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Exhaustion always has a way of catching up with 007n7.
He can prolong it all he likes, stay up and on his feet and busy for as long as possible- an object in motion stays in motion- but the second he's no longer firing on all cylinders, the absolute nanosecond, it hits him like a wall and he's asleep in a chair at the dining table. Or stumbling through the doorway and all but crumpling onto the couch.
Within the realm, it's a little difficult. Sure, the rounds keep him undeniably busy, awake and alert with adrenaline to boot; but once they're back in their usual limbo, one can only dust the shelves or reorganize the broken glass shards on the floor so many times.
(He's been meaning to throw the bits of glass out for... however long since he claimed this cabin. But somebody's always in the main building, and he'd rather have broken glass kicking around in his place of residence than run the risk of running into just about anyone.)
It was easier when he had someone to pick up after, someone who adored creating messes just as much as 007n7 needed mess to keep himself focused. To direct all of his 007n7-ness onto and promptly clean away, hours spent on his knees scrubbing crayon off of the walls- only after immortalizing C00lkidd's masterpieces with his phone camera, of course.
Now, there's no more bright stick-figures to scrub away, no more heartwarmingly small clothes to tidy up and fold, no more stains and spills to clean. Just the same dusty old floorboards, in the same dilapidated cabin nearest the treeline, for eternity. Maybe someday, the bleach would warp the wooden floors beyond all reason until it started eating into the material itself, and 007n7 would take a step and feel the ground crumble beneath him into splinters.
Maybe there's nothing under this cabin. Maybe he can fall right into the void, swallowed up whole, finally free to rest. Finally put somewhere he truly belongs, somewhere he can't ever hurt anybody again.
007n7 shakes his head, as if to physically banish the mental spirals that have been cropping up over and over recently- not that they're ever anything but abundant- and begins the process of folding his sparse wardrobe once again.
He's been in this loop for a while. The floors and walls are as clean as they're going to get today, so the most he can do is fold his clothes, put them away, and then take them back out just to dump them on the ground.
He could clean the window.
(It was smashed in long before he arrived. The jagged edges of the break call to him, sometimes, alluring like cool steel. He's died of many things here, but they're all swift, brutal. He's never died of blood loss. Maybe it's time to figure out what that feels like.)
007n7 turns away, and puts his favorite T-shirt back in the dresser.
Sleep is never appealing to him, never has been, for as long as he can remember. When he was younger, there was always so much to do, so much havoc to wreak, so many new tricks to play, that it all made sleeping seem like a waste. Working and looking after a kid just made his time feel all the more precious, like there were never enough hours in the day to get everything done, and that only furthered his disdain.
He avoids it still, because the nightmares are worse than the exhaustion.
Folding his socks in pairs is the only thing keeping him from recollecting just what those bad dreams are about. He's not even sure he's putting the right socks in pairs anymore, and that only gives his future self more things to tidy up and rectify. If he ignores the fact that he's not doing it on purpose, he can just about convince himself that he's planning ahead. What a proactive man he is.
Folding, as it turns out, can only carry him so far. He's not the young man he used to be, and every time he has to lean over or bend down to pick everything back up, his joints protest just a little more, arms beginning to ache from the constant repetition. He puts away the last pair of socks, and dreads having to do it all again.
He glances toward the main cabin, through the window that's still intact.
It's either this, or the nightmares.
007n7 reminds himself of that fact as he steps outside.
The air out here is cold and brisk, faintly salty thanks to the nearby ocean; it's like a slap in the face, one that he welcomes, one that brings clarity and alertness. Here, nearest to the sprawling woods, it's earthy as well. But as he takes hesitant steps toward the main cabin, the rich scent of forest and mud begins to dissipate, replaced by the smell of pizza and varnished wood.
He can feel his forked tail swaying anxiously as he ascends the porch stairs, hand stopping just short of the door.
