(Untitled)

[just_wontsettle]

He feels the ache in his chest, higher up than he used to. Even those phantom pains of guilt have migrated north to undamaged territory. It's a long time coming. If he's honest with himself, they've been heading toward this for a while. Maybe since the accident, but it's not just that. Maybe they really are just different people, like she said. He'

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[outta_texas]

Tyra's just out of the shower when she hears someone shouting. Someone shouting Lyla, which...well, unless it's Tim, it makes no fuckin' kind of sense, and, if it is Tim, well...whatever they are to each other, these days, she's gonna kick his goddamn ass.

Tyra's wrapped in a white towel when she walks into the compound and sees...
Oh, Jesus.

"Jason?"

[just_wontsettle]

There's a second or two where they're just blinking at each other, and there's something strangely comforting in the fact that she looks just as surprised to see him as he is to see her.

She's in a towel, hair wet and still dripping water as she goes, and he actually thinks to check himself, because his first thought is this -- whatever it is, has to be a twisted fever dream, like he used to have back in the hospital, and maybe they're suddenly all naked.

"Tyra?"

[outta_texas]

Tyra Collette isn't the sort of girl who's been embarrassed to be in next to no clothes in front of a guy, and she isn't embarrassed now, but she's still staring.

"Jason. It's really you, right? Not just some guy who looks at you..."

Who also happens to be in a fuckin' wheelchair and knows your fucking name? Jesus, Collette.

[just_wontsettle]

"Yeah, it's really me. Who the hell else would it be?" he asks, straddling between a wince and a smile 'cause weird doesn't even begin to cover what's going on, and he figures the panic'll set in as soon as he stops wanting to burst out laughing. Funny how those instincts get all mixed up. Laugh or cry or just start yelling again. It's a tough decision.

[texas_forever]

The few hangovers Tim's had on the island have been worse than the ones he ever had to deal with back home. Probably has something to do with his body losing its tolerance after being forced onto a wagon he'd had no desire to be on in the first place. Plus, a little hair of the dog's a lot harder to come by here.

Still, even through a pounding hangover, Tim knows that voice.

He stops short as he exits the kitchen, hair falling over his eyes as he stairs at the guy currently sitting on the couch. The guy shouting for Lyla. The guy with a wheelchair right next to him. Even with all the evidence, Tim's afraid of getting too hopeful.

"... Jay?"

[just_wontsettle]

There are all kinds of things that don't make sense to Jason Street anymore. Lyla'd say those things were up to God, and some things you just aren't meant to know or understand. It'll all work out in the end, just have faith. Trust in us.

There's a diamond ring sitting on his pants leg that's sorta laughing in the face of that little pearl of wisdom, and anyway, Lyla Garrity's no where to be found. He's not even in the truck anymore and Tim's standing there looking at him like he's grown a second head.

"What are you staring at, Riggins?" he says, jaw set to hide the waver in his voice. It's the first thing that pops into his head to say, and seconds later he's swallowing down a flood of hysterical laughter. Come on, man, help me out here...

[texas_forever]

If nothing else can assure him that this definitely is Jason Street and not just some kind of look-a-like thing going on, hearing that tone in that voice definitely does it. Tim feels something flood through him, relief and joy and guilt all at once, the expression on his face trying to show it all at once, though mostly he just comes off looking dumber than normal.

And then his lips twitch and he's letting out a quick laugh, ignoring the pang of pain that his head immediately gives in response.

"Shit, man," he says, finally stepping closer, bare feet on cement floor. "Was wonderin' when the hell you'd get around to showin' up."

[just_wontsettle]

"You know, man, that's really not making me feel any better," he laughs, shaking his head and grinning for no good reason other than he can't figure out what else to do.

"Wanna help me out here?" he asks, nodding to his chair and waving it closer with one half-closed fist.

[allbetested]

He's heard all about how people just appear. Hell, he's done it himself, so it's not like it's exactly a foreign concept, but there's a vast difference between understanding something in your head and dealing with the stark reality of it right in front of you. He's hammered enough kids through plays they never seemed to physically grasp. He gets that.

