crossing_lostrp | [Hugh] PTSD Anonymous

Current Mood: somber
Current Location: Camp Crash

Entry tags:

[Hugh] PTSD Anonymous

Who: Hugh Emerson
Where: Camp Crash
When: Day 21, Oh-Dark-Thirty in the morning
Invited: Anyone at Camp Crash
Status: Complete [Closed]

The bodies of the vampires burned briskly. They'd been carried well down the beach, dumped onto a pile of wood "borrowed" from the regular signal fire supply, and doused with a cupful or two of Dr. Pierson's moonshine. Then Sayid had set them afire without ceremony. Monsters didn't deserve any such consideration as far as Hugh was concerned.

The bodies of their victims had been collected and laid out side by side under tarps and blankets, awaiting the arrival or George or Daisy, or both. Once they'd done their jobs, the victims would be given a funeral and then burned as well. Hugh stared at the lumpy tarps for a long moment, then trudged over to sit down by the signal fire.

Sleep wasn't an option anymore tonight. Conversations buzzed all over camp. Most of the camp was there, standing or sitting or pacing anxiously. Chloe was absent, being tended to in a shelter. Sun, Carrie and Rose Elder were huddled with Veronica, who was no longer hysterical, though Hugh wasn't certain her withdrawn silence was a big improvement. She was a smart girl, maybe too smart. Hugh could hear some of the more inflexible minds among them trying already to rationalize what had happened.

Veronica was too smart to be able to retreat into denial that way. She couldn't deny the evidence of her own eyes. Question was: was she flexible enough to wrap her mind around it and come out whole? Hugh didn't know, though he hoped so. Only time would tell.

Hugh heard the crunch of footsteps approaching. He looked up and gratefully received the cup of coffee extended to him. "What's news?" he asked before taking a sip.

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Sayid sat down and sipped at his own coffee. He preferred tea, but after the past few hours the native coffee's added effects were more than welcome. "Chloe is sleeping now. The Doctor says that her health is good -- for a 75 year-old human." Hugh grimaced, and Sayid studied the dark surface of the coffee in his Oceanic Airlines mug.

"Molly drift off yet?"

Sayid shook his head. "No. She has run out of tears, and the Winchesters are with her." Hugh raised a skeptical eyebrow. "They are being respectful," he assured the older man, who simply nodded. "Also, the Doctor asked for us to leave the Wraith ship alone. He is... excited about its components."

Wraith didn't technically age their victims. Although the results were not only seemed like they did, but often mimicked the physical deterioration of aging. It was actually a complex chemical process.

The Doctor did what he could for Chloe. Some Willow bark tea, adminstered by Sayid, as he couldn't even touch the stuff (the basis for asprin). He'd need the lab at the medical facility, Rodney... and, unfortunately, Doctor House, to help him do a chemical breakdown and see if it was possible to reverse the process. It could be done. In about a million years, it could anyway. But he seemed to recall one needed a volunteer to donate some 'life force' to help the reversal. One more thing to add to his growing list of things to do.

The only other thing he could do here, was treat her chest wounds. They looked nasty, but were actually not very deep. After making sure they were as sterile as he could get them, he seamed them over with the dermal regenerator.

Dark had fallen. In the morning, the Wraith Dart would provide them with a real treasure trove of advanced technology. Hopefully Rodney was already getting at the one close to the bunker.

Right now he could use a bite to eat. Sleep would be nice. An hour snatched would be enough.

Dean was disappointed that he and Sam had missed out on the action at the beach. Thankfully Hugh, Sayid, Tommy, and Jin thought fast on their feet otherwise the body count would have been much higher.

Although the danger seemed to be passed and everyone was accounted for, the camp was still in a uproar, albeit a quiet one. Thirty-odd people just got a serious reality check on top of losing more of their own. Dean hoped that no one decided to wax fatalistic in the pre-dawn dark.

Molly was taking the FBI agent's death hard. Dean didn't know what the "I promised to show her a unicorn" thing was about, but wasn't about to ask now. Instead he brought a coconut shell-cup full of Hugh's "herbal" tea, which was being distributed to the most distraught, to her shelter. Since one side was open, he could see her with her head buried in her arms, shoulders shaking. "Hey, Red. It's tea time. 'Fraid we're fresh out of crumpets, though."

