someone later. He promises, "If this stays weird, don't worry, I'll haunt you." In a world where abandonment is worse than death and the guy is pretty sure he can officially put Part-time Specter on his resume if he becomes a ghost again.

The chip is crammed in his mouth and eaten and- OH YEAH!!! There's the face. Either his body doesn't like him very much and wants him to suffer this or it's used to the abuse he manages to eat the damn thing and not reject the death to his tastebuds or over-imagine the inside of his head dissolving.

Vaguely as a last thought before surrendering to it he muses people wondering: "How'd he go?" "He put something weird in his mouth and ate it." "Oh. yeah that makes sense."

Funny that.

"You better," Sparrow quips back at the threat of being haunted. "But only after you're actually dead, alright?" Cuz she's still holding to that whole Not Dead Yet theory even if it's starting to feel more and more like it might not be right as the days draw on and everything in his head tells him otherwise. She makes a sympathetic face when she watches his contort in distaste, knowing full well how bad it is from personal experience. And not exactly looking forward to what comes next for her. She repeats the process with another Dorito, though her dosage is far, far smaller. Just enough to keep her in a similar arc to his with lower peaks. Able to empathize without being full on in the face-melting madness. The face she pulls after she's swallowed her chip might look like she's letting him verify it's gone, eyes closed and mouth wide and tongue out as she makes a, "Blugh," sorta sound. She chases it quickly with a gummi worm as she fishes out her phone, syncing it up with the blue tooth speakers near the mirror to pick out a good soundtrack for the journey. "Should be, like, thirty before it hits. I should prolly go get us some water. And pillows. You want a pillow?"

Grant eventually lets himself succumb to letting his world expand like an engineering blueprint in it's time. He murmurs with a snort, "I don't have to wait til I'm dead. I'll haunt you now. Or tomorrow." He stretches his back nodding. Half hour. He can handle a half hour of pent up frustration and impudent rage. His head rolls eyeing her for a long moment and cracks a grin when she stick her tongue out at him. He sticks his back out at her in return mocking in invite, "Yeah...well...if I was your tongue I wouldn't wanna be in your mouth either so nya." He winks with it though. His war isn't with her and he is, unashamed to say, creative enough to think of 23 other things to do with it. If... he had any inclination to get up or move. "Yeah, turning the tub into a casbah sounds kinda good right now... and oreos. We got any oreos?"

Sparrow gets something low-key playing then drops her phone down beside the snack box. A hand on either side of the tub, she pushes up and forward, leaning right into Grant's personal space to demonstrate one of the many things her tongue can do outside of her own mouth. In this case, dragging wide and flag up from his jaw over one cheek, leaving a damp trail in her wake when she climbs out of the dry bath tub to go hunt for supplies. "Try not to haunt anyone else while I'm away, alright?" She blows a kiss back over her shoulder on her way out of the bathroom. And then out of the bedroom. If she's gonna get oreos, it means a trip downstairs.

She's only gone a few minutes, heard rummaging around in her own kitchenette before she head back into the bathroom with both arms full. Mostly with pillows and her favorite quilt, but there are also bottles of water, some plain and some fizzy and flavored. And, of course, oreos. After offering over a pillow to Bax and throwing her own, along with the blanket, to the other end of the tub, she sets out the refreshments within easy reach then climbs right back in to the same spot she'd abandoned moments ago. Now comfier, cozier, warmer. And without any itches about other things they might need gnawing at the back of her head. "I wantcha to keep in mind that you're in control here. You and me. The drugs just facilitate, k?"

Grant wiiiiiiiinces as his face is licked. Yup. That...is a thing. He doesn't fight it though. He finishes his drawing which is a lot of sharp lines, and while not violent the line weight certainly is. When she returns the notebook is set aside and he takes the pillow and nests so hard he might not ever move out of that tub again. Sorry, world. Forward mail to here.

