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If I'm Out of Line, Just Show Me the Door [CLOSED]
Who: Agent South Dakota (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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.
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.
no subject
A twinge of envy tugs at South's chest, but her traitorous, over-expressive face thankfully can't be seen easily with her head down to focus on not cutting off her own fingers. It's not envy of him, exactly, not of the fact that he has Carolina (sure, South's always had the hots for her but it's only ever been that: physical; it was never anything like things were with Connie) but of the fact that the two of them (that... anyone, maybe) have that bond at all.
Someone who saw her and still chose her. Yeah. She can get the appeal of that.
(And she's here getting in the way of their lives.)
"...wait, the fuckin'— freaky eye stuff is actual freaky eye magic? Like, okay, cute love story, absolutely, but all the freaky eye stuff isn't just you being weird?"
no subject
no subject
South huffs dramatically and, stupidly, throws a bit of potato she cut way too tiny in his vague direction. "Dude this town is so fucking weird I don't know, it was like— 50-50 odds on you just fucking with me!"
no subject
He covers his eyes with one hand. "Hold up some fingers. Any amount."
no subject
South stands there for a second with a clear energy of 'is he for fucking real, right now' before she just shrugs to herself and, very maturely, flips the bird.
...okay maybe that's too easy. She adds three fingers on the other hand.
"Okay, there."
no subject
no subject
There's some other stupid comment she could make here, probably—a bad joke about secretly transparent hands comes to mind and is shot down immediately for being just that fucking bad, but— "Shit you're actually being for fucking real. What the dick."
Beat. Oh there is such an ill-advised joke in her head, now. Away with that.