"I can't drink anything with caffine." Molly took the offered cup anyway and sniffed it. She let out a somewhat forced smile. "And this won't effect me. But my throat is a little sore."

She was already a bit fuzzyheaded. Coming down from her previous magic high, and fighting a headache brought on by crying. In fact, she felt a bit befuddled and was starting to feel her own brand of numbness. No cannibus needed.

She found some spare fabric to dry her eyes and wipe her nose. Oddly it appeared to be the remanant of one of the hideous shirts that made coffee and tea filters.

Molly's odd seafoam eyes, swollen from crying, traced out to the ocean beyond Dean. "Do you ever feel like it's pointless? Death always wins in the end for mortals. No matter what we do or how we try. It only puts off the enevitable. In the end, death will win."

"Yep," Dean agreed semi-seriously. "Death and taxes. Damn IRS." Molly cracked a smile for an instant. She and Dean sobered quickly. "I hope you're done leaking, 'cause I've got a sad story to tell you." The look Molly fixed on him said that a sad story was about the last thing she wanted to hear at the moment. "Trust me, it's worth it. A'ight?" Molly nodded, hugging her knees to her chest.

Dean sat up straight, took a gulp of the high-octane coffee, and began. "Once upon a time there was a white bread American family. A mom, a dad, an intelligent, handsome four year-old son, and his already whiny at six months old brother." Molly's smiled made a brief appearance as he'd hoped. "One night death paid them a visit. A demon -- a really fugly one, too -- killed the mother and tried to kill the little brother. The father got to his youngest son in time, gave him to his brother, and got them all to safety."

He glanced at Molly. Her beautiful but strange eyes were full of sympathy. Dean smiled his gratitude. "The mom's death was hard on all of them, but especially the dad. Before that night he didn't know what we know, about the evil in the world. How it's everywhere, in every shadow, every corner.

"It took him month, but eventually he realized that he couldn't give up. He had his sons to protect. So he found others who knew about evil, about death. There are hundreds of them. Thousands. They all fight death in some form despite knowing it will win in the end."

Molly frowned at him skeptically. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Dean nodded. "Because they fight, and teach their sons to fight. Daughters, too, so one day the fugly bastards will stay in hell where they belong."

He drained the last of the coffee from his mug, enjoying the brew's mild buzz. "'If you're going through hell, keep going.' That's my motto. And have as much fun as you can along the way." He glanced outside. (I wonder where Faith's at...)

"I'm sorry about your mother." And she was. There was nothing but honesty and sympathy in her eyes. If the boys had lost their father as well... they'd likely have ended up much as they were now. That kind of death to parents, the Sidhe would have taken the boys to help them deal with things.

"I've fought that fight, in my own way, Dean. I know those who fight the deamons, the bansidhe, the trolls and the revanants. I've helped when I could. I've tried to make a difference without being able to cast spells or use magic. Don't you see, that's why it feels so pointless."

She swiped at her eyes again. It wouldn't help to start up once more. "Time after time, the good fight is fought. Sometimes we win, and sometimes we lose. And in the end, nothing changes. Clarice was a good person. I tried to give her the very talk you're giving me."

Molly ran her hands through her hair, feeling tangled curls snag and pull. The pain was a kind of relief.

"My people most likely helped teach your father. Either that or they taught his teachers. I think I'm just tired. Tired of everything. Tired of watching friends die like Clarice, of violence or fighting, or watching them age before me and I can't stop it. I don't know how much more I can take. I don't know if I even want to try anymore. It hurts too much. It takes a peice of me away every time. How much more until I'm empty? Till there's nothing left of me anymore and I go settle into a corner at Starbucks and drift away..."

She was tired. So worn down, and the deep ache in her heart and soul clawed at her. She didn't care. She didn't want or need secrets. She was alone, after all. Except for an undying one who would rather not have anything to do with people, and apparently an alien. Maybe she could talk to Adam, see if he had any insight into keeping people out. Keeping from feeling this pain over and over again.

If Molly had noticed Dean's two incredulous stares -- first at the mention of bansidhe, trolls, and revanant, and the second at "My people most likely helped teach your father" -- she didn't let on. Although he heard her words and understood where she was coming from, he snuck a few more glances at her eyes.

