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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"For fuck's sake stop fucking patronising me! Whatever I've convinced myself of? Seriously? The fuck is that supposed to mean? You think I can't make my own damn decisions, now?" The words flow like rancid, standing water released from a backed up drain, taste horrible in her mouth even as she lets them spill free and poison the air between them. "And stop using the goddamn boss tone, that's not gonna work this time. Let. Me. Go."

Another inch forward, the scrape of boots against the floorboards. Push and push and push until something gives—that's how it's always been, that's how it always works. Everyone gives eventually. Maybe not always exactly the way she'd like, but she knows how this works. She's done it a hundred, thousand times.

(No one wants to keep her so bad they won't give up eventually.)

"Yes, South. Whatever you've convinced yourself of. That you're taking up space. That this is charity, and I'm only doing this because I feel obligated to. That it's easier for you to run off before someone else tells you to leave first."

South steals an inch. Carolina stays put, jaw pulled tight behind the skin of her face. 'Boss' grates her nerves viciously this particular night. Maybe because it's late— maybe because she's tried so damn hard to come off as normal. Always the boss. Always the obstacle. The source of one thousand irritated groans.

"This is my voice. Running away hasn't done you any good, and it won't now."

A snort, dismissive and vicious. Even in the dark, eyes as pale as hers can pierce like icicles from a rooftop. "God, shut. Up. We both know you're only doing this because you think by babying me you're making up for being such a shitty fucking boss in the first place! You never gave a shit about me before, why the fuck would you start now?! This has always been about your fucking guilt, not me."

She hates herself even as she says it. Doesn't believe a word of it, every jab chosen to hurt, to drive a knife into the delicate, vulnerable points of Carolina's own ego—like aiming for the armpit, the ribcage, the groin, the gaps in the armour. Take out the opponent in as few moves as possible, that's always the goal in a fight.

(Why does she turn everything into a goddamn fight?)

It's true and not true. It hurts and she wishes it didn't. Wishes she were crammed inside her cyan shell, staring out through her yellow visor, so that South wouldn't see the way her expression falters. How she breathes a little tighter, as though two hands were pressing in on her ribcage, stopping her lungs from inflating. She cares. Cares now, cared then, in her own way. Not enough to make a difference. Caring never changed anything— never stopped things from falling apart, people killing each other, killing themselves—

The hurt— shame— ripples out over her face like a stone briefly disturbing still water. Carolina wills it back.

"Of course I care. I cared about you all of you. You were like—" a quick, aborted noise, "—Like family. You're here because I want to help you, South. Not me. And if I haven't, fine. I still want you to have a place to stay."

Edited 2026-01-19 17:50 (UTC)

Something in South's chest wrenches at the flash of pain across her face, exactly the response she was looking for and the same response that makes her feel sick. It's for her own good, she tells herself; Carolina won't let her go if she doesn't give her reason to hurry up and give up on her, stop letting her drag her down.

But for all that every word from her mouth is more lie than truth, the way her expression twists with incredulity at the retort is entirely genuine.

"Family," she scoffs, chest tighter than ever. "Do you really think I'm that fucking stupid? What do you think family is? Letting me get pushed off missions you knew damn well I was the best agent for the job on? Berating me and making me feel like a fucking failure of a soldier 'cause I didn't listen enough?!"

(Too close to truth, too close to old resentments she should be past after the last month and change—)

"Ha, actually, maybe you do know what family is, you basically nailed my fucking childhood."

"You know I had no control over who was assigned," Carolina says lowly, a more respectable substitution for that's not fair.

"I tried talking to him. I tried— with CT— and it didn't work. He didn't listen, and you all followed his lead. You think it was easy managing a team of people who unanimously decided to say screw you to whatever command I gave? You, Wyoming, Wash, CT——oh, you would know a thing or two about berating. The things you said about me when I was just trying to do my job. Insulting me, calling me a bitch, assuming I had it easy because, what, I was the leader?"

(Stop. Stop, stop, stop—)

"Great," sharp in her mouth, on her tongue. "You want to have a go at mine?"

She's right, of course she's right, and it's just more reason why she should just let her leave, let her tear herself loose from where she's already let herself get too attached. All she's ever been is bad for people, is a burden to handle and try to fix, but she can't be. She can't be fixed. She's just like this, she'll never be anything else, never be anything better.

