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This time, there's an edge of tired irritation in Willard's voice. This guy. If he manages to escape the quicksand, Willard wouldn't mind strangling him. (Which is an impulse he'd rather not be giving thought to. Which he doesn't doubt he could absolutely do, but of course he's not here for that, those kind of actions don't belong anywhere outside of the– Don't even belong in the jungle. Don't belong anywhere at all.)
"I'm thinking about getting your ass out of that quicksand."
He still doesn't know what the jerk's talking about. Willard's about as chill as he could ever be in this place. And what's his thinking got to do with anything? What thinking is this guy talking about? Willard's thinking about (being trapped, about what no doubt lurks here, about the man who maybe waiting, about the mission that should've been over)
"If it'll get you out of there, sure, pal, fine. I'll chill out. Now would you get on your back?"
Chill out. Stop thinking. As if he could banish the jungle from his mind. As if he could will any of this to stop happening, happening again and again internally, in his head and through his veins, infusing the air he breathes. There is no other strain of thought, anymore. He's never found a way of getting out.
It's a stupid idea, or at least the panic tells him that it is. What a way to die. Really, for a stranger to this plane it's a dick move, frankly. Ritchie longs to bob in place to jog his train of thought, but at the first jostle of his heel thanks to the nervous habit he sinks a few inches deeper.
"Alright. Alright.."
He winces as he does his best to accomodate based on the situation. Everything about this is unideal: the temperature, the texture and the looming threat of death. He's not ready for that yet. This was his fall-back to avoid that. Slowing down, he does his best to lower himself into a horizontal position on his back. Now the shit's all in his hair...
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no subject
"I'm thinking about getting your ass out of that quicksand."
He still doesn't know what the jerk's talking about. Willard's about as chill as he could ever be in this place. And what's his thinking got to do with anything? What thinking is this guy talking about? Willard's thinking about (being trapped, about what no doubt lurks here, about the man who maybe waiting, about the mission that should've been over)
"If it'll get you out of there, sure, pal, fine. I'll chill out. Now would you get on your back?"
Chill out. Stop thinking. As if he could banish the jungle from his mind. As if he could will any of this to stop happening, happening again and again internally, in his head and through his veins, infusing the air he breathes. There is no other strain of thought, anymore. He's never found a way of getting out.
no subject
"Alright. Alright.."
He winces as he does his best to accomodate based on the situation. Everything about this is unideal: the temperature, the texture and the looming threat of death. He's not ready for that yet. This was his fall-back to avoid that. Slowing down, he does his best to lower himself into a horizontal position on his back. Now the shit's all in his hair...
Fuck.
"Now what, genius?"