Her pupils were oval. Cat-like.

(Holy shit!)

Molly's skill with the bow, agility, her beauty, and glamour made perfect sense now, as did her despair from watching her friends die. Human friends.

"I don't know what to tell you, Molly," he said quietly. "I've only been at this for 25 years. Got Sammy to protect. That keeps me going. You've... been fighting the good fight for much longer, I guess."

Molly nodded. At first she was too confused and pained to realize she was speaking too freely, especially to one who dealt with the Otherworld as Dean and his brother seemed to. She had heard them talk, and their arrival via ‘demon express’ spoke volumes. But as she continued to speak, it was because she had to voice what was inside. And part of her wanted him to put the pieces together. So she could say she didn’t ‘tell’ him, to assuage her own conscience. Daana, but she was being a selfish bitch.

Tomorrow, she’d tell Hugh. He deserved to know. She trusted him. Maybe it would make up for playing a guessing game with Dean.

She looked up and deliberately tucked a tangled lock of curls behind her ear. Baring its point to the moonlight.

“I’ve been involved with the fight for fifty years. Not very long. But I never… fought. I was always the one to get the children, the fosterlings, the noncombatants to safety. I was the useless half-blood keeping the way clear for those who could fight. My da was a Irish horsebreeder. Mortal and proud. My mum loved him, not despite, but because of it. But being betwixt and between meant I look more like my father’s kin, and little like my mothers. And though I have the magic living as part of me, I can only manage the one spell. I can’t even work as much as you and Sam.”

Hugging herself Molly continued to let the words tumble out. “Before I came here, I never used a weapon in battle. Until I hunted here, I never took a life. Oh, I rode in the midst of the fighters, carrying children to safety. But the most I was armed with was a knife. I have seen many battles, but never fought in them, like you. But I’ve seen the death. I’ve seen good people killed by evil. I’m considered barely above an adolescent… but right now I feel so old. Every day pressing down on me. And perversely… I want my mum.”

She found herself swiping at another errant tear.

She knew then what was wrong. She was going through something all Sidhe who chose to involve themselves in the mortal world went through. The Realization. That was what it was called. The full acceptance and true understanding of what it was to be Sidhe in the mortal world. To be immortal among mortals. She had seen human friends age and die, but only three. She had only lived among mortals for fifty years. Those three she grieved for, but her mind had shied from the truth, as the stubborn fools here at the beach shied from the truth. The future held only more death and pain. The Realization meant asking yourself if you could rise above that, or had to retreat to the safety of Underhill. An option she was denied here anyway.

The Realization was upon her and she didn’t have anyone to comfort her, to counsel her, to understand what this was like and offer some wisdom. Well maybe…

She looked passed Dean to the Doctor, getting something from by the fire.

Yeah, right. He was a good man, but Molly had the distinct feeling he never stayed around long enough to watch others age. He let few in close enough that their death might matter, and he likely found them somewhere else to be so they could grow old out of his sight. He may understand. But he ran from it. He was selfish that way. It was an uncharitable judgment. But she truly felt she was not far off the mark.

Maybe it was the path to take. It seemed the one Adam followed as well.

Why did it seem cowardly?

Molly looked back to the line of bodies, carefully prepared for their last rights and the Reaper who would free them.

“I’d give Clarice her lifetime out of my own years if it could bring her back. Undo this. But death doesn’t care, and life doesn’t work that way. And I think I’m just starting to wake up. I feel like I was a child til tonight. And now I have to put away childish things. Maybe if I had someone to protect, like you, it would be easier. Maybe Tara will let me adopt her. But then... I let Clarice down. Maybe Tara's better off without my kind of protection."

(She's Sidhe! Half, anyway.) Once Dean realized that he was grinning giddily at Molly's pointed ear he schooled his expression. Giddy wasn't manly. That didn't lessen his wonder, though.

"But then... I let Clarice down. Maybe Tara's better off without my kind of protection."

"Bullshit," Dean said, but not harshly. Molly stared at him, frowning. "After hunting with Sammy for a year, I can spot a pity party a mile away." The redhead's frown deepened and anger sparked in her seafoam eyes. Dean grinned. "That's more like it. You kick ass and you know it. If you don't, you should. Anyone says otherwise, just point 'em out. I'll set 'em straight."

