If I'm Out of Line, Just Show Me the Door [CLOSED]

[ownperson]

Who: Agent South Dakota (ownperson) & Agent North Dakota (gooddefense)
What: Unresolved tension boils over
When: Mid-December, pre holidays
Where: North's farm, Northwest Hollow
Warning(s): Excessive alcohol/alcohol abuse, ongoing mental health crises, discussion of betrayal/fratricide by proxy, possible references to past emotional abuse/neglect, others added as necessary



She doesn't mean to get back so late.

One drink turns into two drinks into five into ten and, outside the Oak & Iron's windows, the world turns black and white as night creeps in and snow drifts down from clouds overhead. Midnight is already long behind her by the time the bartender finally cuts her off so they can close up, ushering her out to brave the chill as she curses herself for losing track of time. It's a long walk back from downtown to the farmhouse even on a good day and, between trudging through snowfall and her own drunken clumsiness, this is not a good day. Should've left sooner. Should've been back hours ago. It's just—

Been getting harder and harder to spend time in the house without wanting to scream, the last few days—fuck, the last couple weeks, really. Hours will go by where everything seems okay and then something will happen, something small, something she barely even notices, and everything gets weird again. North gets weird again. But then she doesn't say a word, and, eventually, things go back to normal. Until the cycle repeats. Over and over and over again and—

She just needed to get out of the house. Needed a drink and to clear her head. That's all. That's fucking all.

Her pale skin is red and her hands are shaking as much from the cold as the alcohol, by the time she hauls herself up the porch steps and fumbles with the lock on the door. It's not quiet, it's not considerate. When it finally clicks open, she shoulders the door and stumbles inside, shoving it back shut behind her. Her boots thud heavily against the wooden floor and she grunts, huffing as she fights to get the stupid things off so she can drag herself to bed.

Comments

[gooddefense]

North, of course, was already struggling to sleep, worrying about South being out all night. Ever since what happened, not knowing where she'll be or when gets him on edge. But of course he can't say anything. Can't be too clingy, but can't be too distant, right?

God, that's mean. He doesn't want to resent her. He doesn't want to be angry. He loves her. They talked. He promised things would be fine, and if they suddenly aren't fine, that makes him a liar, right?

(And that's South's job.) (That was mean. Don't think stuff like that.)

North doesn't want to be angry. South is just so... unapologetic.

It's a good thing North already couldn't sleep, because the infernal racket she makes with her drunken stumbling would have certainly woken him by now. Instead, he just sits quietly by the dwindling fire with a cup of tea. "Welcome back," he says, colder than he intends.

[ownperson]

She almost jumps out of her damn skin.

The boot she'd gotten half-off comes free and hits the ground with a thud that makes even her flinch, but she just about manages to keep her balance and avoid joining it on the floor. He's awake. Why is he still awake? He's not meant to still be awake. The late nights were a Theta thing, right?

"...you're still up," she says, dumbly, because nothing else she can say feels any more useful. Something in his tone settles a chill under her skin, far colder than any lingering effects from the weather outside. "Did— did you fuckin' wait up?"

Like he would when she was still just a teenager, sneaking out to go drinking with some of the other more rebellious kids from their block. But, no, it doesn't feel like that. It couldn't, really, could it? She's not that kid now.

[gooddefense]

"Just couldn't sleep," North replies, taking another sip of his tea. Wraps his hands all the way around the mug to feel the heat on his fingers. "People keep saying it's dangerous out there at night, so. I worry."

[ownperson]

That should be reassuring. It's not. (It's not, because she's broken, and can't accept her brother's care for what it is, can't shake the feeling that something is wrong and—)

"Yeah, well, I can fuckin' defend myself just fucking fine," she snips, hating herself for it but unable to bite down on it in time. She yanks off her other boot and grabs both of them to throw down beside the door, out of the way. "I'm not a stupid kid anymore. I can stay out drinking as long as I fucking want to."

(Didn't tell her she couldn't. Didn't say anything but that he worries. Didn't do anything to earn the venom in her voice. Why the fuck is she like this?)

[gooddefense]

"Okay."

He doesn't look at her. Looking at her just pisses him off. You fuckin' killed me, the least you could do is be nice to me.

(That's not fair.)

"I'll be up a little while longer."

[ownperson]

That uneasy sickness curls back around her insides. So familiar now it's almost possible to ignore—almost. What she should do, what she has done every day since this tension started to stretch its way to breaking point, is shut her mouth and walk away. Take a minute to calm down and let it pass. Wait until she can claim her spot on the couch and sleep through the worst of her hangover.

