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

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

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.

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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.)

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."

South pulls a face, but the straightforward order does the trick again, cutting through the noise to let her grab and chug most of the glass in one go. Doesn't set it down again, just clutches it and its dregs in hand as she sits there, draped under Carolina's blanket and feeling both comforted and ridiculous.

She shouldn't need babying like this. Shouldn't need to be ordered around just to do basic things. Shouldn't need to be here, should be able to handle herself. Feels so fucking helpless and ashamed of it, the shattered pieces of the image she relies on so strongly laying around her feet.

"...m'supposed to call him," she mumbles, though she doesn't intend it to come out so quiet. "I-I don't— I don't think—"

Isn't sure she has it in her. But also hates the thought of not talking to him one more time before she has to stay away.

Good. She'll get her another glass once South has settled in. Work the alcohol out of her system the old fashioned way— with water, sleep and sheer will. Distantly, Carolina takes stock of what she keeps in her own cabinet; a few bottles of wine, some beer. Not enough to drink herself to death with, but still something she considers putting away.

"I'll call him. If you decide you want to talk, you can talk. If not, he'll still know you're here. Do you have your stone on you?"

Another tight nod and South digs a hand into her pants pocket, pulling out the smooth hematite sending stone that matches North's. Feels like a sick joke of the universe, right now. Always identical.

(And he likes that. Loves it, apparently. Loves being them, being her twin, and she— what did she fucking do? She spent all these years making him feel like she fucking hated him because of it. Fuck. Fuck.)

"S-Said I was going— to the bar. The bar's rooms. I just— just—" just couldn't. Couldn't go there and be all on her own.

(Left North all on his own. He asked for it but she left so quickly and—)

She presses the stone into Carolina's hand and hunches in on herself.

"You can forget going there now," she says, some brand of placid sternness. The stone is warm and smooth in her hand, high glare catching the wan light of a lamp. "He'll want to know where you are. Where you actually are. He deserves that." Truth instead of whatever lie she's come up with out of instinct or panic or some third and similarly turbulent thing. He shouldn't have to worry— not with everything that's likely going on in his own head.

She'll go and see him. Tomorrow, if it's not too soon. He deserves that too.

Carolina closes the stone in her palm and calls for North Dakota.

"Hey. North. Are you there?"

The voice that comes back is quiet. Tired, and rough the way someone sounds when they've been crying. Shifted slightly in that way where you can halfway tell someone's laying down. "Yeah, I'm here. Hey Carolina."

In her many years of knowing him, she's never heard North sound so drained. The effort it takes to speak, like the equivalent to climbing a mountain, throwing yourself back down and starting all over again. He sounds like he's been crying. What could have happened? What was said? She leans on a fist, frowns into her knuckles.

"Hi. I've got South here. I just wanted to let you know where she is, and that she's okay."

Edited 2025-12-17 15:37 (UTC)

"Oh, good." The relief in his voice is palpable. He practically sighs out the words. "Thanks a ton. If you could tell her that--- that I'm okay too, and I'll call her in a while, I'd appreciate it."

South in her peripheral vision, crowded in on herself like a collapsing star. She aches for both of them. Tries and fails to understand the complex parts that make up a sibling relationship— any familial relationship exceeding a pathetic six years— and can't. But she knows dedication. Knows putting entire worlds before herself— or trying. She also knows selfishness. Lashing out. Harbingering in death she never intended.

"Of course, I'll let her know. And I'll check in with you later, okay? Get some sleep."

"Thanks, boss. Nighty-night." His words are an attempt to seem jovial, but he just can't hack it. Probably for the best that the call cuts out there, both stones fading to dark and going silent.

He's been crying. He's been crying, already, and he's back there all alone with no one to help him and he still sounds so fucking relieved that she's with someone, that she's okay, and she feels fucking horrible for leaving him (he asked her to, he asked her to because he needs this) at the same time as she feels reassured that he cares and— and—

Something cracks. Foundation finally buckling under the strain. The stone goes dark and in the same second South caves in on herself and breaks down in ugly, painful sobs.

