"I've been taking shifts securing the perimeter. We have a fence and so far it's kept things at bay. I'm trying to keep a fire going, I've gathered whatever I know isn't poison," which would have been so much easier with his nose. "and making weapons. I've been treading water, basically."
"I have several concerns about the Admiral but we don't have time right now to go into them. After you've rested, do you think you can find more people? Take down any 'wild' ones to get them here?"
Coupled with the way Lark had snapped at him just a few moments ago, Lark takes a moment to breathe in, breathe out. There's still a raw tension in his voice, though. "And I've actually lived depowered for most of my life. I'm not asking you to rest because I'm trying to baby you, Alec. I need you fed and rested before you go out again."
"Oh?" Alec presses, even though the rational, logical part of his brain knows this is true. Alec was without most of his abilities for only a week. Lark was born human and stayed on the Barge much longer.
But that's not the party of his brain governing his mouth right now. "Well last I checked I've been me all my life and I know what I can and can't do. We're here. We have a job to do, and not a lot of time to do it in."
"You're ignoring the experience that I have with being human because you don't like being told to rest," Lark snaps. "And in doing so you're endangering yourself and everyone out there. But fine, you don't want to listen to reason?"
"So it's reason now," Alec bites off, but his momentum doesn't slow down. Lark stands up. Alec steps back, which is where he shrugs the blanket off down onto the cot where he was sitting.
"Don't worry, I won't endanger anyone else if I find out I need something."
"For fuck's sake," he mutters. "Yes it's reason, I'm sorry your pride is wounded by being merely human. Go ahead, go out there with no rest, no food, and no warmth just so you can try to prove you don't need me."
He knows it's not pride at work here. He knows Alec is probably scared, certainly angry. But Lark is too, and he doesn't have enough patience to go around.
For Alec's part, he's exhausted, which ties directly to fear for him, even now; he's hungry, he's thirsty, he's cold, and he feels half dead. He doesn't have enough information, and he's worried. On top of that, Lark has managed to hit every single angle just slightly wrong enough that Alec's patience is shot, too, even if it weren't on top of three of the most frustrating days he's had in a while escorting Ulla back.
There's nothing to slam which is good. He does duck out of the sleep area, does head straight for the equipment room to do his own inventory, to find a backpack to carry supplies in so he has a bit more leeway when he heads back out.
Usually when Alec is angry, especially these days, especially with Lark, he can rein it in fairly quickly. He's always burned hot but quick, and never lets it get the better of him for too long. They're on a mission right now. There's no room for emotion.
He goes out for a short distance recon trip, comes back even more tired than before, but it still doesn't occur to him to do more than sit down. (It never occurs to him to sleep. Sleep is not for him.) He's not shivering this time but his feet ache - he's never had to deal with blisters for more than an hour before and he hates it, thanks - and he's too worn out for emotions. He picks up his walkie talkie, turns it over to Lark's number, and hits the talk button so that static runs across the line in their silent code: Where are you?
Third bunk, Alec answers instead of trying to do anything else more specific, then drops the walkie talkie onto the ground by his nest of sleeping bags and sits back against the support of the tent.
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"So what have you been doing for three days? Knitting an afghan?"
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But he does look up and tips his head.
"I just mean I know you. I know you were doing something. So what's been going on?"
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"So there's been trouble?"
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"No rest for the wicked then. That must have been what the Admiral meant."
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"I have several concerns about the Admiral but we don't have time right now to go into them. After you've rested, do you think you can find more people? Take down any 'wild' ones to get them here?"
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"I mapped the way in. I can start fanning out in a grid if there's anything at all like a map here."
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But that's not the party of his brain governing his mouth right now. "Well last I checked I've been me all my life and I know what I can and can't do. We're here. We have a job to do, and not a lot of time to do it in."
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Now, Lark snarls one at him and Alec does stop for a moment. He goes dead still, eyes flicking up to meet Lark's, second foot halfway into his boot.
Then he slams his heel home and hooks the laces, pushing to his feet without answering. It hurts, but what else is new? He ignores it too.
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"Take away a bit of speed and strength and endurance and now you think I can't hold up my end of what needs done?"
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He stands up, fucking do it.
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"Don't worry, I won't endanger anyone else if I find out I need something."
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He knows it's not pride at work here. He knows Alec is probably scared, certainly angry. But Lark is too, and he doesn't have enough patience to go around.
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There's nothing to slam which is good. He does duck out of the sleep area, does head straight for the equipment room to do his own inventory, to find a backpack to carry supplies in so he has a bit more leeway when he heads back out.
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Instead he goes out to check in with Alejandro, then Franky, then does his own rounds and scavenging.
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He goes out for a short distance recon trip, comes back even more tired than before, but it still doesn't occur to him to do more than sit down. (It never occurs to him to sleep. Sleep is not for him.) He's not shivering this time but his feet ache - he's never had to deal with blisters for more than an hour before and he hates it, thanks - and he's too worn out for emotions. He picks up his walkie talkie, turns it over to Lark's number, and hits the talk button so that static runs across the line in their silent code: Where are you?
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Where are you?
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Costa Rica.
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He's busy elsewhere, and isn't willing to tear himself away just to check.
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Fuck it.
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