Her fists have clenched at her sides. She doesn't remember when that happened.

"I don't want anything except for you to get out of my fucking way," she all but snarls, desperate need to move, to leave, to be alone so she can scream and throw up her guts until she passes out from exhaustion. "You think I fucking care how much you 'tried'?! I didn't sign up to be led by a high-speed, stuck up fucking teacher's pet who cared more about how good she looked than actually leading the damn team! Fuck you."

Even breathing hard as she is, she's so tense her shoulders barely rise and fall. Another step closer. "Seriously, move. Before I fucking make you."

There it is. She's been waiting for it. Teacher's pet, 'looking good'— it's a miracle the leaderboard hasn't come up. That's what's important, right? A score on a florescent wall, flashiness in the field, earning a sliver of the Director's sweet, sweet attention to hold her over another day. South's right. She's shallow, selfish, attention-seeking— that's what she is. It doesn't matter who knows and who doesn't— jeopardizing her team's safety for a father's attention isn't any less fucked than if he were just a man in a nice coat with a fancy title. And to think, her efforts to try— to make him proud— to do her job— amounted to being replaced, ignored, murdered.

She's sweating now, resistant and pettish and tumbling fast into what she self-patronizingly calls her tantrums. I did lead the team. Did she? It wasn't all about him. Wasn't it? I'm not wrong for wanting attention. I'm not. Everyone wants attention. Not like this. Dew shivers across her forehead.

"No. No, screw you. I'm not moving."

Not much space left to take, now.

Carolina squares her shoulders, raises her hands. Her voice drops, just at the edge of hearing— but no less firm.

_{"You can't make me do shit."}

Why won't she move? This doesn't make sense. Even stubborn as Carolina has always been, refusing to get out of her way doesn't make any fucking sense when she's giving her every reason to hate her. This should already be over. Her boots should already be in the snow. She should already be halfway to the dock.

But she won't fucking move, and she needs to be out of here, needs to move, needs to leave— (she doesn't want to do this, she doesn't want to do this—)

With no further warning, South grabs Carolina by the upper arm and wrenches her to the side as hard as she can.

Carolina anticipates the grab as it happens. Fingers close with a bruising pressure around her bicep, center of gravity thrust hard in whatever direction gets her farthest from the door, and Carolina follows through with the force. A hard job— damn impossible— to knock the acrobat off her feet, throw her balance. She steals out to grab South's forearm, bringing that elbow up and in with a force that carries them both into the wall.

This time, into knotty pine instead of a locker. This time, without an audience of Freelancers startling at their backs. Carolina breathes evenly. Calmer now, for some reason, than she'd been just seconds ago. Calmer as her body settles back into the memory of that day. Calm, less a need to appear in control than it is a prerequisite to diffuse this bomb.

She isn't angry. She isn't hurt— not physically. She will not let her through that door.

"Rein it in."

Too slow, too weak—her face hits the wood and her chest follows close behind, body pinned between Carolina's and the wall. The struggling comes as reflexively as breathing. Her free hand plants against the surface beside her just as easily, trying to give herself the leverage to get Carolina off, get herself free, but it doesn't work. Her own elbow digs into her spine and the shoulder strains against the old dislocation, the pain sharp and the pressure grounding.

The memory hits her, then. Can feel the way she shoved Carolina around, taste the old, bitter words on her tongue like they never really left her mouth. (Maybe it's all the same words every time she does this, even if they sound different.) Begging through her rage for the truth, to know what had happened, to be shown the damn respect of being told.

Rein it in. It echoes in her skull. Rein. It. In.

There's no attempt to kick her leg out, this time. No bitter curses spat in her face, no snapping at her to let go. Only heavy, laboured breathing and the rise and fall of her body beneath it—until the tension seems to snap, forehead thunking against the wall with a pathetic sound too-like a sob for the fact it isn't.

She anticipates a fight. South going for her ankles, her knees— tossing herself like a battering ram to fight for leverage. She doesn't. She makes a noise, dry and agonized but not for the pain, and Carolina holds her— her ribs against South's spine, South's ribs capitulating to bringing in fresh breath— for not very long at all. Another beat and she releases the arm, turns South slowly with her hands on either shoulder.