Doesn't stop him from gaping when Jason Street appears on the couch about a foot away from him. There's no flash, no pop of air forced out of a space suddenly filled; one minute he's not there and the next he is. Eric takes no comfort in the fact that Jason looks every bit as confused as him.

He can frankly think of better places for Jason to be.

"Jesus, son," he says, and then, to his own surprise, "Was wonderin' if you'd get here."

[just_wontsettle]

He hadn't even seen him there. Three feet away, there sits Coach Taylor, a man he's know just about all his life and might as well be family, recent events put behind them, and Jason didn't even notice him there. Too busy fighting and struggling against this new reality that just didn't fit. So he startles, shoulders tensing up and his eyes going wide, and for a second or two he just stares.

"Sorry, Coach, I guess I got held up," he says, without even thinking, coughing out a laugh and crooking a bemused smile. It's not until the words are out of his mouth that he realizes he's already decided this is a dream. Maybe he fell out of the truck and cracked his head open on the pavement after all.

[allbetested]

"Not your fault," he says, trying to smile back and feeling utterly ridiculous. What does he do now? God, does he have to try to explain all this? When he barely understands it himself? How the hell is that fair?

"So, uh, I guess you're probably wondering where you are," he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "And a whole lotta other things."

[just_wontsettle]

"Yeah, Coach, that'd be a good place to start," he nodded slowly, patient and expectant 'cause if there was anybody he trusted to always give it to him straight, it was Coach Taylor. Even when the other man looked so nervous.

[reapthis]

"Yeah, that's enough of that," I groaned, one hand waving in the air to shut him the hell up and the other doing its best to pinch away all that built-up pressure having a rocking good time tap-dancing across the bridge of my nose.

The thing about being stuck on an island for this long is that shit gets old real quick, but there really is nothing else to do but drink yourself into a stupor. With party beads. Sometimes I really do make myself proud.

"What is this, are we doing rewrites of A Streetcar Named Desire?" I was rubbing my bloodshot eyes by the time I stumbled into the rec room hell bent on telling that yelling sonof...anattractiveman off. The staring commenced, me looking pretty rough around the edges and him looking...pretty surprised and disturbed. Ugh, it was too early for that. "Right. Nevermind..." I started stumbling off towards the kitchen.

[just_wontsettle]

He's got his mouth open, another shout building up in his chest, but then it dies off in his throat, and he's left slack-jawed and blinking dumbly and he thinks maybe if he leans forward just enough he can catch the frame of his chair and drag it over, but there's also the chance that if he leans over he'll end up flat on his face.

It's like watching a movie in slowmotion. Starting it up someplace in the middle and hoping he'll be able to piece things together from the context or the dialog, or maybe somebody will take pity on him and explain the plot.

"I always did a mean Brando," he murmurs, turning his head to watch the girl stumble past, and he's got the question right on the tip of his tongue, but she looks so rough he's kind of thinking he should cut her some slack and let her wander on by.

[reapthis]

That was enough to get a passing snort for me before I was off into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind me. Rude, but whatever, I had shit to do, all of which involved getting a glass of water into my system.

Fucking Neil McCormick. Fucking bras and party beads.

I wandered back out into the rec room not even a minute later feeling a hell of a lot better, but that didn't mean I looked any better. I couldn't remember when I'd last gotten a haircut so it was all sun-bleached and ratty and everywhere. Hurrah for first impressions. "So what's your story, Stanley?" I asked, eying first the guy, then the lone wheelchair while I drained the rest of the water from my glass.

[just_wontsettle]

When she comes back he takes a second to look, to see if he recognizes her from school or maybe the clinic. He's pretty good with faces and names, and even if she probably doesn't always look like she spent the night in a gutter, he's positive he's never seen her before.

"I don't think I have one," he says, crooking a hesitant, bemused smile, "I was kinda hoping you might. You know, what is this place... how'd I get here? You think we can start there 'cause I'm... I'm kind of at a loss right now, honestly."