For a moment, Carolina isn't entirely sure what to do. Has never prided herself on being good at comforting people, usually just gets by on credentials. Your boss is giving you a pep-talk, so you're obligated to nod your head and pretend to listen sort of thing. It's the kind of crying that makes you wince as a bystander. The crying you can feel; a second-hand pain. A rearranging of nerves, everything tangled up and in the wrong place. Carolina gnaws her lip and picks herself up off the floor, settles herself on the couch beside South.

She doesn't know what to say.

So she doesn't say anything. Just moves one arm to bracket slowly, cautiously (ready to retract if needed), across South's shoulders.

The last time she cried, like this, was about a week after North died (after she killed— after she got him killed). Finally sure that Command wasn't on her tail, wouldn't be catching up to her any time soon, she took a chance on taking up a motel room instead of sleeping rough and without thinking about it, booked a twin room. It was reflex. Just like calling dibs on the better bed was reflex, even to an empty, echoing room.

The realisation had snapped back against her mind like the recoil of a gun and with it shattered the mindset of pure survival that had carried her so far. All that grief and guilt she'd pushed down, tried so fucking hard to convince herself she could ignore, crashed into her like an avalanche, smothering her. Left her sobbing there, on the floor, Delta's chip torn away and thrown across the room so he couldn't keep fucking judging her, couldn't watch her fall to pathetic little pieces.

This feels worse, somehow.

The sobs hurt, wrenching the muscles in her chest and abdomen, tearing up her throat. Tears flow hot down cheeks still frozen by the cold outside, burning the reddened skin. Pain throbs behind her eyes, inside of her skull foggy and aching from exhaustion and the alcohol it's marinated in. It's a whole body agony, violent and all-consuming and she hates it, she hates it, she hates being seen like this, she hates that she can't control it, hates that she's acting like this when he's the one that got hurt and— and—

Her shoulders tense beneath Carolina's arm, but she doesn't jerk away.

She knows it hurts. She knows it's embarrassing. Humiliating. Worse than any flesh wound you could suffer in the field. No injury compares to the wholesale removal of your composure; a head-to-toe skinning that leaves you unprotected and shaking against the cold. Carolina hates crying. If she could, she'd sharpen her nails and remove her own ducts. Pull them out— a thin, fleshy filigree— and crush them under her shoe. Children cry when they break things that can't be put back together again. She's cried for much the same reason, and not once has it felt deserved.

She's bewildered to be an audience to South's crying, for how much of a hypocrite she feels. Why shouldn't South cry? She's a victim to the Program's systemic abuse, to parents who never quite cared enough, to a situation that didn't go the way she planned. Her brother, dead, back again, now probably asking for space— and what a terrifying thing that must be. And drunk on top of everything.

If she were someone different, she might tell her it's okay to cry. But she isn't.

That arm stays put, though, and she feels South heave against her side. Forward, backward, sucking in those painful, whaling breaths. She doesn't shrug her away, which is more than Carolina expects. Her one-armed hold settles into place. Let her cry.

Months of pressurised grief and self-hatred pour from South like a dam bursting, like the ensuing flash flood tearing through the landscape, flattening everything in its path. She is dragged along with the current, unable to fight for more than desperate, pitiful gasps for oxygen that do nothing to make it easier to breathe, nothing to stop the onslaught that threatens to drown her, to choke the life out of her and leave her in the filth.

Hard to say how long it takes for the worst of it to pass. South can neither think nor move for the weight of it. But, eventually, the vicious shaking of her entire body slows to become little more than heaving breaths, rough and rolling but less painful, less overwhelming.

Her face is red and hot and puffy, shining where the streaking tears haven't entirely dried up. Even now, some still dribble from misty eyes, catching in the dip of her lips and tainting her tongue with salt as she all but pants for air. The weight of her sags forward and into Carolina all at once, involuntary.

(Shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be imposing on her, like this.)

"...m'sorry," she murmurs, again, her voice rough and raw. Feels like talking through a throat full of gravel. "S'just— I-I think. If I'm alone, r-right now. Something— something bad'll happen."

She's not sure what. Not really. But something.