The positive is he's been way too tired to focus on any one thing which includes being angry, and the other is while he's a shit leader he is a great follower. They're in control of the out of control dunebuggy? Got it. Taking a deep breath both hands push his fingers through his hair idly trying to see if it's coming out or is his skull is feeling weird or what's happening. Fingers so far still attached.

"You and me to space and back again. Doooo not fall off the tracks. Got it." His hand reaches out and grabs her foot and drags it up into his lap with both hands and gives it a squeeze holding onto it. "I like your socks you know that? Of the many... many things wrong with Terra," Not Earth. That's not how they do it across the galaxy. "I really like your socks."

Sparrow's socks really are cute tonight, depicting the Loch Ness Monster in red-striped white gym socks on a bright aqua background, though they don't much match with her pink-and-sunshine pajama shorts or the further mismatched grey tee shirt which completes the staying-in-for-the-night look. She gives her toes a confined wiggle when her foot is drawn up onto Grant's lap. "Wanna see if I can find some Mothman socks," she muses, as if most of her socks aren't just adorable stripes or bright solids to complement whatever else she might be wearing at the time. Unlike tonight.

Pillow situated behind her, she scooches down comfortably and tries to relax without getting so very relaxed that she might fall asleep. She probably won't be able to fall asleep with the psychedelic in her head, but she's not particularly experienced with such low doses, so who knows! "Do you remember the first time we tripped?" she wonders, though one might wonder if she does, patchy as her memory is. "Most of what I remember is playing Cat's Cradle for, I dunno. Forever. All night. Unlocking new, never before seen patterns like we were decrypting the secrets of the universe in string?"

Finally an actual smile on Bax's face. He bites her big toe, sock and all just saying hi before hugging the besocked foot to his chest. His eyes slit watching her-now blonde- and answers after a bit. Time is always hard for him. Order of processes is just simply a challenge with his brain's wiring; the passage of time, the order of time, the sheer volume of it has little to no resonance with him to use as a guidepost. There are moments though and events that stand right out.

"I reeeeemember telling the DaVinci code to suck it. I mean it's Gray Harbor. how do we know we weren't' unlocking the...ministries of the universe or or something as profound or profane?" There's a long pause and he says, "I want to paint a door like Beetlejuice and see where it goes." At least he sounds like him again.

Sparrow squawks at the toe-biting even if it wasn't hard enough to merit that sorta noise, her eyes going comically wide before she giggles. Once hugged to his chest, those toes get another wiggle, though this seems a little more purposeful, like petting. Sort of. Almost. Those same toes press at his chest for the door-painting idea as she notes, "That sounds dangerous." With an upward pitch of black brows toward blonde hair, she asks, "Did you see the door in my basement? The hotel door on the beach?" With a shake of her head, she tells him, "Not that one. Not yet. And not without Alfie." Like opening painted-on doors was a totally plausible prospect. Like it's maybe something she's wondered after herself with some potentially undue seriousness. After slurping up another gummi worm, she asks, "What kinda door would you paint?"

Grant grins, tiredly and in spite of his overall mood when Sparrow squawks. Okay that was worth it. When her foot starts petting him he pauses and murmurs, "I hope it is still attached." It's been a long three days and he's seen way way too many movies. He does check though, "Ah good. Uhhhh..." This is a great question. "Man I want to like... I want to make my art into doors. Just... push an image out there. See what's on the other side. Where it... where it goes. I want to walk into the star door and... I want-" He looks to Sparrow and there's a bit of regret. "I don't need to stay I just want to know. But I think I'd start with a chalk drawing. See if I can open up the sidewalk and go down into the water, past the concrete, and see what's happening with my seahorse buddy. Maybe I like the world weightless? I like... the colour and the floating."