From here, peering through the dusty, small window, he can only see Guest 1337, sitting by the fireplace like he's keeping watch. He probably is. 007n7 can't blame him- they'd both know more than most about old habits and routines.
It's either this, or the nightmares, he tells himself again, and that's enough to get him through the door.
Guest 1337's head doesn't quite snap toward him, per sé, but he does look over with some semblance of surprise. "Seven," he greets, polite as ever. "I didn't think..."
He doesn't really have to finish. 007n7 gets the gist.
"Me neither," is what he chooses to say, feeling a little lame the second the words leave his mouth. He clears his throat quietly, and makes a concentrated effort to not shove his hands into his pockets or start picking at the skin around his nails. "Don't mind me."
Guest 1337 gives a slow nod, a nonverbal if you insist, turning away to keep gazing out the window. At what, 007n7 isn't exactly sure, but he can hazard a guess that the soldier's appointed himself the night watchman.
His steps toward the kitchen are slow, quiet. This is Elliot's domain. 007n7 feels more and more like he's trespassing the closer he gets, anxiety thrumming through him as he peeks around the corner of the doorframe-
His breath catches in his chest-
-but there's nobody there. It's empty.
007n7 sighs softly through his nose, relieved, and sets about trying to find the cleaning supplies as quickly as possible. There's probably much more to work with in here than a simple cloth and spray cleaner, the ones they're (assumedly) all provided with for personal use.
He ends up having to go around the back of the cabin to fill up the mop bucket. In the lull of having anything to do, the exhaustion slowly begins to creep in, as the timing between blinks gets a little shorter, his shoulders beginning to slump against his will-
He shuts off the faucet before the bucket can overfill.
Getting back inside provides a well-needed jolt of nervousness, just enough to get him alert again. The floors in here aren't horrendous- he imagines there's probably some kind of cleaning rota in place- but there are muddy shoe prints here and there, and that's enough. It's something to do.
He works on autopilot, barely able to process anything more than the fact that he's in motion. At some point, he finishes cleaning the floors and starts going over the surfaces instead, cleaning the counters and the table. The only thing he's aware of is the fact that he needs to steer clear of the lounging area, lest he should disturb Guest 1337. It's not truly that he's afraid of the man- he's kinder than most, kinder than 007n7 deserves- just that he doesn't want to get in the way of a routine that seems a bit like his own.
Fingers snap next to his ear.
007n7 jumps damn-near out of his skin, jolted out of muscle memory. His head turns, ready to throw in the towel and go back to folding his clothes for the eleventh time-
-but the hasty apologies die on his lips when his eyes are met with yellow and red.
Elliot doesn't look particularly impressed.
007n7 feels a little bit like somebody's pointing a gun at him.
(Not that he's ever minded that in the past.)
Eventually, he gets himself unstuck. "I- fuck- I'm so sorry, Elliot, I never- I didn't mean t- I'll go, I'll go-"
"-Seven," Elliot cuts in, causing 007n7 to freeze again, in the middle of reaching for the bottle of multi-surface cleaner in order to at least try and put everything back the way he found it as he went. "You're cleaning my counters with an oven mitt."
007n7 glances over at the object he'd been so sure was a cloth.
"...so I am," he murmurs, as if he couldn't feel even more like an idiot.
Elliot looks him over, scrutinizing, arms crossed over his chest. 007n7 imagines this is what an ant feels like when the entirety of the sun's heat is focused into one ray, beaming down from a magnifying glass. Maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll find out now that there really is nothing underneath the cabins, as the floor gives way beneath him.
But no such cosmic force sees fit to give him a fucking break, and Elliot's eyes eventually flicker back up to his own- 007n7 has to look away, just past him, unable to hold eye contact. "What are you even doing in here, anyway?"
"I can leave-" The words tumble from his mouth immediately. He knows the other is referring to the main cabin without even having to think twice.
"-That's not what I asked." Elliot interrupts again, starting to look more irritated than unimpressed. "Why are you here?"