“I might just try kicking yours.” She shot back at Dean. But it had no venom. She knew what he was doing. Was even grateful for it. “Doesn’t make it feel like I should have been able to DO something. Even if I couldn’t. Even if my brain knows I couldn’t be two places at once, my conscience keeps playing what if.”

“And your right. I’m feeling sorry for myself as well. I think I’m entitled as much as anyone else. Everyone needs a good mope and wallow once in a while.” He didn’t understand the extent of it. The road of heartache she could see ahead of her. The selfish urge to run and hide from it. She didn’t like that part of her.

Molly threw back her ‘herb’ tea and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “It was Clarice’s. Rose and a bunch of forgers found a case of the stuff when they found the Box of Many things. Feel like toasting fallen comrades? Drink them on to Tír na nÓg… only having lived there for some time I can tell you the dead don’t turn up, and many of the people are pains in the arse. Valhalla, that’s better. Toast a warrior’s death in battle. Or Annwyn, Elysium or Heaven. Wherever they are heading, I bet it’s a damn sight better than mindfuck island.”

She offered the bottle to Dean.

Dean nodded and accepted the bottle. "To fallen comrades it is." Molly clearly needed to mope for a while longer. May as well Irish it up.

While Molly rinsed out their cups with bottled water, Dean wrestled the cork out of the wine bottle with the help of his Leatherman. He filled her cup and then his. Dean wasn't much of a wine person, but this smelled pretty good.

Molly raised her glass. "To Clarice--" Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. "--and Miho, Lex, Weevil, Eric, Lucy, Dr. Crane, the other doctor from the flight, and even Marshal Mars. He meant well in his own obnoxious way."

Dean smiled sadly. Several of those names were new to him. He raised his glass as well, adding, "To mothers, fathers, teachers, and innocents." (Like Meg.) They drank. The wine was good.

When it became clear that there were no more Wraith left to kill, Sam kept himself occupied for as long as he could. There were space vampire bodies to burn, victims' bodies to arrange until one of the reapers could free their souls, and watch to be kept. Sam had assigned himself to the last. He stood at the edge of the firelight scanning the dark front of the jungle.

Five minutes into his shift footsteps approached from behind. Dean's footsteps. "All quiet on the western front?" he quipped.

Sam didn't turn around to preserve his night vision. "'Til you got here, yeah."

Dean's hand clapped on his shoulder. An odor he'd last smelled at Stanford wafted from the plastic mug in his hand. "You're relieved. Got plenty of people on watch already." He shoved the mug at Sam and cant his head toward the signal fire. "C'mon, take a load off."

Sam took the mug, frowning at its contents. "Bong water?"

Dean chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. Sam knew it was part of his facade to hide his worry over him. The question was, was Dean worried about him or worried about what he was turning into? The latter was the one Sam was trying so hard to avoid. "Dad would kick my ass for giving you liquid MJ, but he's not here and we've had a truly shitty night. So drink up. Hugh says it's his best pot yet." He chuckled for real this time. "Heh. Get it? Pot?"

Sam groaned and rolled his eyes. After a moment's hesistation he took a swig of the tea. It was pretty foul, but Sam figured he wouldn't care soon enough. He turned around and walked back with Dean into camp. "So where's your 'liquid MJ'?"

Dean smirked. "Gonna get me some coffee. Don't need any yuppie herbal tea." Sam gave him the requisite punch in the arm. Surprisingly, Dean didn't return it. His voice for once was dead serious. "Sammy, back at the bunker--"

"You saved my ass, I know." That wasn't where Dean was going, and they both knew it.

Dean glanced at him thoughfully. (Fearfully?) "You saved your own--"

"We're not talking about this, Dean."

Dean snorted. "We're not? My brother the in-touch-with-his-feelings metrosexual doesn't want to talk?"

Sam knew better than to take the bait. "No," he murmured and strode toward the water. By some miracle Dean didn't follow.

Sam sunk down to the sand just above the strand line and watched the surf rush forward and retreat. It and the tea kept his mind from replaying the evening's freakshow events. Mostly.