Any amount of time could have passed and she'd believe it. Twenty minutes, an hour. She's really only conscious of time as it begins to spill through the window in beams of insipid morning light, bleeding into the floorboards like spilt milk. And anyway, it's the last thing Carolina is focused on. Her attention, never extending far beyond the boundary of the sofa.

In whatever amount of time it takes, South's breathing pulls itself thin, lapping backward and forward like a tide in her spent throat. She isn't gasping anymore. That's good. The body can only take so much before it gives in— throws up— passes out. Unmoored and heavy, South leans into her. Carolina pivots toward her and wraps her up in both arms.

And her gut twists. Something bad.

"I know." A hand at the back of her head. Feels strange. Like she's holding something made of glass. Like she's cupped her hand over an open stomach, keeping all the guts inside. "You won't be alone. You can stay here for however long you want. Really, it isn't an issue. I have the space and I have the food and I want you to be here."

Another flash of tension shoots through her, involuntary, as the encircling arms startle her like a stray animal not used to being touched. It had felt so strange to be hugged by even her own brother, back on that platform, for what must have been the first time in... months? Years? Too long. Too damn long. And if that felt strange, then this feels bizarre. To have the number one wrap her up in steady arms and cup her head like she's some delicate thing that needs protecting, when even now she feels anything but.

(She's a fucking monster. She turned on her own family, on the only person that ever truly loved her without condition. She doesn't deserve any of this. Not the second chance, not the comfort, nothing. Fuck. Fuck.)

And still, she doesn't pull away. Lets her head rest against Carolina's shoulder, tries not to let too much of her weight press into her so they don't fall. Takes a slow breath in, shaky and painful. Releases a deep exhale, stray hairs shaking in the artificial breeze.

I want you to be here, Carolina says, and South has to stop herself from asking why the fuck she'd ever want that. Even her own brother doesn't want her around. (No, that's not right. He even said the opposite. He just... can't be around her, right now. It's just hard for her to see the difference.)

"...I-I keep— I keep hurting him. I-I can't fucking stop. He— he said he just— just needs some time but I don't— I don't fucking know how to stop."

How did she let it get this bad? How can she have spent so long hurting him and not realise? How terrible a fucking person is she that she can't even stop hurting the most important person in her life?

"S-Something— something's wrong with me. Something's really fucking wrong with me."

Some time. Not an unreasonable ask. The smartest thing North could have done for their relationship, really. Pressure builds, heat accumulates and you have an explosion on your hands. You say terrible things, you set each other on fire, and you're left with a steaming pile of ash you can't come back from. North, at least, pushed the pin back in before things went kaput— South's here, asking for help instead of lying in a cold, wet ditch somewhere— and that's a start.

Still. What a feeling, right? You spend your whole life leaning on a pillar you've been chipping and chipping and chipping away at without knowing, and when it crumbles to shit, you're shocked. You can't fathom it; don't remember picking up the tools.

Carolina's hand is sure and her grip is firm. The air around her sweats of South's alcohol.

"You both contributed. It isn't just on you, South. He loves you. He's asking for space, yeah? So, he wants to come back from this. You're both going to have to change some behavior, and that's going to be uncomfortable." Like the drinking. Like thinking in black-and-white. Like North's acquiescence. "It's the way forward. It feels terrible now, but terrible's where you recognize problems."

She's doing it again. The boss-speak. Carolina chews her tongue and draws in a long, slow breath. Her nails sow shallow lines into South's scalp where she scratches hypnotically. "This isn't the end. I promise."

It isn't just on you, what a fucking lie that feels like. Every well-worn grievance she's ever had with him feels like fucking nothing, now, petty and stupid and meaningless. How could any of it stand up to what she's done to him? How is she ever supposed to ask anything of him, after this? How would it ever be fair?

(But Carolina's right about one thing: she needs to change. She just doesn't know how. Doesn't even feel capable.)

Despite herself, despite the urge to kick and bite and scream and stop being so fucking pathetic, the gentle scratch of nails against skin lulls her into a strange state of relaxed tension. Tightly coiled, like the firing mechanism of a gun before the trigger is pulled, and yet still. Unwilling to pull away, to deny herself this no matter how little she feels she deserves it. An inherent contradiction.