She doesn't do that.

"...you're doing it again."

[gooddefense]

He bristles at the accusation. She started this. She's the one who keeps pushing. Things were supposed to be better, but nothing changed. She's still pushing him away so that she can be her "own person" until it's convenient for her to need him, at which point she'll spring right back to him as if nothing ever happened and expect him to drop everything he was doing to try and learn to be alone.

"I'm not doing anything, South."

I'm so fuckin' lost here, just wanna be not here [CAROLINA]

[ownperson]

Even stood there, on the porch, she almost doesn't go through with it.

Doing this doesn't come naturally. It's almost humiliating, in a way, to need to do this, to be so pitifully lost that she finds herself here instead of holed up in a room at the Oak & Iron where she should be. That's what the place is for, right? Jobless rejects with nowhere better to go. Another cheap hotel room, like those she slept in on the run, North's breathing no longer across the room and—

She can't do it. She just can't fucking do it and she hates herself for how pathetic it makes her feel.

And so here she stands in front Carolina's house in the early hours of the morning. Around her, sprinkles of snow continue to fall from grey clouds dotting the sky, sticking to her hair and eyelashes and collecting on the coat she put on so North wouldn't fret about her freezing to death on her walk. The few things she owns are barely enough to fill a bag. She doesn't shiver—no, she's lived through far worse winters than this—yet she still feels shaky, and her hand trembles as, finally, she lifts it to knock hard on the door.

[cyansoldier]

Carolina starts when she hears a knock at the door, half-delirious and briefly prepared to kill something. It's late. She doesn't need a clock to know that. She sees it in the full height of the moon— the way it streams, pale and foreboding, through the bedroom window. She feels it in sleep-crust, the stuff that gunks up your eyes; in the bun that sways narcotically on the top of her head. What the fuck. It's probably that dog-thing again.

Except, no, it isn't the dog-thing. It's South, bundled up in a coat that somehow looks wrong on her, flecked in little snowflakes and looking— terrible. Like a clenched fist. Like a livid wound. She looks like she's been crying— or something like it— the way rage and sadness and embarrassment sometimes take on the same preliminary features, whether there are tears or not. Most of all, she looks cold, and so Carolina ushers her inside with a hasty, "Come on."

A splash of ice cold water and a bullet in the foot couldn't wake Carolina up as violently as she feels herself now. She shuts the door and latches it. The trapped draft breaks apart into a pathetic howl.

"What happened? Actually, no, just— take off your coat and sit down."

[ownperson]

It's reflexive, doing what Carolina tells her to. Nothing like orders taken in the field, not even like orders in more intimate moments may be taken, more like the simple instructions make a shortcut between her exhausted brain and her muscles firing.

Shuffle inside. Shrug off the coat. Drop down, heavy, onto Carolina's couch. Remember to breathe, breathing is important.

(She's still drunk. Worse, even, than most other days before now.)

"I-I—" she starts, only for her voice to catch in the back of her throat and force her to swallow, take another deep breath. Burying her face in her hands, she puts all her energy into not fucking crying. "...m'sorry."

[cyansoldier]

South reeks of alcohol. It wafts on that chilly draft and Carolina squints her eyes against it. Has come to expect that from her, like acknowledging the sum of two plus two. If South is upset, then booze tows along, that's that. Bad coping. No one to tell her no— not the she'd listen. Still, it's disconcerting to watch her sway on her feet, sag after she's dropped down onto the couch.

North. No one else in this town matters enough to have her so low. It begs the question— one she keeps to herself— South, what did you do?

"Hey. It's okay," she says, cupping her shoulder. "It's okay."

Carolina spends a minutes shuffling around the room, the unexpected host that she is, to hang up South's coat, fill a glass with water, place it on the rickety old coffee table by her knees. She drifts toward the stairs.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

[ownperson]

South nods, a tight little motion, and doesn't move. Doesn't even reach for the glass, distantly aware she should, that she needs to get some real fluids in her, and yet struggling with turning thought into motion.

(It's not okay. Nothing is okay.)

Somewhere, in the fuzzy foreground of her mind, she knows she's meant to call him. Meant to assure him she got somewhere safe, then hang up and... and wait, however long. (Weeks? Months?) But she told him she was heading back downtown, so he won't be expecting the call for at least another— half hour? Hour? Enough time to maybe get it together. Not be— be this, on the line.

(Besides, there's no guarantee Lina lets her stay. Better not to jump the gun.)