They slide down to settle on her triceps. Carolina squeezes her gently.

"Stay. Take your shoes off and we'll talk."

South doesn't fight the gentle guidance, lets herself be turned and looks down at Carolina with eyes that shine until she blinks the wetness away, before it can become anything more.

She should leave. Should take this moment where Carolina's guard is down to pull away and get out the unblocked door before she can stop her. Should cut her free of whatever undeserved sense of responsibility she has for the broken wreck that's stolen so much of her time already.

But she doesn't. Her gaze flicks, fleetingly, toward the door, but then it's back on Carolina as she swallows hard, nods. Hesitates to move, even then, hands raising barely as if to reach for Carolina's arms in turn and keep the contact— but then she drops down to undo her laces again. One boot at a time.

She doesn't get back up.

Carolina might have sighed her relief if she didn't think it would break this spell. This hard-won, exhaustive cooperation. South crumples, wet cardboard of a person, and undoes her laces. Stays there, the fight drained from her like fluid from a wound. She looks small, somehow. Can't put her finger on why.

She lowers herself to the ground and sits criss-crossed with her chin in one hand. Won't prompt South to speak— not this time— and so gives her however many breaths she needs to find words.

South doesn't say anything for a long, heavy moment. The chill from the door tickles her back, down here where the draft can drift across the ground, but she doesn't care enough to move. It'd have to be much colder than this to be more than she could tolerate.

The first sound to break the silence is a sharp, shuddering breath a second before she buries her face in her hands. "...m'sorry. Fuck. I'm so fucking sorry."

The impulse to reach out grips Carolina in a fist. She steeples her fingers together, rests her own two hands in her lap and thinks better of it. Wonders, again— in a far-flung sort of way— how to categorize where they stand with each other. If touching is a thing she's earned, or if it would only patronize South more.

"Thanks," she says, which feels too flat on delivery. Too remote; a product of her affect. "For the accountability. I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have snapped." A lengthy breadth of silence stretches out, where she looks idly into the space between them— floorboards, scuffed and boot-beaten. Softer, "I really do want you here. I mean that."

"Why?" It slips out before she can bite down on it and she winces, subtly, at herself, but she carries on anyway: "The only reason you even snapped is because I pushed every. Button. I could. To piss you off. To— to hurt you."

On an emotional level, the apology settles in her chest, weighted by validation. But to the part of her that's trying so hard to be more aware of the impact of the things she says and does, it feels wrong to accept an apology for something she provoked on purpose. More than that, it makes no goddamned sense for Carolina to then say she still wants her around.

It barely made sense before. It's incomprehensible, now.

"I've already taken too fucking much from you. I-I don't get why you wouldn't just... let me go."

"One argument isn't enough for me to send you out the door. You can push and push, it's not gonna happen." Her nail finds the edge of a wood splinter. She toys with it. "...Ideally you won't do that, you'll tell me what's wrong and we can talk it out together, but I wasn't lying when I said I care. I do. A lot. You think you don't deserve it— that won't stop me from caring."

She can't quantify what it would take to sever the connection. Her unmatched dedication won't allow it.

"You only see the worst parts of yourself, South. You don't know there's more to you than just that. Well, I see it. I'm looking at it right now. You think you're too much and that makes you want to run. Am I right?"

She hugs herself, again, clutches at her own shirt, arms tucked in close against her body. Like maybe if she withdraws far enough into herself she'll stop feeling so exposed (stop wanting to reach out, to ask for that strange but comforting touch Lina offered her last time she turned into this— this— wreck).

"Yeah, sure, you're fucking right, because so am I. This is exactly why Dmitri needed me out of his house in the first place. I-I take too much. I ask too fucking much. I told you already, I was a burden on him and now I'm just doing the same damn thing to you, and I can't— I-I can't keep doing this."

Can't keep feeling like this. It hurts just as much to think of herself this way as it's clear to her that it's the truth.

Carolina peers through her lashes, past her sleep-tousled curtain of bangs as South crowds her own body— and makes a decision for later.

(Dimitri. Like whiplash to hear his name— any Freelancer name— said out loud, like hearing a child swear as their first word. She wonders if she should— when the right time would be to— if it even really matters.)

