[It's all day, and it's all night. It never stops, the barbs are always there, asking her just what it is she thinks she's doing. She can't live here. This place will tear her apart with all of its upheavals and games. She can't escape the promises she made, all the years imprinted on her, the desperate longing to go back to her sad little prison where at least she had the delusion of a caretaker. All the disgust she feels for that pitiful romanticism.
She just sounds dazed when she agrees,]
My skin is crawling. [She has been pulling at her hair to keep her hands away from her neck, something to fist her fingers into when there's nowhere else to bury them. It's always something.]
I-- [Want. Need.] want a date, with you and your needles, doctor.
[One way or another. While she still has her head together, or after she's gone too far, but... she's trying.]
[But he'd also assumed he'd get this call. He's not unprepared. The slow silence on his end of the line isn't intended to make her hang on his answer, it gives him time to piece together what can - could - be possible.]
I'll take a look. But I'm not making it a promise. It's a date, not a guarantee you'll score.
[So much depends on the state of her skin. On her control and whether this call comes before or after it slips.
[She makes a choked off little noise, half indignant that he would call it a score, but mostly just laughing at herself. (What will you give me, Baby Carla. What do you have left. What do you have left.)]
Then I'll meet you outside the hospital. Bring coffee.
[They've established that opportunism is part of Chase's make up. Now, surely she wouldn't expect something for nothing? But he's not her ladybird. His motive here is an open secret.]
[Not her ladybird, but Carla can see it in herself, the same jump to pay whatever is asked of her in order to get where she needs to be. She feels like she should have learned her lesson, but maybe not. Still acting on impulses.]
I can make it there in forty minutes.
[She's not humoring the actual question there--(She doesn't know. It depends, on what her thoughts do between then and now. How much she hates herself for letting him know she's falling again.)]
[Human is not strictly her nature. She was better, and then she was lesser. Now she is... This. Whatever this horrible, miserable thing is.
Carla hangs up on him without an answer, tossing the device onto the coffee table. The clatter wakes the dog, but she pulls away from Rex's curious snuffling. Put your hair up. Wear a low neck. Asshole. She stalks off to her bedroom to contemplate just how much her pride means to her.]
[The asshole has gotten out of bed and gone to meet her on yet another pre-dawn rendezvous, uniform of sweat pants and t-shirt a sign that he's here well out of working hours. He's not waiting outside, though. Through the glass doors he can be seen talking to the girl with the misfortune of night shift on reception.
From the way she catches her fingers in it, it looks like a compliment on her hair.]
[Inevitably, it takes her too long to appear. It's what happens when she's on her own. She had lost days during the first of her episodes here, had stared up at Blonde in confusion from their kitchen floor and asked him for the date. She had lost herself in the few minutes Chase had left her alone to get scissors.
She's late, but she appears. Buttoned up in a jean jacket with its collar turned up, and her hair pinned up; uncharacteristic for her, of course she wore her hair like a security blanket day to day. She comes through the glass doors at a sedate place. He's lucky she remembered the coffee, it was almost a lost cause in between the doubt and anger.]
[What a lucky day. As the girl pushes something under her glass screen toward him, Chase glances round to see who's pushing through the glass doors behind. He doesn't need to glance at the clock. Her hair - without the jacket it would be a better sign, but it's not a bad one.
His conversation comes to an abrupt end, although he does pocket what had been pushed across for him before going to redirect Carla toward the elevators.]
This must be the first time I've seen you remember a coat.
[If she were a little more level-headed, she'd make a note to herself to see which of them could work that poor girl over faster. Instead, she just goes to the elevators, her shoulders are up and tense, still pushing herself through despite reservations. Perhaps harder than she should, but she was never very good at doing anything by halves. Barbet had been willing to admit that it was something beautiful about her, her intensity. Clearly a double-edged sword when that intensity directed itself inward.
She fiddles with that collar, picking at the seaming, even on the short trip upstairs.]
Rather than answer his question, she just unbuttons the jacket, slipping it off. There's not much under there, a thin cloth bra and all of her scarred skin, the marks livid white after the desert darkened her tone. But there is nothing new, and she has proof enough of that, since he made it so clear he wanted it.]
[He wanted an answer, not indecent exposure, and while the halls are more likely to be populated by cleaners than his colleagues, the hospital and certain fast-food places are the only truly 24-hour establishments in the city. While he can appreciate the lack of new rips in her skin (the desert would have fostered infection well) the quicker response is to slam his palm on the close doors button and move to help her back on with the jacket.]
Coming out of an elevator with you like that will do nothing for my reputation.
[Of course he has one. As yet, it's almost undeserved.]