007n7 bites his tongue. Quite literally. A younger, more brazen, more reckless version of himself wants desperately to hiss out a 'what's it to you?', but the man he's become doesn't dare to let that slip. Elliot has every right to be annoyed with him. They've respected each other's space for this long, and now 007n7's crossed the invisible territory lines they'd both drawn at the start.
(He's never been particularly good at following rules, anyway.)
He at least has the good sense to stop standing perfectly still, as though Elliot were a T. rex and 007n7 could avoid having to continue any sort of discussion with him as long as he didn't move an inch. He sets the oven mitt down on the counter and withdraws his outstretched arms to his sides, folding in on himself in an instant, slouched. "...just clearing my mind. But I don't want to bother you with the details."
Elliot's eyes narrow. "I wouldn't want to hear them, anyway."
In his mind, 007n7 vividly imagines beating himself into the ground with a cartoonishly large wooden mallet. Strike two. One more fuck-up, and he might have to throw himself off of the docks outside again to rid himself of the embarrassment.
"You do look like shit, though." Elliot eventually snarks, shifting his weight over from one leg to the other.
The silence that stretches out between them is awkward, stilted. 007n7 doesn't know what to do. Elliot keeps stopping him before he can offer to leave- does he want him to stay or go? How does he make this situation any better? Even though 007n7 is making a concentrated effort to look anywhere but at the other man, eyes dancing over the cabinets and shelves, Elliot's stare hasn't fallen anywhere but directly on him.
Eventually, finally, Elliot sighs and moves past him, further into the kitchen, beginning to rummage around through the cupboards. "Don't get the wrong idea when I ask you this- we aren't friends- but have you slept?"
007n7 moves out of his way, beat-up sneakers landing on the small line that separates wood from tile. He opens his mouth and nearly lies on instinct, shuts it with an audible 'click' as his jaws meet and he realizes what he's about to do. That mental image from before comes right back. "No."
"Explains a lot," Elliot hums with a rising intonation, drawing back up to his full height with a rolling pin in hand. "Are you going to?"
At least the mental pressure of being questioned is enough to keep him mostly cognizant right now. 007n7 allows himself a little lapse in his vices, and starts idly scratching at the back of his left hand. He shouldn't be bothering Elliot with this. He should've paid more attention, should've rushed out of the cabin the second he heard approaching footsteps. He never should've come inside in the first place. "...not if I can help it."
"Well, if you're gonna keep lurking around, can you at least turn the oven on?" Elliot asks through a sigh. He moves aside pre-emptively, sprinkling flour atop the newly-cleaned counters; as 007n7 shuffles into the kitchen to start helping, he could swear he catches Elliot smirking faintly as his eyes catch the oven mitt, abandoned off to one side.
Nothing of note truthfully happens once they settle into an uneasy rhythm. Elliot occasionally tells him to do this-and-that, menial tasks nobody in their right mind could screw up, but at the very least, there's some sort of tentative, barely-there trust being placed in him. Otherwise, he would've been banished from the kitchen from the very start.
The rhythm falls apart the second Elliot slides a freshly-made pizza into the oven, and they're suddenly both left in the lurch without anything to put off the inevitability of speaking. Elliot's head turns to look out of the window, tapping his foot to some unheard melody in his head, biting the inside of his cheek. 007n7 progresses to scratching at his forearm, just light enough to leave faint marks, tail swaying nervously.
Elliot clears his throat quietly. "...I still can't trust you."
"I know," 007n7 offers, softspoken, understanding. The olive branch between them is still weak, couldn't support either of their weights no matter how lightly they pressed down.
"But I don't want to hate you." Elliot tells him, leaning back to place both hands on the counter behind him, head bowed. "And I know that... you're trying. And it does mean something."
007n7 stays quiet, placing a great deal of effort into not biting his lower lip so hard it bleeds.