Another night, another set of circumstances, Sparrow would offer no confirmation about her anatomy, allowing Grant's imagination to creep itself out, but tonight, with their particularly restorative intention in mind, it's kinda imperative that she does, that she not let the weird ramp up in unhelpful ways. And so, she murmurs, "It's attached," in dry, slightly disappointed assurance even as he checks, an outside source confirming his findings. She's still, though, when he starts talking doors, about all the illustrated places he wants to go, not at all bothered by the talk of space in this context, no grudge for the honest answer. With an uneven smile, she tells him, "So that's where we start," like it's nothing. "When it's time to experiment. Dream-delve. See if we can control it. I got a few others signed on. Just wanna write up my process, figure out what I wanna figure out and how we wanna go about it. Then review with the group." Smile growing, she promises, "Then doors. Opening into weightless places."

It's funny, really. Cuz here feels kinda weightless, too. Not quite the same as space or water, but it's like the world is getting softer. Or maybe they are. Edges are blurring, expanding, and there's overlap between her foot and his chest, like his shirt and her sock are intermingling, merging, one. It could feel like connectedness, on a good day, like becoming one with one's surroundings. On a Veil-cursed, no sleep, angry, frustrated, scared sorta bad day? It might be alarming how quickly oneness can feel like disintegration, how distinctly the patterns in the tiles past Sparrow's head resolve into sharp-nailed hands reaching toward Grant, seeking to pull him apart.

Any other day he revels in letting his brain creep him out He loves visceral, tactile things. He loves them less when the inside of his mind is about to get very three dimensional and when he's not battling severe anger management containment with his brain weasels girding for war.

At the assurance he hugs the foot lazily informing, "well it's mine now." There's a pause and he adds, "You'll get it back." Everything is starting to break down. It's not his first time, but it's a singular one. His mood shifts as the world sharpens and those tiny fingers cutting into his matrix, agitation playing a concert in expression. "Good. I don't want to leave, I just... want to go, ya know?" He's brought to start leaning back, long grabby hand s getting a glance from one side then the other and he slouches down in the tub to leeeean further away. "I feel like I'm sinking into pudding made of sand... the tub's not filling right?" The flash of rage manifests in a faint look of disapproval as he glances side to side trying to chill while staying just... out of...reach.

Sparrow's side of this chemical endeavor is several magnitudes mellower given the disparity in their doses, the inequity in their recent sleep. It's barely perceptible, the slow and subtle transition from chilling in the bathtub to chilling in the bathtub while her brain turns the brightness and saturation up on the world. She might not catch it at all if not for the shift in Grant's attention, the way he sinks away from something she can't see, even when she peeks over her shoulder. Voice calm and steady, she promises, "The tub's not filling. You're not sinking. You're right here, Baxy, and I'm right here with you." Reaching for her phone, she queues up the next song, something which might magnify the sinking with a good drop or two, something to feed the narrative already beginning so that it can play out. Quietly, she wonders, prompts, "But what if we were sinking. Where would happen? Where would we go?"

Grant eyes those tiles- dagger claws trying to grasp at them -no him- in sharp clutches made of frustration and blame like some primordial manifestation of shit he's been avoiding dealing with. Her foot is not let go and a dirty look is given to the tile. The question though prompts a different response and her foot is now an anchor and her leg a bit of a lifeline as the world pulls and stretch. He signs <<"Down. Where the world is... wet.. green and blue. Where sound is a feeling>> his fingers tap his breastbone indicating here. Fingers lift maybe pushing bubbles away so they don't bang into the sharp grabby tiles and pop. <<Can't though. Everything is going...gray. Without colour how can anything breathe?>> To him, apparently, this makes total sense. To Sparrow he recognizes, this is logical right? Why else would he tell her. Tangential logic has taken the wheel here.