[She's already shrugging it back on, nonplussed by his reputation. She's proven what she needs to, and 'indecent exposure' has never bothered her. Although it would be a terrible lie to say it didn't amuse her when people squawked over exposed skin like it merited notice. Currently, there are other things on her mind, however.]
The night watch already has it on surveillance.
[She opens the doors herself and steps out, waiting with her hands in her pockets.]
[She gives him an amused look, a little drawn underneath but she had made no secret about what her mind was doing to her. Still, she's not sure inculpable is the word she would use, but she keeps that one to herself and makes her way to the treatment room.]
[No, given the nature of this out of hours visit, inculpable may not be the word. At least if he'd stopped to run this idea by anyone but the girl who'd strip off her own skin for comfort they might have pointed out that he's only trying to hook her up with a lesser devil. But sometimes, the nobler side fails to present an option.
He leans over her to unlock the treatment room door with the keys he'd charmed from reception, opening it and ushering her through in a single gesture.
It's not spartan as far as clinic rooms go. There are two chairs, a desk, a bed, a screen.]
You know they say that 'literally' is the most frequently misused word in the language? I think it's more likely to be 'fine.'
[Pointed, just a little. Here they are before breakfast with coffee and a shoulder bag packed with needles. Somebody isn't fine.]
It's a perfectly acceptable description for a number of situations.
[Her voice is dry in response. 'Fine' is exactly as noncommittal and dismissive as she needs it to be. Carla lets him motion her in without glancing over her shoulder, but she does look up at him when she sits back in one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knee. She would be hard-pressed to think up a better adjective besides. Her focus is on the prize, on whatever will help her settle into her wasted body. She had thought the heartbeat would be enough, the breath, but they're drowned out too often.]
It's not a description. Description implies something specific and definable: orange, oblong, obese. It's a perfectly acceptable way of avoiding describing something.
[His manner becomes more businesslike in these surroundings, closing the door and laying out the needle kit from his bag on a cart next to hospital issue equipment with the quiet concentration of habit. All things in their proper place, checked, and checked again. His voice softens as he continues, and he spares glances for her, caught in this dual focus.]
Last time, it took part of your soul going walkabout to make you rip your skin off. Why do you think you're close to the same point now?
[She looks away at nothing and her foot jiggles in the air between them, a thumbnail idly pinching at her lower lip. Last time had been something special, had been enough to frighten her into considering what he had to say to her. The discomfort had blossomed out of nothing, no warning, no spiral of thoughts. Just animal panic and invasion--(Only later did it become longing, pleasure. She knows how to belong to someone, better than she remembers how to exist for herself. The bird had known she would come to like it, in the end. She was just that pathetic, he's always reminding her.)]
This is normal.
[The boredom, the anxiety, the anger and discontent. She doesn't adjust well to changes, not knowing where to look for the distractions she's gotten used to. She had been just as on edge when the desert had overtaken, unhappy knowing that her apartment was not waiting for her, that her sanctuary was gone. It was like losing a part of herself, although she hasn't reflected that deeply on how she compensates for her lack of identity in other places. She had gotten through that by being forced to work for her survival, if she fought for her life and won, maybe she deserved it for a little while. Now the monsters and the thrill are gone, and there's just Carla. There's just her apartment, where she can hide in her roommate's skin, but can't run from what she is. The pup they've brought home with them has the animal in the back of her mind on edge, and she hates feeling jealous of a dog.
There's also shelving books during the day, but it's too slow, it's too simple and quiet. It makes her want to scream. She'd never wanted that kind of mundane existence, had gone through so much trouble to assure that it would never happen. Too bad her talents were beyond her reach now and all she can do is make things bleed for her satisfaction on her off hours. Her other hand curls against her leg. This is living. This is hell. Disgraced and imperfect.]
[But everyone has a coping strategy, that much is normal. Even the average, the ones who have always been average, who can never hope for more still find the mundanity of their daily lives overwhelming. Chase meets them in the clinic. They take overdoses (or drink) or smash plates (or drink) or hit their spouses because it feels like the only way to win an argument. Or they drink. But Chase has never been quite average (but he's never been quite enough) and it's people like him, like Carla used to be, the successful, talented, aspirational ones who break apart most spectacularly. He has his own theories. For the majority of people success is a void filler. Or its what happens when 'normal' isn't a choice.
Chase moves to stand behind her chair.]
Now you can take the jacket off.
[He'll put it to one side for her.]
If I were to suggest a pharmacological option, would you say no immediately, or bitch at me first?
I would say no, and then bitch about it with every repetition.
[Her voice is bland, he knew the answer to that question before it was broadcast aloud. At least she's honest, and she shrugs back out of her jacket without any snide comments about having his permission. Maybe on another day. Right now she just rubs at her neck, the heel of her hand kneading roughly over her pulse, tired but tense--(too aware of the shell she's trapped inside.)