[cyansoldier]

Carolina vanishes into her bedroom to strip the bed, carrying a bundle of pillows and blankets in a sort of haphazard way back down the stairs. Of course she's letting her stay. Better here than at the Oak and Iron, soaking up alcohol like a miserable sponge and keeling over onto the floor. Or god knows where else, putting herself in danger.

She hefts her bundle down onto the opposite end of the couch— one pillow for South, one on the floor for herself— the comforter for South, the sheet for herself. She'll stay up, stake out, make sure South sleeps without choking on her own vomit.

She brings the blanket up over the other woman's shoulders and hunkers down on the ground next to the sofa.

"Drink your water. I mean it."

Wildcard, a few days into South being at Carolina's

[skeletonkeay]

One of the pitfalls of crashing with a friend who has a boyfriend is that said boyfriend tends to hang around. Especially this one. He's tall, gangly, always dressed in black on black on black, with black hair and black eye make-up so he looks like a damn vampire. The eerie eye tattoos don't help with the feeling like he's kind of leering, even if he doesn't really mean to.

One day he comes by while Carolina's out. Odd.

When he gets there, he's got a chocolate-looking dessert in a glass container that he sets on the table before he goes and just starts... cleaning. He washes the dishes, and wipes down everything in the damn kitchen. He hasn't deliberately interacted with South since entering, though this doesn't seem malicious. He's just busy. (Though if South gets nosy enough even if she doesn't say anything, Gerry will get snarky with her. As is his way.)

[ownperson]

South is, of course, where she pretty much always is when someone like Gerry arrives: rotting on Carolina's couch, stupidly long legs hanging over the end as she (begrudgingly) drinks something that isn't alcohol. It's not what you would actually call comfortable, but it's not like she has much other choice (except, of course, leaving the damn house more, but she's... she's just not feeling up to it most of the time).

She squints, half-awake, at Gerry when he comes in, and continues squinting at him as he busies himself in Carolina's kitchen. Is that— just a thing he fucking does? Seriously did Lina go from York's useless ass to a guy that just does chores for her without prompting? Okay, well, upgrade. (Sorry, York.)

And what's with the dessert— thing?

[skeletonkeay]

"You gonna help out or do you just wanna stare at the back of my head?"

There it is.

"M'getting this done so we can have some fun tonight. That includes you."

[ownperson]

Okay well the level of snark is still about Freelancer standard, so that part makes sense.

South groans, pushing herself up (clumsily, seriously it is not graceful) so she's sitting with her arms on the back of the cushions looking at him more directly. She still looks dubious, expression flat and narrow, but if he's got this whole eyes in the back of his head vibe going on he can just deal with her resting bitch face.

"Who said I wanna have fun?" she grumbles, contrarily, because some things never change. Is he actually asking her to start helping? Does she look like the kind of person who knows how to clean a kitchen? Okay, well, that's a childish thought, actually, but she still doesn't immediately get up. "And I'm not fucking staring. I'm looking. There's a difference."

Yeah that's snark for snark's sake.

[skeletonkeay]

Turning to look at her, Gerry cocks a pierced eyebrow upwards. "I'm sorry, who's the eyeball guy here, me or you? Don't question my fucking credentials." He grabs a small hand towel and chucks it at her. "Only losers don't wanna have fun. Now dry these fucking dishes and put 'em away so we can get stoned in peace."

[ownperson]

Her reflexes are still dogshit right now so the towel thumps into her face before she can catch it, but she snatches it up quickly enough after that. Really, really shouldn't rise to the bait of being called a loser, but she does actually kind of hate being called a loser.

"Weird fucking tat choices aren't fucking credentials, asshole." Ugh, fine. She pulls herself off the couch, a little shaky on her feet (which she fucking hates, too, for the record) and trudges over into the kitchen space. Always feels kind of weird to stand next to someone else who's her height that isn't North himself.

She grabs a dish. Pauses.

"—you said fuckin' stoned?"

Why do my reckless decisions happen this late? [CAROLINA]

[ownperson]

On the surface, there was nothing unusual about today. Nothing big to do, nowhere special to be, with no more holiday events for the next couple days and the weather outside still cold and white. South spends half the day draped over the couch, working through her alcohol target, and the other half helping Carolina with chores. Her mood is foul, but when isn't it? Better moments come and go, but it's normal for her to be quiet and grouchy, struggling beneath the withdrawal from alcohol and family alike.