"You're not," she asserts. "And I'm not your brother. It's different— and don't say it isn't. It is. I'm not going to coddle you or make excuses for you or acquiesce when you've clearly done something wrong. You can't expect your relationship with him to work as a prediction for how the rest of yours will go. It doesn't work. If you go into every relationship anticipating ruining it, what good does that do for anyone? You wouldn't drop into the field and start talking about how you're ready to be blown up. You just go."

South snorts, dismissive. "I do ruin every fucking relationship. Me, myself, every fucking time. No one can put up with me for long. Dmitri was— was the only person I was sure would never leave, no matter how hard I pushed. And now fucking look at me."

She throws her arms out, as if to gesture at herself, at where she is, before they draw back in again, somehow tighter than before. God, she was so stupid. Ruined the one good thing in her life, and for what?

"I can't— I can't help it, help doing this. Saying things I know will hurt. I-I tried to fucking attack you! And I don't— I don't like it. I don't like how it makes people look at me. But at least I know how it works. At least it makes sense. This fucking doesn't. You shouldn't care. You shouldn't have to look after me. No one should."

"He hasn't left you. He needs time. There's a difference. Not knowing how an issue will resolve doesn't mean it exists in black and white."

She's learning that herself. Trying. Failing, most days— thoughts tunneled to an anger that sears whiter than any rational emotion— but trying.

"Well, they say acknowledging you have a problem is the first step in actually doing something about it. You recognizing that you don't like it is something you should give yourself credit for. You know the problem, and the problem is, right now, you don't have any alternative to lashing out— but I don't think that's entirely true. This is an alternative. Cooling down, being candid. You're doing it, regardless of what it took to get there. That's a good thing."

Edited 2026-01-25 19:01 (UTC)

South huffs dismissively, not quite looking at her. It's damn near fucking to imagine this situation ending the way she wants it to. All she can think about is that North's either not dealing with his feelings at all, the same old story as before, or that he's out there, talking to people, telling them what she did and they're telling him he should get the fuck out before it's too late. Before the damage she does with every breath she takes can become permanent.

The urge to drink herself numb rising higher and higher and her trying so very hard to ignore it (god, less than a week into this and she's already so close to failing at even the simple task of not wanting a goddamn drink).

"You had to pin me to a fucking wall!" she snaps, even as she winces at herself once again. "That's not cooling down, that's being wrangled like a fucking wild animal! Y'know what my problem is? I'm broken. It's like I said: there is something wrong with me, there has always been something wrong with me, and it's only ever gotten worse, not better. If there was ever any part of me that was worth a damn, that was good? It's gone. It's fucking gone. There is nothing inside me but a fucking monster who hurts everyone that makes the mistake of not staying the fuck away!"

She slumps in on herself again, breathing hard, feeling sick. Good people don't act like this. Normal people don't fucking act like this.

The monologue is textbook of something she hasn't read. Obvious in that Carolina sees the outline of— something, without knowing exactly what it is. Sat in front of her; a woman who has struggled for the majority of her life with a support network of one. North— a boy toting along his own issues, who grew up into a man with those issues still unresolved. She can imagine the pressure. The crushing. The inclination to stay silent. She knows intimately the sharp and dangerous shape anger can take. These aren't the feelings a monster has. She's only ever known two. These are the feelings, frustrations, riptides and bad coping skills of someone who—

Carolina chews the inside of her cheek, considering if what she's thinking would be worth saying out loud, or if it would only cause more problems. Make things worse. It might be helpful, she thinks, to know there's an explanation for— this. She draws herself up straight.

"South, I think you're mentally ill. I don't mean that as an insult, I really don't. I don't know enough to say what— have you ever considered that? I mean, has anyone ever talked to you about that as a possibility?"

"...what?"

Most of that bitter, self-directed rage fades into genuine, sharp confusion. Her head lifts back to look at Carolina and her expression radiates the same thing. Flavours of shock and disbelief and uncertainty (and maybe a hint of insult, something that feels stupid to feel after saying far worse things about herself than this).

"No. Why would— no. No one. I— what?"

No one's ever suggested she's ever been anything but a problem child—no reason, no attempt to understand, just dismissal. Bad attitude, bad personality, bad behaviour—bad, bad, bad. Even the school counsellors never had anything helpful to say. And the military— well. Fuck the military. The military employs counsellors like Aiden fucking Price.

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cw: emeto mention

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