"...m-maybe it should be," she murmurs, low and rough and thick with the tears that still refuse to drought. "Y-You don't— you don't get it. I'm fucking broken. Something— something is fucking wrong with me and I don't know how to fix it and he doesn't— he shouldn't— all I can ever fucking be to him is a fucking burden. S'all I've ever been. M'just too selfish to let him fucking go."

Maybe that's what she needs to fix. Maybe she just needs to give him the chance to live without the weight of her around his neck.

"H-He says I'm his favourite person but I don't— I don't know how I could be. I-I don't know how that can be anything but a fucking lie he's told himself to make being stuck with me easier to fucking swallow."

"Don't say that," she says in an unfamiliar manner of soft-firmness; a wave breaking over the rocky shore or a hand firm at the back of the neck. "It isn't, and you aren't broken. You made mistakes. You were selfish. You think differently than he does. Than other people, maybe. If you really were a monster you, wouldn't care how you hurt North. You've seen monsters up close— the Director, the Counselor, they don't care— you aren't like them."

(Both men could fall onto their knees and sob themselves whole puddles and they'd still be monsters.)

It's meditative, sowing tracks back and forth through South's hair. She might not think she deserves it, but she hasn't pulled away, and that means at the very least her body recognizes she needs it. Carolina needs it too, a fact far beyond her own recognition. Every so often she'll tuck a strand of platinum-and-purple hair into place— drop to the base of her neck where little baby hairs spring out thinner than the rest. The closeness is unusual. Almost nostalgic. Something the older girls in school would have done for her when she was at her youngest and still tantrum-prone.

"If you expect everyone to hate you like you do, you can forget it. You've got us all pretty much beat out."

That startles a wet, bitter laugh out of her—an absurd sound to hear come out of herself, feeling the way she does. "W-Well you're right about that part. Guess I-I'm at least good at something."

For as long as she can clearly remember, she's hated herself just as much as she's loved herself—more than, really. Confidence half-truth and yet entirely a lie, built up brick by brick until the wall between her sensitive insides and the cruelty around her was near-impenetrable. Defiance in the face of world that wanted to wear her down into something palatable, easy to swallow, to control. Anger and pride are the only fuels that have ever carried her further than two steps through her life and yet lately they've tasted acrid, poisonous, rotten.

The lie scatters in pieces at her feet, now, in so many pieces it feels impossible to put back together in the shape it used to be. In the shape she used to be.

"...I-I think he thinks I hate him and I don't. I fuckin' don't. I could never— not— not really, not..." Her face scrunches into a tighter knot, holding back fresh tears and trying to clear her head at once. The exhaustion is setting in, even as she steadfastly resists it. "...I don't hate him. I don't hate him."

"I know you don't. I know." She can feel her sagging— sees the morning light creep further and further into the room. Carolina unwinds herself some, looks at her. Tears glitter wetly down South's face. Her eyes are swollen like two bruises that haven't set in yet; her nose, red like a fresh wound. Hair plasters to her pale forehead. It's odd, how a woman so strong can look and feel so small— can sway like something newborn caught in a half-hearted wind. "It's late. Early." She stands and coolly straightens out her pajamas. "We'll call it. Do you want me to stay?"

Edited 2025-12-29 20:51 (UTC)

It takes all the restraint she has not to reach after Carolina when she pulls away, and still her hand twitches traitorously toward her, narrowly missing the hem of her shirt. Pitiful. Like a child. (Fuck how she hates to be seen this way.)

Please. Please, I don't want to be alone. I can't be alone, I can't—

A tight nod is all the answer she can stomach.

"You know, I spent the first, like, three months sleeping on the ground next to my bed, because the mattress was too soft, and I was used to our shitty cots back—" almost says home, replaces it, "—in the Invention. I thought it was nice."

She flattens her pillow, laid out on her back with a blanket draped over her. And it feels so easy, doing all this— weirdly so, like she's slipped back into old armor, old responsibilities— only now she's able to do them right this time. Be a friend, not a Commander. Maybe. If she can figure out how.

"If you need something and I'm asleep, shake me. I won't bite."

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