And when Carolina goes up to bed, she gives her the same grunt of 'night' that she has every day since she got here before settling down with every intention of sleeping.

She lays there, staring emptily at the ceiling, for hours.

...what the fuck is she doing here?

A week. A week since getting kicked out. A week since showing up on Carolina's porch like some pathetic stray animal begging for scraps. A week of making Carolina, of all fucking people, look after her—feed her, entertain her, comfort her, try to get her sober. A week of making Carolina manage her emotions—fuck, how is any of this any better than what she put North through?

Why did she come here? What the fuck was she thinking? Carolina has a whole fucking life in this town—friends, family, fiance. And here's South, bursting into all that like a fucking wrecking ball and ruining it all, taking up time and space and energy that she hasn't earned, hasn't got any fucking right to. Taking and taking and taking some more and for what? How has she let this happen, again, and so fucking quickly?

...she can't keep doing this.

At almost three in the morning, South tears to her feet and starts throwing things into her bag.

[cyansoldier]

It's late when she shrugs awake— not that she'd really been asleep in the first place. Drifting somewhere in-between, playing scenes in her mind like video recordings, both mundane and not-great. The time she sprained her ankle during her first year of ballet; the same year she was removed from her home to go to school. The split, fissure, crack of the Mother of Invention's windshield, and her propelling out into the snow like something flung from a canon. She recalls one warm winter morning, her ear pressed to Gerry's bare chest. The sound of the sink running. The texture of wet food.

Sleep's not working.

Carolina swings her legs over the side of the bed and decides, why not service her pistol? She doesn't have anything better to do, and cleaning and greasing the old thing is essentially free therapy. Restless, she throws her hair into a bun and shrugs on a jacket– cold basement, no space heaters— and starts quietly down the stairs.

Hears a noise—

Heavy footfall; the fwomp of soft things thrust somewhere in a hurry.

She appears noiselessly— a trick of hers— at the base of the stares.

"South—?"

[ownperson]

South jumps so sharply out of her skin she almost trips backward over the coffee table. Shit. Why the fuck is she awake? She's not even making that much noise, not enough to carry all the way upstairs; loud as she usually is, South has always known damn well how to be quiet when she really doesn't want to be overheard. So why is Carolina down here?

...doesn't matter. Doesn't fucking matter, she's already made up her mind. Shock wrinkles back into stubbornness and she grabs the last of her clothes, shoves them in with the rest.

"That's my fuckin' name," she grunts, setting the bag on the table so she can go for her boots. (Except it isn't, none of these fucking things are their damn names.) "Go back to fuckin' bed. Wasn't meant to wake you up."

Because now this is going to turn into a whole thing, she can feel it brewing even in that single shocked use of her codename. Fuck's sake. She can't do fucking anything right—

[cyansoldier]

"Later."

It doesn't take a detective (Connecticut) to realize what the hell is going on. Clues in the blanket strewn half off the couch— in clothes piled haphazardly into South's bag. A runaway sock abandoned on the floor— product of spontaneity, not planning. Tight breaths and unlaced boots and a fixed determination— no, a stupidity— that Carolina has always had very little patience for. She purses her lips and thinks, Fuck no.

She makes her way to the door at the same time South fits her feet into her boots, a saunter that speaks loudly, I am going to be very difficult and you aren't going to like it.

"A little cold for a walk. You have plans?"

No. No, not anymore.

[ownperson]

South's jaw flexes, teeth grinding—god fucking dammit. Should've got her kit on to leave first, should've been ready to just walk out the damn door if she got caught. (Caught? The fuck is she thinking that for? She's not doing anything wrong.)

"Nothing you have to worry about," she answers, flatly, cinching her laces tight and grabbing her stupid coat. "You don't have to worry about shit anymore. Gonna be outta your hair."

Just say it like it's a done deal, no argument. It's not going to stop whatever Carolina's going to pull but sounding anything less than sure will only give her more of an opening and South's not going to give her that. She's not.

Shrugs into her coat. Grabs the bag. Just have to get past her. That's all.

[cyansoldier]

"I'm sorry— did I miss something? Did you have a conversation with me that I'm not aware of?"

The door is cool against her back— ice-cold draft biting her ankles where it whistles in from outside. Don't do this. You don't have to do this. You aren't going to do this. Carolina rolls her shoulders backward, broad where she dominates the doorframe. Hopes standing there will be enough to deter South— not worth the effort it'd take to shove her aside. But... She doens't know. She doesn't.

"What's going on?" Silence. Shuffling. "Talk."