She tilts her head back to look at him sideways after a moment, clearly looking for something but inexpressive as to what. It could, possibly, be reassurance but if she has yet to lower herself to asking explicitly for help, she certainly isn't going to offer over her insecurities for nothing. There's no helping her, besides. Barbet had never tried to help, he had simply berated her for not valuing the gift he had given her and sewed her closed again.
It is infinitely easier to face forward and turn to toying with a strand of hair teased free from her temple instead.]
[He pulls the few strands of hair fallen loose from her pins up off the back of her neck and traces his fingers over the damage. There are marks here that will never go. He's heard her use the word perfect before with the kind of tone that makes it less and less surprising to see how she ensures she's not.
But it is healed enough. She's looked after herself, at least a little.]
You hate what your mind does to you when you're left alone with it, but you can't stand to make it any less sharp. You can see the paradox inherent in that.
[And of course it's the answer he'd expected. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he walks back around the chair, a hand on the back of it and leaning just enough to meet her eyeline evenly.]
Guess we'll just have to see about giving it a new distraction.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
too early;
You've got too much time to spend in your own head.
too early;
She just sounds dazed when she agrees,]
My skin is crawling. [She has been pulling at her hair to keep her hands away from her neck, something to fist her fingers into when there's nowhere else to bury them. It's always something.]
I-- [Want. Need.] want a date, with you and your needles, doctor.
[One way or another. While she still has her head together, or after she's gone too far, but... she's trying.]
too early;
[But he'd also assumed he'd get this call. He's not unprepared. The slow silence on his end of the line isn't intended to make her hang on his answer, it gives him time to piece together what can - could - be possible.]
I'll take a look. But I'm not making it a promise. It's a date, not a guarantee you'll score.
[So much depends on the state of her skin. On her control and whether this call comes before or after it slips.
But his guess is before. And that's impressive.]
And I'll expect payment.
too early;
Fine.
[Pathetic, desperate little bug.]
too early;
[They've established that opportunism is part of Chase's make up. Now, surely she wouldn't expect something for nothing? But he's not her ladybird. His motive here is an open secret.]
Can you make it forty minutes?
too early;
I can make it there in forty minutes.
[She's not humoring the actual question there--(She doesn't know. It depends, on what her thoughts do between then and now. How much she hates herself for letting him know she's falling again.)]
too early;
That's a start. Put your hair up. Wear something with a low neck. [Keep busy.] Espresso roast, six sugars. See you then.
too early;
Carla hangs up on him without an answer, tossing the device onto the coffee table. The clatter wakes the dog, but she pulls away from Rex's curious snuffling. Put your hair up. Wear a low neck. Asshole. She stalks off to her bedroom to contemplate just how much her pride means to her.]
too early;
From the way she catches her fingers in it, it looks like a compliment on her hair.]
too early;
She's late, but she appears. Buttoned up in a jean jacket with its collar turned up, and her hair pinned up; uncharacteristic for her, of course she wore her hair like a security blanket day to day. She comes through the glass doors at a sedate place. He's lucky she remembered the coffee, it was almost a lost cause in between the doubt and anger.]
too early;
His conversation comes to an abrupt end, although he does pocket what had been pushed across for him before going to redirect Carla toward the elevators.]
This must be the first time I've seen you remember a coat.
too early;
[If she were a little more level-headed, she'd make a note to herself to see which of them could work that poor girl over faster. Instead, she just goes to the elevators, her shoulders are up and tense, still pushing herself through despite reservations. Perhaps harder than she should, but she was never very good at doing anything by halves. Barbet had been willing to admit that it was something beautiful about her, her intensity. Clearly a double-edged sword when that intensity directed itself inward.
She fiddles with that collar, picking at the seaming, even on the short trip upstairs.]
too early;
He leans back against one mirrored wall of the elevator, the buttons lit up to 5, and watches her fidget in three reflected angles.]
So, am I here as a preventative measure, or to do damage control?
too early;
Rather than answer his question, she just unbuttons the jacket, slipping it off. There's not much under there, a thin cloth bra and all of her scarred skin, the marks livid white after the desert darkened her tone. But there is nothing new, and she has proof enough of that, since he made it so clear he wanted it.]
too early;
Coming out of an elevator with you like that will do nothing for my reputation.
[Of course he has one. As yet, it's almost undeserved.]
too early;
The night watch already has it on surveillance.
[She opens the doors herself and steps out, waiting with her hands in her pockets.]
too early;
[He used to be so easy to fluster. Now (perhaps his ex-wife's work) he shrugs it off momentarily, and follows her out, half amused.]
Down the hall, there's a treatment room just past my office.
