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

[cyansoldier]

This is easy, she thinks somewhere off in the distance. How do you tell someone that? How do you tell someone who thinks they're a maelstrom to be around— a punching fist, an unpleasant shock, a hard wind tearing up a living room— that they're the complete opposite? Maybe less determined people would have folded. Strangers, overwhelmed by what South is, throwing in the towel after a few days of bad moods and drunkenness. Some days Carolina worries, sure. Spends time talking to Gerry about if what she's doing is the right thing— if she's doing more harm than good. But most days are easy. Hugging her is easy. Sorting the extra groceries is easy. Sharing space is easy. You think you're wearing me out? Please.

Is it good stamina? Is it some sense of familiarity, despite hardly being able to call South an acquaintance during their time on the MOI? Or maybe the high stress threshold, cultivated over decades. She doesn't know.

Whatever it is, she isn't going anywhere.

"Sure." Carolina squeezes her tightly, fingers carding once through her crop of platinum hair, then scooping forward to pat her cheek in a gesture that feels a little more 'soldier'. "Alright, come on. You know where to go."

She leads her to a door between the living room and kitchen, down into the basement. Rush of cold air on opening. Easier to navigate once she's lit her oil lamp. Down the rickety flight of stairs and into the room is old farm equipment, broken furniture from the bad weather a few months back, a tall dark cabinet, and other miscellaneous things stacked into piles. On the far end of the wall; her work bench, her mounted guns. Carolina pulls up a stool for South and sits in her own.

And she thinks. Mulls over words. What to say, where to start. Stalling a little, she goes for her revolver— a bitch to service, but satisfying.

[ownperson]

The pat makes her snort, loosely bat out at Carolina's arm in turn, but it does the trick. Even as a part of her aches horribly for the loss of contact, longs to drag minutes out into hours, she takes a breath, releases it, and follows after her. Not exactly feeling good, not by a long shot, but feeling... steadier. Less like she's going to explode.

She sits. Shuffles her stool about as close to Carolina as she can, so their arms brush occasionally, resisting the urge to lean against her outright so as not to get in her way. Watches her pull the gun down and start working through the familiar and yet unfamiliar process—hasn't got herself a gun yet, hasn't had to fuss with the distinct ins and outs of the more old-fashioned revolvers.

Honestly, she could probably fall asleep to this. Watching skilled fingers work on a monotonous task, the quiet companionship and warmth next to her in the cold basement, but there's nowhere safe to rest her head and she doesn't really want to fall asleep so long as Carolina's awake. So she ignores the feeling, and... waits to see if Carolina had anything else to say. A rare moment of mostly-comfortable silence, on her side.

[cyansoldier]

Her revolver is a solid, cold weight in her hand. Fancier than any weapon she'd typically go for— with its sturdy white grip and vine-etched barrel— but still old and fickle. She unscrews a bolt or two to remove the cylinder, slides the assembly out from its socket and sets it aside. Easy actions. Movement without thought. She's confident she could do this with her eyes closed. Better to feel confident about something, than to feel the full weight of her emotional incompetence. Seriously, where do people start with this shit?

"I was guessing," Carolina says randomly, breaking the quiet. She doesn't look up from her work, beginning to clean the cylinder face. She aims for a practical delivery. "I don't know a lot about family. I know conceptually what makes a family, and that's about it. I thought a team could be family if I cared about you and wanted to keep you all safe, and I did. I mean, that's the thesis, right? Not wanting someone to die. I realize I was probably grasping at straws. Wanting something I didn't earn. There's so much about you that I don't know. Didn't ask. I liked to stay separate from you all. It felt appropriate."

Carolina shakes her head, wipes the gas ring with a cloth. "How do you make a family like that? You don't. That wasn't what we were there for, and I don't expect anyone to feel any way about me..."

[ownperson]

The sudden sound of her voice jolts South back to a more complete awakeness that had begun to fade, despite her best efforts, and her first thought is huh, we're back on this? Not what she expected the first words out of Lina's mouth to be, but then she's... not sure what she did expect, really.

"...hey, look, the way I reacted when you said that— that was— m'sorry, that was me being a fucking asshole. I mean. Fuck," she groans, drags her hand over her face, "I— besides fuckin' Dmitri I don't... I don't know what the fuck family means either. A-And, ha, we're not fucking normal. We're definitely not normal."

Maybe if her idea of family weren't so narrow, things would've been easier, when Theta came into the picture. Maybe. But the truth is she couldn't have denied Carolina calling her codependent if she'd tried. And she knows that other families, other siblings, aren't like them. Aren't like her. Like this.

"...you— said something about your childhood, too, yeah?" She's not... the best listener (the best friend), but she wants to try. If Lina has something to talk about then... then after everything she's done for her, it's only fair to fucking try.