"Pretty fucked up night, huh?" Faith approached the figure sitting near, but not in the surf, making certain that her sneakers crunched in the sand. The last thing she wanted was to get a gun pulled on her. Faith didn't figure she was much in the consolation department, she never knew what to say or how to say it, but she did know the signs of someone going into a deep brood.

Brooding was only good for so long and in small doses.

After her stint with the trees, she'd come back to the beach, not feeling any less a Slayer than she had earlier -- Buffy would have saved them all, a little voice kept taunting her -- and she was desperately trying to find someway to ignore that little voice.

Sam looked back at her and frowned, and Faith held up a hand to forestall any comments before he could make them. "Just sayin'," Faith remarked off-handedly, dropping down to the sand a few feet away, well outside of his personal space. There was nothing in her demeanor that suggested she was on the prowl for the other brother, or on the prowl for anyone for that matter.

Occassionally, Faith was able to focus on the matter at hand.

"So, you got coffee there or some of Hugh's Island Specialty?" The question was asked in the same off-hand conversational tone, although Faith studied Sam carefully. Even if you fought demons everyday this kind of shit could fuck with your mind if you let it.

"Hugh's," Sam replied. "Good stuff." With half of the liquid gone his head was pleasantly muzzy. He had a serious craving for pepperoni-pizza Combos, too.

Cannibis or no, Sam knew what Faith was doing. She was (disturbingly) like Dean. (Easier on the eyes, that's for sure. I wonder if she's into mullet rock, too.) Considering that they were trapped on a desert island his last though seemed less than relevant. Instead he asked, "So how many'd you get?"

Faith smiled at the "good stuff," comment, but the smile turned to a frown when Sam asked how many of the Wraith she'd gotten. That wasn't something she wanted to think about – her lack of slayage out there tonight.

She shrugged, playing it off as though the number (lack of a number) didn't matter. "Not a one actually. I led one off and away from the bunker, but before I could take it down, our self-proclaimed alien queen had turned it to dust with her bare hands. Never thought I'd be playin' bait, though.

"What about you?"

Sam blinked at Faith's description of Isabel's hands of dusting. (Shit!)

"What about you?"

Sam shrugged as well. "Sniped at a few, was in the blast radius of the one that exploded--" he gestured at the ichor staining his clothes "-- almost got the life sucked out of me..." He gulped at the memory of instinctually shoving the Wraith away from him with so much telekinetic force that its arm ripped off. Remembering the ensuing weirdness made him shudder. He added hurriedly, "Dean, Jon, and Adam killed it."

Mentioning Adam gave Sam an excellent opportunity to change the subject. "Have you seen Adam with his broadsword? The guy knows what he's doing."

"Doc P?" Faith asked. "I knew that he had a huge ass sword, but I've never seen him use it. I heard that he's sharp with it though."

She paused consideringly, "Gotta wonder what he's hiding."

When Sam looked at her curiously, she shrugged. "Oh come on, everybody here seems to be hiding something. I mean, lately, people have been coming out of the 'weird abilities' closet and all, but it seems like everyone here has that little something extra. Some people are just more open about it than others.

"Anyway, you don't get to be good with a sword, or any weapon, unless you're using it enough to practice. And even SCA members aren't that good."

They may have been called space vampires, but they weren't any vampires that Faith had ever seen. The moment she'd hit the beach – after "borrowing" the jeep again, driving high speed, at night and miraculously making the trip in one piece, once she realized that everything was well in hand up north – she'd tried driving a pretty large piece of wood into the Wraith's heart. It had been pleasing, and had made a delightful sucking sound, but nothing else had happened.

She'd helped Sayid and a few others get started with burning the bodies, then gone off to patrol and take out her frustrations on the trees and the jungle – including her frustrations with those who still wanted to stay on the beach. True, they might not be safe here, but the only casualties they'd had up north were the ones that Boone shot.

She was supposed to protect people from the evil things that went bump in the night.

Once again, Faith failed as a Slayer.

Shredding a tree didn't help her feel better at all.

Chloe watched The Doctor leave her tent. He'd healed up the wounds in her chest with his 'dermal regenerator.' At any other time she'd have been fascinated by the gadget and pestered him with questions. Not tonight. This morning. Whatever.

