That blow to the head dazes him, his back hitting the ground knocks the wind out of him entirely, and when he sees the fist raised again, he's painfully, horrifyingly aware that he's well and truly screwed. Sure, he won't have to live with the pulp Amirrorca is about to turn his face into, but he'll have to feel it until his Real takes over, and that's just a touch further than he'd really wanted to go so far as his own well being is concerned; it's not until he's flinching, bracing himself for the blow, that he understands the massive fucking bad idea this whole brawl had been.
But the blow never comes. In its place is that blank stare, that face he'd seen before the guy'd crumpled earlier, the one that- in a disgusting way- lets the Mirror hope for the best. If this asshole's fighting the psycho, maybe there's a chance-- But then those hands are reaching for his throat, closing around his windpipe so tight and so fast that he can't even make a sound let alone jerk his head away. Fingers dig in deep to the sides of his neck, thumbs pressing so hard he isn't sure if the goal is to choke him or to squeeze his head right off his shoulders, and he has to fight the urge to thrash for worry of his neck up and snapping on him.
Oblivious to (and completely uncaring of) America's inner turmoil, the Mirror's number one concern has become 'I'm about to get choked out by pyschopath junior'. He tries again to get his Real to swap places- because although the safety of the physical body is what really matters, he's just cowardly enough to prefer waiting out the end somewhere in limbo, in a place where he can't feel those fingers pressing bruises into his throat as his vision starts to swim... But despite his panic and his flailing both physically and the mental thrashing he's doing against his Real's barrier, nothing changes; he'd deny it until the end of his not-days, but in those last few moments before the hands finally pull away, he's terrified.
They both are.
But eventually that presses eases, the weight that'd been bearing down on their chest lightens and then disappears altogether as the kid shrinks away, colliding with that tree and melting into what amounts to the fetal position at the base; everything's spotty, patches of dark and light making everything look like it's wearing a rorschach test, but he'd made out the tears well enough, and while he can feel the Real Daryl stirring just out of reach, all he can think is serves you right. He coughs, once, then again before rolling over onto his side and wheezing into the dirt and ash from the fire, and it isn't long before he's managed to shove himself up into an unsteady half-crouch. He has to stop to breathe- a luxury he's finding he appreciates a hell of a lot more now.
Limbs heavy and head still spinning, it takes him a good minute to force himself all the way up, and it's not until after he's staggered over to a tree- one that's far enough away from the still-catatonic America that he feels as safe as he's gonna get- and rests for a while that the Mirror manages to begin his trek back up to the Mansion. Everything's sore, there's blood (probably his but you can never really be sure...) covering his face and neck and dripping into his shirt, and for the life of him he just cannot force his Real to come out from wherever it is he's hiding. "Pussy," he growls, though for all he knows he could just be talking to himself. Real's checked out, or at least as far as he knows... Christ, what a shit show...
With one final cough- and without sparing the wreck of a kid even a glance, though he does spit off to the side, a mixture of blood and dust and whatever else- he moves to start for the clinic.
no subject
But the blow never comes. In its place is that blank stare, that face he'd seen before the guy'd crumpled earlier, the one that- in a disgusting way- lets the Mirror hope for the best. If this asshole's fighting the psycho, maybe there's a chance-- But then those hands are reaching for his throat, closing around his windpipe so tight and so fast that he can't even make a sound let alone jerk his head away. Fingers dig in deep to the sides of his neck, thumbs pressing so hard he isn't sure if the goal is to choke him or to squeeze his head right off his shoulders, and he has to fight the urge to thrash for worry of his neck up and snapping on him.
Oblivious to (and completely uncaring of) America's inner turmoil, the Mirror's number one concern has become 'I'm about to get choked out by pyschopath junior'. He tries again to get his Real to swap places- because although the safety of the physical body is what really matters, he's just cowardly enough to prefer waiting out the end somewhere in limbo, in a place where he can't feel those fingers pressing bruises into his throat as his vision starts to swim... But despite his panic and his flailing both physically and the mental thrashing he's doing against his Real's barrier, nothing changes; he'd deny it until the end of his not-days, but in those last few moments before the hands finally pull away, he's terrified.
They both are.
But eventually that presses eases, the weight that'd been bearing down on their chest lightens and then disappears altogether as the kid shrinks away, colliding with that tree and melting into what amounts to the fetal position at the base; everything's spotty, patches of dark and light making everything look like it's wearing a rorschach test, but he'd made out the tears well enough, and while he can feel the Real Daryl stirring just out of reach, all he can think is serves you right. He coughs, once, then again before rolling over onto his side and wheezing into the dirt and ash from the fire, and it isn't long before he's managed to shove himself up into an unsteady half-crouch. He has to stop to breathe- a luxury he's finding he appreciates a hell of a lot more now.
Limbs heavy and head still spinning, it takes him a good minute to force himself all the way up, and it's not until after he's staggered over to a tree- one that's far enough away from the still-catatonic America that he feels as safe as he's gonna get- and rests for a while that the Mirror manages to begin his trek back up to the Mansion. Everything's sore, there's blood (probably his but you can never really be sure...) covering his face and neck and dripping into his shirt, and for the life of him he just cannot force his Real to come out from wherever it is he's hiding. "Pussy," he growls, though for all he knows he could just be talking to himself. Real's checked out, or at least as far as he knows... Christ, what a shit show...
With one final cough- and without sparing the wreck of a kid even a glance, though he does spit off to the side, a mixture of blood and dust and whatever else- he moves to start for the clinic.