[cyansoldier]

"No, no. I know. I'm not saying any of this to make you feel bad. I promise. I guess I'm just realizing how much we have to catch up on. I don't want to feel unavailable. I don't want to be that person who keeps secrets for the sake of her career. The career's over. I don't even know why we're using our aliases, other than it feels... weird not to."

Carolina exhales a long, thin breath and grabs a little bristle brush. She looks thoughtful, all things considered. Neutral-lipped, uncreased forehead. She's staring down at her gun, bristle brush in hand, working grime out of its holes and recesses. She's never talked about herself like this. Not even with York. Especially not with York, who knew her better than anyone. Who knew an impressive fucking nothing about her life, because she couldn't find the words. Because she never wanted anyone to know.

Every word is a careful, schooled step forward.

"Yeah. Only child. Mom was a soldier. Objectively amazing. People used to say that's where I got it from, in school and early military stuff— they were basically the same thing— and it always pissed me off, but I believed it. Maybe because I believed it. She died when I was six. That's when I started school. It was like— a boarding school. I lived there. It was nice enough. A little strict, but I did ballet, and I liked the structure of everything, anyway..."

[ownperson]

South props one elbow on the workbench with her chin against the palm, substitute for her urge to cross her arms against it and rest her head like that—too much in the way. More comfortable to listen, like this, to be able to easily slide her gaze from Carolina to the gun and back again, casually. No attention on any one spot too long.

Never has she felt the strangeness around the codenames more. Slipping into calling North Dmitri feels both natural and yet somehow wrong, like a limb that's atrophied from disuse—years they went without calling each other by their own names, and now she finds herself slipping back and forth. And yet a part of her hates it every time the word 'South' comes out of his mouth when they talk.

She says nothing of this, just... listens, best she can, tries not to get too absorbed in her own bullshit again. "...yeah, now that you fuckin' say it I can see the military boarding school brat in you. Explains some things. But,uh I'm— sorry, about your mom, that's... that musta been really fucking early in the war. Our colony didn't go until we'd been in the military a few years."

A beat.

"...thaaaaaat's why you sounded like you got it a bit too well when I talked about the fuckin' comparison shit, isn't it."

[cyansoldier]

"Three years in," she says evenly. Carbon and lead fouling are wiped away. The scent is nice— acrid. "I got lucky. Born on Earth. I pretty much knew I'd be safe, and I put everything into school because of that. I didn't want to waste time. Mine or their's."

Or his. It was a nice thing her father did for her— enrolling her in school, footing her bill, donating to her dance ensemble here and there. Selfish to expect him to drop his doctorate— his life's work, still so bewildering to her— to take care of her, visit her, coddle her. She got on fine without him.

Carolina exhales a half-laugh, holding her revolver's yoke up for inspection. "Yeah. I didn't want to give you the sob story while you were going through it. I figured I'd tell you at some point, and I wasn't in any rush to spill my guts out. It's hard to talk about. Kind of humiliating? I don't know. You start feeling less and less like a person. I think that's probably why I dye my hair. To feel like I have something that's mine. Not that it matters." A beat. She sets the yoke aside, catches the inside of her cheek between her teeth and teeters on the edge of indecision.

"My dad's still around."

Forcing cone, top strap, cylinder flutes— all squeaky clean. All perfect. If they aren't perfect, what's the point of it existing.

"You know him, actually. You hate him."

[ownperson]

It's a lot of information to process, especially running on fumes as South is. Fresh context to place Carolina in, reshaping parts of the shallow image South has had of her for all these years. Even the mention of dyeing hair gets narrowed eyes aimed at Carolina's roots, like she's trying to figure out what her natural colour could even be—a minor detail, really, all things considered, and yet still, a part of that image growing more complex, filling out at the edges.

She might've said something about it, or commiserated, again, about the pressure of comparison, of feeling so horribly unpersoned by the knowledge that no one can ever just see you for you—

And then: You know him, actually. You hate him.

"...what?"

It's not a syllable of understanding, not immediately. Pure, exhausted confusion, that's what it is, as she stares at the side of Carolina's head like if she bores holes with her eyes she might understand faster. How could she possibly know and hate Carolina's—

(Nine, ten, eleven...)

—oh. Oh there's no fucking way.

South's head slides off her hand so sharply in her surprise she almost cracks her jaw on the workbench. She jolts upright just in time, suddenly feeling wide, wide awake. "Your dad is the fucking Director?! What the fuck!"

[cyansoldier]

Yep. Carolina was expecting that. How else do you react to some grade A bullshit of the familial-vocational variety? She chuckles— not forced, exactly, but with no real sense of amusement, either. It's embarrassing. It's bad. Her father is bad and more often than not she's petrified about what that means for her. Put her in front of any mirror and she'll pick her features apart— assigning which are his and which are hers— exhaustively.

(What's worse, wanting to be the better parent and knowing you're the bad one— or knowing you would have picked the bad one over the better, if you had the chance? Her mother was always an unavailability. But him. Him. He was possible. He was within her reach, and that drove her fucking insane.)

