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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
Never in her life has she heard her own—so often indescribable—feelings echoed back at her with perfect clarity. The shameful futility of wanting something you can't have without doubting its honesty, if you can have it at all. She never expected to see it mirrored in Carolina, of all people, who always seemed so... like she had it together, until she didn't. Better in a way that made South want to rage against her. And all this time she felt almost the fucking same as she did.
"...yeah, well, that makes two of us. Except I guess I'm a kid with an early alcohol problem, go figure."
It's not a good joke, hardly the right thing to break any tension, but it slips out anyway, self-depreciating as ever.
With a huff, South shakes some hair out of her face and, subconsciously worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, she slumps with her head against Carolina's shoulder.
"...parents are meant to fucking love us." And I wasn't even worth that much. "And they couldn't even fucking manage that. Fuckers."
About wrap?
The joke, uniquely awful in a way only South manages to make funny, cleaves Carolina's frustration down the middle. The hard line in her jaw goes loose. She doesn't smile, but she looks like she could. "Well. Is the kid with early onset alcoholism interested in being bossed around by the kid with a bad dye-job and control issues? I have someone in mind."
Weight on her shoulder. It's nice. Made heavier by exhaustion. Purple-platinum hair tickles her neck, and the basement feels a little less colder than it did before. Carolina looks sidelong, thinks, scoots her chair a little closer and swats a certain word out of her mind. "Yeah. Pricks."
Her hands get back to work— and her head tips sideways to rest against South's. Cheek to crown. Paternal-induced anger shifting somewhere else now. She inhales, exhales. Feels better.
"If you pass out and fall out of that stool, you know I'm not catching you."
yes!
"Ha, you said a curse," South snorts, too much a tired murmur to be a proper laugh.
She tries not to let her entire weight sag on Lina, but she's so goddamned tired, and Carolina's warm, there, against her side, not pushing her away. More than not pushing her away: resting back against her, soft thunk of bone to bone, comfortable. It's so rare it feels this easy. It hasn't even been easy with Dmitri for years, now, two decades of casual affection worn down to near nothing by the pressure of the program and all it did to her (to them). She misses it. She misses it so fucking much.
Exhaling, she gives in and sags as much as she dares. "Mm'know. S'fine. I'll just take you down with me."
Tired. So fucking tired. Long hours lying awake and all that overwhelming emotion. Try as she might, she just can't keep her eyes open, and soon enough she's snoring, quietly, against the reassuring firmness of Carolina's shoulder, jostles from her work mattering none. South is comfortable. South... feels safe.