It's difficult to pinpoint when the color goes from draining to drained, from blurring into brilliant white to dimming into muted greys. Still, there's breath, movement. Patterns. Nothing is quite still. Even Sparrow seated across from Grant, seemingly eons away with only that limb between them to keep them tethered, vibrates with energy as if outlined in an aura of potential, promise. None of it colored in and given life and vibrance. It almost seems as if she's in a bubble herself, swallowed up. It would explain why her voice sounds more distant, indistinct when she promises, "You're still breathing." He can feel the words, reverberating through the foot he holds, through the bathtub beneath him, all around. "Pay attention to your breath. In..." She does as she instructs. "And out..."

Grant listens, this rage in his skin, his matrix, as foreign to him as breathing underwater and yet disturbingly as easy. He doesn't trust the environment, his senses, and worst; himself. The whole effect of his condition makes him the least trustworthy person for himself to rely on some days, and right now.

Sparrow, however, with all her inconsistencies like tidal waves of mood, idea, texture, and influence are somehow the constant. When life comes crashing down on you in waves find a pro surfer. So when she says to breathe in and out again, and Grant feels the tide rising up around him like his skin is floating and the water level is rising and his hair feels like it's going on end and he becomes weightless carried by this moment? He breathes, water or not.

Is he growing gills? Has he been blessed by that Mermaid they helped for saving her stuff? Will the seahorse show up? He doesn't know. Getting past being pissed that people are so fucked up they have to ruin everything from stuff in the water to whole ecosystems is a hurdle he's struggling with; that nihilistic disgust of people and the inevitable.

"It feels cramped." That's because you are in a bathtub, Baxter. "like... people are totally disregarding everything they are throwing away and it's filling... everything. Every space with sharp... hands and scaring the fish away. Making the water fill with rust. Like they just don't give a shit and it's manifesting in some... cluttered nightmare that's going to rise up and consume us."

Sparrow hadn't expected such a high and heavy crest. She was prepared to address the immensity of space, the enormity of Grant's desire to dance among the stars and surrender to all the vast possibility of the universe, but his voiced hurts are closer to home, weighed down by reality, rooted in truth. For what might be a small eternity or no time at all or possibly both simultaneously, she's quiet, only the curl of her toes against his chest offering acknowledgement of his claustrophobia. She tips her head back against the edge of the tub, sinking deeper into the pillows cradling her, inching incidentally closer to her delving friend.

"It can be difficult feeling so expansive when the world seems so small," she agrees eventually, her words a soft lull like the gentler movement of the water below the surface, away from the waves. "But maybe we can adapt. Pull it back in a little. Feel with your body." Like there's anything else to feel with. "Your hands. Your feet. Your face. What do you feel right now?" Sure, the likelihood of what drug-steeped senses perceive matching reality is low, but it's a start, an anchoring in nearness, a return to what's immediate and maybe manageable.

Grant is not indigenous to fear and fury consuming him. This sliver of whatever he ripped out of the Old Wolf paralyzing that part o his soul that can say fuck it, heal, and forgive with such elasticity that lets him bounce back. There are times that Sparrow's been there for that; whenever she was able to and even as his perceptions of reality and self lay juxtaposed in sharp pieces she is here again.

He listens. He pushes back against the sharp things afraid to touch them even if they are not real. "I-... it's scary... I feel... it tastes like hate. I didn't know I know what it tastes like, but it's sharp and the ...there's a web overhead and like... cold." He might have expected to go to space but, "It feels like I'm singing and the sky is getting further away. Like webs of steel. Can't... we can't fly like this."

Sparrow wants to give Grant something better to taste, sour candies and soft skin and cool water. She wants to give him better things to feel and see and experience, something a little nearer to all their previous delves into psychedelic space, all the strangeness and wonder they've shared in the past. But this isn't the time for that. That's not why they're here. This is about fixing whatever's broken inside of him, finding that seed of hurt and dealing with it. "Alright." A soft stall while she considers the implication of her words, taking care before speaking. "Look at the web, at the patterns it forms. What do you see? Is there anything caught in the web?"

