![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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.
cw metaphorical dismemberment
South propels herself onto two feet and feints toward the kitchen. What she doesn't know is that the cabinets have already been emptied, wine and a small selection of beer sequestered onto a low shelf in the basement. It doesn't feel good. She feels like— she doesn't know what she feels. Like she's holding South's head underwater. Like she's halfway through sawing off a septic limb, with more still to go.
She follows a few steps behind. Doesn't stop her from searching.
"South. South, you can't spend all day drinking. Wrap your fists. Go beat the bag. Anything else."
no subject
"You don't actually get to tell me what the fuck I should do anymore, boss," comes out of South's mouth almost without her say so, makes her taste iron for how hard she bites down on her own tongue to stop it—too late, no use, already in the air. (Why can't she stop doing this? Why can't she stop lashing out at people for trying to help?)
She searches the cabinets, manners be damned (cringes at herself on the inside, even as she does). Finds nothing. Starts over, pulling open the most likely doors like maybe she missed something, but no, no bottles anywhere.
With a sound too like a growl, she pivots back toward Carolina. Her hands are shaking where they clench to fists at her side.
"Where the fuck is it? I know you're not fuckin' dry, Lina, I've seen you on fuckin' shore leave, you drink."
no subject
Calm in the face of South's frantic rummaging— calm when she whirls on her, fists clenched, teeth gnashed so hard she can see the band in her jaw flex; the muscles in her temples protrude— Carolina doesn't break. If 'boss' scratches her up inside, her face betrays nothing.
(The impulse to say, My house, my rules is immediate. She swallows it. The last thing she wants is South finding any excuse to leave.)
"No." She crosses her arms. "You aren't doing yourself any favors going on like this. You want to work on things? The work starts here."
no subject
...she went and fucking hid the stuff, didn't she? Who the fuck does she think she is? Does she think South's a fucking child who needs to have things locked away from her so she doesn't fucking kill herself?
Pain radiates up the side of her skull where her jaw clenches so hard it aches.
"You can't be fucking serious right now," she pushes out, restraining the explosion trying to blow its way out of her chest behind the bars of her teeth. "You want me to go through this fucking sober? Are you insane? I-I can barely even fucking sleep without it, I can't— you can't do this. I can march right to the fucking bar, right fucking now."
But she doesn't move. Doesn't go to do that, easy as it would be.
cw emeto mention
"I am." This will be good for her. A step forward. It's what she needs. You have to be the bad guy. You can be the bad guy. Carolina muscles up, stands straight. "That's the problem, South. It's a crutch. A deadly one. And you aren't invincible. Do you want someone to find you messed up, choking on your own vomit? If you don't think that's a possibility, there's problem number two."
Harsh, maybe. But necessary.
no subject
"If I was gonna fucking drink myself to death, it would've been in the three fucking months my brother was actually dead!"
The words are like a death throe of this burst of desperate energy, fading down to near nothing as she sags back against a kitchen counter. Hands over her face, breathing hard again. She fucking hates this. She fucking hates this.
"...I-I need to fuckin' sleep. I can't— this is only gonna get worse if I can't fuckin' sleep."
no subject
The bomb erupts. The energy depletes. It'll accumulate, she knows. Flux around until it's ready to burst out again, but for now she watches South slump. Carolina slides into the kitchen, leaning back against the countertop on both hands. The lightest contact, side-to-side.
"I know," a little softer now, the sternness of her half-melted under a heat-lamp. "You'll sleep. You aren't going at this by yourself. If you can't, I'll do something so excruciatingly boring you have no other choice. You know there are actual books here."
no subject
She doesn't laugh, but there's a rough little snort despite herself, muffled in her hands. It wouldn't work like that, she's sure of that—if boredom alone could overcome whatever malfunction refused to let her sleep without a bottle of booze in her stomach, she'd never have got this bad in the first place. But Lina's just trying to break the tension, isn't she.
"...I-I know it's bad. I— I know that," she says, after a long moment of nothing but slowly levelling breathing. "B-But I need it. Needed it. E-Everything's worse when— when I can feel it all."
If this is how bad she is when she's numb at the edges, how much damage is she going to do if she stops?
no subject
She hums a small acknowledgment, looking down at the scuffed tiles beneath her boots.
"Try. Just try, yeah? And if it really, really is a bust, we can figure something else out."
no subject
South nods, sharp and tight, without lifting her head. Breathes, slow and steady as she can manage, into her hands for another half-minute before she drops them and hugs herself instead. Still can't look at Carolina head on.
The stupid fight only even started because she was so drunk.
"...okay," she relents, clearing her throat. "...sorry. I-I didn't mean— m'not actually. Angry. At you."
Lina's trying to help her. She doesn't have to do that, but she is, and she keeps yelling at her because she— what? Doesn't know how to do anything else?
About ready to wrap?
Something inside her settles down on its hunches, relieved. Now the real work can begin— whatever real work looks like. Redirecting anger. Talking, listening, productive distracting. She's never nursed an alcoholic out of their alcoholism— hasn't found the grand, glittery solution to a guilty conscious— and refuses to balk because of this. And anyway, South's her— well. What's the word for a friend you can't call a friend for veritably stupid reasons?
"I know," she says, turns her head to peer through the kitchen window. Work to be done in the yard. Fence posts with no fencing— an ambitious pile of wood.
"...Wanna give me a hand out there?"
yeah, wrap on next?
I know, she says, and South's shoulders loosen a touch. Hates the way her anger bursts out, catches everyone else in the crossfire even when she doesn't want it to. Usually doubles down on it anyway, too full of pride and shame to admit the fault, the mistake. But she doesn't want Lina to think she's actually angry at her when she isn't, when acting out the motions of rage is just... all that she knows.
She follows Carolina's gaze, looks out the window. (Tries not to think of home, drenched white in snow over those long, brutal winters.) Chews her bottom lip until it almost hurts and then breathes.
"...yeah, sure. Why the fuck not. Just uh— lemme chug some fuckin' water, I guess."
Works for me!
She's learned, in the time South has spent collapsed on her sofa, that anger like this has a short lifespan. That she says things she might not mean— words that rip through her teeth before she can think twice about stopping them. She's learned to approach these bursts with a healthy bit of armor— and it's worked well enough so far.
Every time the fire dies out, and Carolina is still standing. She isn't going anywhere.
She nabs two glasses from the cupboard and passes one to South. Fills her own, tips it back— crisp on the way down. Another minute— a breadth of silence, of breathing— fills the gaps where anger has chewed and frayed and ripped apart the air. A minute to center oneself– as cheesy as it sounds. Sometimes it just works.
"Ready to erect a fence? You should be good at that."
and wrap
South chugs the stuff like it's the sweetest damn thing she's ever tasted and it may as well be, for how dehydrated all the alcohol has left her. Her left hand still trembles a little, every time she stands still, but that's just the hangover, probably.
And well, the physical distractions Lina's used on her so far have worked, so... it should be good. Doing something with her hands. Hopefully.
"The fact I can't fuckin' tell if that's an erection joke or not..." she snorts, loosely shouldering Carolina before she stands up from the counter edge and stretches. "But yeah, let's go erect a fuckin' fence."