"You can imagine my pride," said in weary, sarcastic tones. Carolina sets her gun down, puts on a brave face and turns toward South. "He said it was important that no one knew."

[ownperson]

A whole parade of expressions crosses South's face in a remarkably short period of time, some less clear than others, all of them some kind of stunned. Anger, disbelief, confusion, thought—those, and much more in between. Her hands are no more stagnant, running through her hair, rubbing at her face, settling in her lap or curling into a fist against the workbench.

What the fuck. What the fuck. All those years, thinking Carolina got preferential treatment—a part of her, the part that still holds all that well-worn resentment, can't help but think I was right, I was fucking right. And yet. And yet.

"...the bastard didn't even put you on the fucking recovery list."

[cyansoldier]

"Yeah, that... stung. I thought being his— would mean something in the end." Stung— it gutted her. Admitting that, though, is like coughing up metal shrapnel— painful, messy, humiliating. Waylaid in the snow and waiting to be picked up, looked after. What had she done wrong? She did everything he asked. She pursued Texas. She refused York. She fought and fought and fought for him, and he left her there, and she can't shake the feeling that it's her fault— that she must have done something to make him dislike her.

Parents should have to like their children, at least a little, she wants to say, juvenile and bitter and clinging. Don't start acting like an infant.

"Maine took what he needed. He must have assumed I was dead. Well, that's his mistake." She gums solvent onto weathered metal and lets it eat away the grime. Her sober attitude is almost jarring. A star shape shoved into a triangular hole. "I found him once— I'll find him again. And when I do, I'm going to kill him, and all of this will finally be over. It's the least I can do, and I want to be the one to do it."

[ownperson]

"Good," South says, no hesitation, force behind the word like a bullet in the air. "Fucking put a bullet between the bastard's eyes. I can't fucking believe he fucking left you like that, what the fuck. Like he wasn't already enough of a fuckhead—"

She bites down on the swell of indignant rage flooding her system at the thought. She's always hated him, hatred that has only grown and grown with time; he treated her like shit, denied her respect at every turn, used her like a pawn by the end and she hates him for it. But this. To fuck over his own daughter like that. To act so goddamn ashamed she was even his daughter at all—

Maybe it hits close to home. Maybe she already cares about Carolina far more intensely than she thought she could. Maybe it's all that and more. But South's desire to beat the man's head to a pulp has never been stronger.

"...I used to think you got such— special fucking treatment. And all that fucking time. He was fucking using you just as much as the rest of us. Except he was your fucking dad. What the fuck."

[cyansoldier]

Hating the Director is simple. Chewing him up and spitting him out as an unkind name is simple. Putting a bullet into his brain, watching bone and tissue splash whatever surface is nearest, will (she hopes) be simple. What's not simple— digesting South's explosive force on her behalf; contempt for what he's done to her, his daughter, in parallel to what he's done to others.

Her gut pulls toward the surface. She feels more seen than she has in— Christ— too many years, the acknowledgement like a riptide prepared to take her out at the ankles. Carolina pinches her nose where the bridge of her reading glasses might sit.

"I don't know what I expected. I thought, maybe, we'd pick up where we left off. Before his doctorate— before Mom— he was just... normal. A normal dad. I knew that wasn't going to happen. I saw him change. I could feel it in his emails. He talked differently. He would say weird things. And later I thought if I worked hard enough, if I wanted it enough, I could have it. Him. Whatever.

"You're not wrong, though. It was special treatment, and I acted like a brat. I felt entitled. I would get angry— so angry at everything."

[ownperson]

South huffs and gestures at herself. "You're talking to the reigning fuckin' champ of being an angry bitch at everything. I mean, yeah. You were a bitch, back then—sorry—but fuck, man, that's not what I thought was going on when I thought you were getting the princess treatment. Fuck, I thought you were throwing a tantrum because you couldn't just coast by anymore when Tex got there but that's... he was fucking messing with you. He gave you that shit so he could take it away again."

It's too familiar. Not the same as her life, not at all, but she knows what having what finally feels like approval ripped out from under your feet, throwing you into a dark abyss that you're determined to claw your way back up from, feels like. Before the Project, but also in it. A high rank was always as much a threat as a reward.

"...y'know the reason I never— never just fucking asked Dmitri to pay more attention to me? I— thought it wouldn't be fuckin' real if I didn't earn it. Which is... it's fucking stupid, right? To like anyone else that would sound insane. But—"

Maybe not to Carolina. Not based on how she's describing how things felt with her dad. (God, fuck that bastard. At least she knows North would've given her what she wanted, if she asked, even if she could never convince herself of that fact at the time, and even if there's other issues with that whole... everything. This guy? She's sure Lina could've begged at his feet and he'd have stepped over her to get back to his stupid fucking work.)

"...it fucking sucks. It's a fucking humiliating feeling. Fuck. Fuck him."