Grant is not indigenous to anger and fear gets a little fence around it and a blanket thrown over it and ignored leaving this very unfamiliar waters to navigate. It's really paying out to have the best co-pilot. Her foot seems to be the anchor in this case, and his fingers hold on while the geometry warbs into steel webs, and lashing accusation.

"There's... stuff... Like discarded things people abandoned. Something moving too. They're trying to cover it up and strangle it and it's glowing. I think it's a moth." Moths don't glow, but they may here. I might also be the nightlight in the outlet over there, but for now it's physical metaphor made real enough. So many thigns flying around ignoring it bunched up and stuck."

Sparrow's head tips back as she listens, as she tries to let his words guide her thoughts. Her dosage isn't enough to inspire any particularly vivid visuals, but she can catch the patterns well enough, the way the tiled walls shift and sway slightly with the background music, angled into web-like patterns, how the light seems to flicker and flutter in peripheral vision. What she misses are the things tangled within the steel threads, the hate and the anger, the attempts to smother the light. But she knows well enough how Grant's light has been buried beneath bullshit for weeks, his usual self struggling against all the negativity tangled up inside of him. "Focus on the things closest to the glow. Look at them. What are they? Can we convince them to stop?"

Get... closer? Grant really is not enthusiastic about this plan. His eyes flinch and he holds onto Sparrow's foot his fingers tentatively reach out and the look on his face grows in a palpable dread. There's a haunting that exists in the silent spaces between trees that is stared at for too long, and creeks in the house that cause one to feel the things that lurk in the shadows crawl under their skin... and move.

Is it possible to be horrified and hateful at the same time? /Hatrified?!/ The things that people do when they lash out. There's a grimace as he tries to wrestle with feelings bigger than him. Teeth grind together and he fights trying to move things that don't want to move, "Hands.... mom's... maybe... They keep ... stealing me. Like they can just fucking decide what's left- She doesn't... get... to do that!"

If he's aware he is in a tub it isn't showing but the stress of ten years of being told he's the problem and weird is his fault doesn't get old. It really only goes somewhere he hopes he never has to trip over again. A trickle of blood drips from his nose slowlyfree hand swatting in front of him murmuring 'Idon'twannago youcan'tmakemego leggoofme' At least he's not hitting Sparrow. Vindictive and resentful and reactionary as he is there is an invisible wall there...
around her...
always.

Sparrow knew this wouldn't be pleasant. That's the point. Find the trauma and resolve it. She keeps calm through the horror, through the hatred, through the flailing of arms and the defiant muttering, a soft flex and curl of her toes gently petting at Grant's chest, that steady contact a reminder that he isn't alone, that he has a lifeline. The cadence falters when she notices the trickle of blood, when a pang of panic shoots through her body and shouts to her brain that this is Not Normal and maybe she should call for actual proper medical help.

Wait. No. No, she can... she can fix that. She can keep his body whole while they peel at all the awfulness plaguing his brain. For her, the colors of her own glimmer shine more brightly, linger longer, an iridescent aura connecting her to Bax as capillaries repair themselves and the bleeding slows. Hopefully, it holds, because she isn't about to stop here. Not when they're getting closer to the cause of this Unnaturally Nasty Bax business.

"It's okay, Bax. I'm here. You aren't alone." Her voice remains soft, steady, no evidence of her concern. "You get to decide what happens next. Focus on the light. What do you want to happen to the light?"

That glimmer reaching out to find the frayed edges seem to find spots where, by will of knowledge Sparrow can see are worn thin. The better news is that Grant's nosebleed seems stress reduced even though his body is a chemical slurry right now. Stress, it's a killer.

The toes dig into his chest and cause enough of a disruption in the matrix he refocuses on her; rallies really. So many conflicting feelings with rage and distrust to the people he should be able to trust in life and failed him still leaving their grubby fingers squishing the light trying to escape. Still Sparrow is one of three people in life he has been able to trust to any extent so when his teeth gnash it's not at her, and when she says 'move' he does because she said to.