He left Carrie to watch her, ostensibly in case her condition worsened. But really he wasn't fooling anyone. Carrie was there to make sure she didn't try to kill herself. It wasn't an unreasonable precaution, but he needn't have worried.

Chloe was done crying for a while. She was horrified, appalled, terrified by her condition, and she would be having nightmares about watching Lex murdered for a long, long time to come. About Wraiths in general, probably. But she wasn't suicidal.

She was still alive, which was more than could be said for poor Lex. And Miho and Clarice and Harry--and the others. She hadn't liked Clarice or Harry, but--Christ--they didn't deserve what had been done to them! Nobody did. Now they were dead but Chloe still lived. And where there was life there was hope.

"Chloe," Carrie said, kneeling beside her pallet. "Is there anything you'd like me to do for you?" Carrie's sympathy was real, but Chloe noticed that Carrie avoided looking at her, horrified by the withered old crone she'd become.

"Yes," Chloe croaked. She licked dry lips and tried again. "Yes, there is." She pointed to the corner of the tent, and even that gesture took a frightening amount of effort.

"There's a carry-on bag over there," she told Carrie. "Would you get it?"

Carrie shuffled over and grabbed it. "This?"

Chloe nodded faintly. "Yes. Inside it. There's a...velvet ring case. Give it to me?"

"Sure," Carrie said. She dug around in the bag for a moment, then pulled the ring case out of it. "It's heavy," she said.

"Big ring," Chloe said.

Carrie knee walked over and placed it in Chloe's hand. "Is it important?"

Chloe felt tears fill her eyes. "You have no idea. I'm--I'm tired, Carrie," she said. "I think I'm going to try to sleep now."

Without waiting for an answer, Chloe turned--slowly and painfully--onto her side, the ring box clutched to her breast in both hands. Carrie made some soothing noises and then settled down near the door of the shelter. Chloe waited a little longer, then opened the ring case. It had been in the wooden "gift" box with her name on a strip of paper tied around it.

A faint green glow illuminated her hands and face. She glanced over her shoulder, but Carrie was looking out of the shelter at the crowd around the signal fire. Chloe gingerly pulled the marble-sized sphere of meteor rock (Kryptonite, Clark called it now) out of the lead-lined box.

She wrapped one fist around it and then clutched that fist to her breast with her other hand. She had maintained the Wall of Weird of for years; she knew what the stuff was capable of. That's what she was counting on.

It was dangerous, yes; but what other choice did she have? The Doctor had tried to be optimistic, but she knew that the chances of their restoring her youth and health were slim and none. Chloe curled up a little tighter around the rock, whispering almost silently, "Please...oh, please...."

The hunk of meteor rock continued it's inevitable decay. Radioactive particles sleeted through Chloe's body. Most of them--well over 99 percent, fact--passed harmlessly through her, as they did through everything with less density than lead. Of the relative handful that interacted with her cellular structure, most--another 99.999%--caused an infinitesimal amount of additional damage, no more than she'd suffer from a bad sunburn or a dental x-ray.

But not all of them. Given enough time, even the unlikeliest events can happen. And nowhere on earth was the unlikely more likely than on this island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. First one subatomic particle, then another, caromed through Chloe's body, creating instabilities. They couldn't last, of course; but when they collapsed back into stable forms, some of them almost seemed to pause, to hesitate for a moment, before falling into new patterns, patterns that began to spread, cascading through Chloe's body....

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[Hugh] PTSD Anonymous

[Sayid] Status report

[Doctor] Living up to his title

[Dean] Tough guys can console, too. (tag Molly)

[Molly] Tough guys can console, too. (tag Dean)

[Dean] Tough guys can console, too. (tag Molly)

[Molly] Fighting the good fight.

[Dean] Fighting the good fight.

Re: [Dean] Fighting the good fight.

[Dean] No chick flick moments

[Molly] How bout a wake instead?

[Dean] How bout a wake instead?

[Sam] Brooding

[Faith] Interrupting the Brood

[Sam] Interrupting the Brood

[Faith] Interrupting the Brood

[Sam] Interrupting the Brood

[Faith] Interrupting the Brood

[Faith] Damn, Damn and Damn

[Chloe] Desperate times....