"I just don't know how to feel about you," Elliot sighs, rolling his head back, staring up at the ceiling. His glittery, star-shaped earrings twinkle softly in the dull sepia light. "Sometimes, it's so easy to snap at you, y'know? But I... I don't want to do that anymore."
He chuckles softly, and his eyes land on 007n7 again. "Isn't it a little funny? I'm actually tired of being angry at you."
007n7 doesn't think he could speak if he tried, now, reduced to nothing more than staring owlishly, right hand stilled from where it rests on his left arm.
"I just can't keep it up. Not when we have to work together. Not when it does actually matter, to everyone, that you're healthy and alive." Elliot continues, smile falling momentarily, before it returns, more wry than it was before. "That includes getting enough sleep."
He can't force his posture to become any less rigid, can't make it match the more casual tone the conversation is beginning to drift towards. Exhaustion begins to weigh down at his eyelids again at the mere mention, but he forces it to one side with practiced ease. "I'll be fine."
"Oh, you'll be fine?" Elliot begins, almost bantering. "You wanna take this back with you? For cleaning?" He reaches over to grab the oven mitt from before, waving it around teasingly in the air.
007n7 surprises even himself with the quiet chuckle that escapes him. Maybe this won't turn out so disastrously after all; even though he is still a little embarrassed by the reminder, face warming ever so slightly. "My glasses were smudged," he tries, a lame excuse to save the last microscopic shreds of dignity he's got.
Elliot snickers. The sound reminds him of simpler days; the overwhelming smell of grease, cutlery clinking around them, a sun that actually rose in the sky. "They look clean to me. Sit down, at least."
007n7 is torn between the reality that if he does sit down, if he takes himself out of motion, he'll crash and burn in minutes. Fighting his way out of a nightmare is always harder when his body craves sleep, clinging greedily to unconsciousness; passing out is dreamless, blissful oblivion. But he doesn't want to break this moment, doesn't want to refuse and potentially undo the slow but steady growth of that little olive branch.
He ends up not moving at all.
"You always were stubborn," Elliot huffs- the wry smile on his face remains, exhonorating the sentence of any bite it may have. He pushes himself away from the counter, tosses the oven mitt aside again and steps closer, reaching out with one hand before it settles on 007n7's shoulder. "Table. Now. My feet are still killing me since that last round on Planet Voss."
They move in tandem, but once Elliot's other hand falls on a chair 007n7 breaks away from the touch-
(His skin feels warm where Elliot's hand once was. How long has it been since anyone had put his hands on him, killers notwithstanding? How long has it been since he was in such close proximity to another survivor? Shedletsky doesn't count, he was just celebrating his win, but 007n7 wants nothing more than to pull some kind of stunt that'll get that gentle touch back. Maybe he should pretend to faint. Maybe he should trip over his own feet and force Elliot to catch him.)
-and takes the second seat along, placing a respectable amount of distance between them. Not too far, but not close, either. Just enough to make sure both of them are comfortable, to make sure he's not breaching Elliot's personal space.
The second he's no longer on his feet, it happens just as he thought it would- a wave of exhaustion crashes over him, impossibly huge, and he finds himself slumping against the back of the chair without fully meaning to. Oak wood pressing into his back has never felt more comfortable.
"Jesus," Elliot begins, driving a little more alertness into 007n7. "Just take a nap, dude."
He knows he'll regret it. He knows his own mind will turn against him the second he shuts his eyes for anything more than a blink. But if Elliot is down here and cooking, then maybe it's closer to 'morning' than he'd thought, and maybe he can get away with just a power-nap. Just until the others start to rouse.
007n7 forces himself not to yawn, crossing his arms as he slumps a little further against his chair, the rest of his remaining willpower solely poured into keeping his eyes just-about-open. "Wake me up in time for breakfast?" He has no right to ask. He isn't even really expecting a meal, just a timeframe.
"Maybe." Elliot answers, mischievous. "If I feel like it."
Sleep finally digs its claws into him moments later.