"I... It's crumple... squashed. Trapped. I want it- I want it to go free so the spider things don't eat it."

"Good." Sparrow tries to keep that prompt response as calm and even as the rest of her words, but there's a brightness in her tone she can't quite mask, an appreciation for the clarity of his vision that comes through clearly. She can't know what it's like on the other side of this interaction, her own high mellow enough that the flood of emotion pouring off Grant in waves hits her only as a consistent buzz of anxiety, steady enough to keep her sharp, focused. "It's bigger than it looks." She can trust his honesty. She can trust his imagination. "You can feel that, right? How it's still moving? How it's pushing out? Stretching?" The gentle words are interrupted with a rough snort of laughter, out of place in this tense atmosphere. "I think we should clap our hands. In case it's a fairy." She doesn't wait for Bax to start, though she's slow when she begins, one clap, then another, waiting to see if the sound has any effect, to see how that homage to Tinkerbell plays in his grim, twisted trip.

Navigating in the dark is hard, and when the world looks like a kaleidoscope with ink and tile clawing and cloying at you. Grant lifts the back of his wrist to his nose with a sniffle and murmurs at the red smear, "...shit..." Not a great sign but these things happen, right?

He watches Sparrow clap and asks, "Don't we need bells? Will this work?" Never the less he is clapping and specifically at a bit of tile that's near the corner of the room. "I dunno if it's a fairy but it's brighter." Or maybe he's looking up where the light is, but let's not punch progress in the junk when progress is being made. "Keep doing that... it's helping."

"S'alright," Sparrow murmurs of the blood, far less worried about it now than she had been when it first showed up unexpectedly. These things happen, apparently. "I mean," she begins when asked about bells, her smile widening easily. "Pretty sure we should prolly be dancing, too, but Tinkerbell was alright with just some applause." Which is quickly what her clapping's becoming, more than just a metered beat-keeping, rising to a properly encouraging flurry as if she, too, might be able to see that fluttering light. Maybe she does. Her gaze certainly seems to follow his, even if that means she's staring at what is pretty obviously the sink-side nightlight that, by her measure, is only a little bit brighter, the glow stretching out in intriguing patterns, her lower dosage supplying much more muted visuals. And despite her assurance that clapping will be enough? Her shoulders are shifting at double-time to the mellow music playing in the background, a bit of bathtub dancing coming naturally to the work of fairy encouragement.

Grant is going to trust her on the 'this is okay' thing. Nosebleeds are sadly not uncommon. Sometimes it's the drugs, but really being way fucking stressed out also has left him no stranger to this. He might also see his brain melting like a Jolly Rancher and assume he's dying for yet another time this year. That Sparrow assures him status is quo? Well it's entirely beneficial for scope.

The inky, tangram limbs with their sharp tile claws try to hold on. but her plan has handed him something he can at least perceive as a weapon. A tool at least, to make a change with and not feeling entirely futile is step one. Actual Cannibal Shia LeBeouf set the bar for angry clapping but damned if Grant's no going to make that meme work for it.

In his vision the grout or light between the tiles glows... brighter? Every concussive clap of theirs coming closer to shattering the tiles that bind until the claws become frantic to hold on. "LET. GO." It's almost a growl and far from the usual Bax, a little blotto, raising an eyebrow telling off his enemies like 'Wooooah could you like, maybe not, dude?' Confrontations' not his strong suit, but there are times, like now, there is thunder and action. Free the glowy tiny bug person!!!

And it is thunderous. Well, as thunderous as two people on drugs in a bathtub can make a bit of clapping. There's intention and enthusiasm. Sparrow even sits up straighter, a fact felt as the position of her foot against his chest shifts a little, slipping slightly lower. Oblivious to his visuals, she has only his response to go on, and his expression and bearing tell her everything she needs to know. Even if her hands sting a bit with the strength of her applause, she keeps going, chirping an encouraging, "Good. Good!" his way. In the direction of the monsters with their tile-claws and shadow-sinews, she calls an insistent, "Fuck off!" like she might in some other situation when Bax is being a little too nice to someone who's being too much of a dick. It's a brief aside, a momentary distraction, focus promptly returned to her BFF as she tells him, "Just keep your eyes on the light, Baxy. You got this. You know how to fly."

Grant is really the passive role in a conflict. With direction he can go as all in as his little anarchist heart can go. He's the reinforcements, but she's the teeth. The clapping builds with purse in a way that might even scare off lingering soot sprites.

There are cracks and there's light in the widening gaps. Is he standing in the tub? No he's up on his knees by a lot. "Fuck yes I can fly and I can crow." He has no idea what he's talking about but you watch Hook enough and it all makes sense. They're their own sort of Lost Boys tribe. There are cracks in porcelain claws that grow wider as the sound breaks them down; fragility forming. A will his own reaches out , grabs the nightlight from the wall across from them, and pulls it to him like it's the next best thing to TK pull across the room since the lightsaber.

Legit the room gets dark as he reaches out to steal the trapped fairy from the clutches and rips the nightlight out of the wall. He falls back in the tub to a slouched sit gently cradling the small appliance, er, fairy in hands and there is a stillness.

The anger stops and there is a stillness of fear and uncertainty that hover like old cigar smoke. His nose stopped bleeding though it left part of his lip stained red. his face is flush and his cheeps are damp with tears of too many emotions. Witha deep breath he murmurs, "...we believe in you." And somehow, against reason, the 'fairy' in his hands begins to glow." Looking to Sparrow hesitantly as if it might break he says to her, 'k-keep....keep clapping."

It grows brighter, and brighter, his hands slowly opening casting stark shadows on the wall and ceiling until his hands open in lotus form and there is a radiance that just hovers there. He marvels at it for a long moment, and picks up his gaze to Sparrow with a very Bax-grin returned. Tired, winded, he laughs, "It's so pretty."

As soon as Bax moves, so does Sparrow, the anchor against his chest dropping as positions shift. The pillows fall into useless piles at either end of the tub, comfortable seats should either sink back down. She, instead, turns to sit up on the ledge, to bring her knee to his hip so that some contact is maintained, lest he go drifting through his chemically amplified mindscape all alone. The sudden darkness earns a sharp gasp, a slowing of her applause. Until she's encouraged to continue. Right. That's a fairy, not a nightlight. Except, well. It's still just a bulb without any current. Whether it's his will or hers, the light is definitely not all in Grant's head. She keeps clapping until the bulb--fairy?--is glowing all on its own, until Bax looks up. Shoulders slump slightly as hands lower, as her forehead furrows with hopeful concern. "Yeah, ya are," she tells him quietly, smiling crookedly. "How ya feeling? Wings working again?"

Grant is tired. Is he sweating? He can't even tell but he's smiling like there's the relief of a planet being shoved off from atop of him. His weight leans and settles against her knee, and the smile continues. The nightlight should by all accounts not be glowing without a current, but it is, and shimmers just a little bit like one might expect.

There's a tired, very Grant-like smile' that returns with a figure 8 wobble of his head that sways him on his feet with the compliment and he sinks slowly to a sit leaning his back against her. She gets to be big spoon this time. His head tilts back against her shoulder looking up with a tired smile lucid and drifting like melty rainbow sherbet worth snowboarding in. He looks down at the 'fairy' cradled in his hands and the very real glow shimmering like some delicate embodiment of his peace of mind.

"Everything's weightless again. Look." And from the light, somehow cast above like the light moving and dancing off the inside walls of the aquarium, liquid rainbow moving in organic waves the tranquil trippy image plays out on the ceiling above the tub and off the surfaces around.

This is what a good day should feel like. He settles in the tub next against her and just lets his mind coast with the light show.