[She hasn't managed to put herself in his OR, yet. There's that.]
too early;
I think you'll be fine.
too early;
He leans over her to unlock the treatment room door with the keys he'd charmed from reception, opening it and ushering her through in a single gesture.
It's not spartan as far as clinic rooms go. There are two chairs, a desk, a bed, a screen.]
You know they say that 'literally' is the most frequently misused word in the language? I think it's more likely to be 'fine.'
[Pointed, just a little. Here they are before breakfast with coffee and a shoulder bag packed with needles. Somebody isn't fine.]
too early;
[Her voice is dry in response. 'Fine' is exactly as noncommittal and dismissive as she needs it to be. Carla lets him motion her in without glancing over her shoulder, but she does look up at him when she sits back in one of the chairs, legs crossed at the knee. She would be hard-pressed to think up a better adjective besides. Her focus is on the prize, on whatever will help her settle into her wasted body. She had thought the heartbeat would be enough, the breath, but they're drowned out too often.]
too early;
[His manner becomes more businesslike in these surroundings, closing the door and laying out the needle kit from his bag on a cart next to hospital issue equipment with the quiet concentration of habit. All things in their proper place, checked, and checked again. His voice softens as he continues, and he spares glances for her, caught in this dual focus.]
Last time, it took part of your soul going walkabout to make you rip your skin off. Why do you think you're close to the same point now?
too early;
[She looks away at nothing and her foot jiggles in the air between them, a thumbnail idly pinching at her lower lip. Last time had been something special, had been enough to frighten her into considering what he had to say to her. The discomfort had blossomed out of nothing, no warning, no spiral of thoughts. Just animal panic and invasion--(Only later did it become longing, pleasure. She knows how to belong to someone, better than she remembers how to exist for herself. The bird had known she would come to like it, in the end. She was just that pathetic, he's always reminding her.)]
This is normal.
[The boredom, the anxiety, the anger and discontent. She doesn't adjust well to changes, not knowing where to look for the distractions she's gotten used to. She had been just as on edge when the desert had overtaken, unhappy knowing that her apartment was not waiting for her, that her sanctuary was gone. It was like losing a part of herself, although she hasn't reflected that deeply on how she compensates for her lack of identity in other places. She had gotten through that by being forced to work for her survival, if she fought for her life and won, maybe she deserved it for a little while. Now the monsters and the thrill are gone, and there's just Carla. There's just her apartment, where she can hide in her roommate's skin, but can't run from what she is. The pup they've brought home with them has the animal in the back of her mind on edge, and she hates feeling jealous of a dog.
There's also shelving books during the day, but it's too slow, it's too simple and quiet. It makes her want to scream. She'd never wanted that kind of mundane existence, had gone through so much trouble to assure that it would never happen. Too bad her talents were beyond her reach now and all she can do is make things bleed for her satisfaction on her off hours. Her other hand curls against her leg. This is living. This is hell. Disgraced and imperfect.]
too early;
[But everyone has a coping strategy, that much is normal. Even the average, the ones who have always been average, who can never hope for more still find the mundanity of their daily lives overwhelming. Chase meets them in the clinic. They take overdoses (or drink) or smash plates (or drink) or hit their spouses because it feels like the only way to win an argument. Or they drink. But Chase has never been quite average (but he's never been quite enough) and it's people like him, like Carla used to be, the successful, talented, aspirational ones who break apart most spectacularly. He has his own theories. For the majority of people success is a void filler. Or its what happens when 'normal' isn't a choice.
Chase moves to stand behind her chair.]
Now you can take the jacket off.
[He'll put it to one side for her.]
If I were to suggest a pharmacological option, would you say no immediately, or bitch at me first?
too early;
[Her voice is bland, he knew the answer to that question before it was broadcast aloud. At least she's honest, and she shrugs back out of her jacket without any snide comments about having his permission. Maybe on another day. Right now she just rubs at her neck, the heel of her hand kneading roughly over her pulse, tired but tense--(too aware of the shell she's trapped inside.)
She tilts her head back to look at him sideways after a moment, clearly looking for something but inexpressive as to what. It could, possibly, be reassurance but if she has yet to lower herself to asking explicitly for help, she certainly isn't going to offer over her insecurities for nothing. There's no helping her, besides. Barbet had never tried to help, he had simply berated her for not valuing the gift he had given her and sewed her closed again.
It is infinitely easier to face forward and turn to toying with a strand of hair teased free from her temple instead.]
So don't bother.
too early;
But it is healed enough. She's looked after herself, at least a little.]
You hate what your mind does to you when you're left alone with it, but you can't stand to make it any less sharp. You can see the paradox inherent in that.
[And of course it's the answer he'd expected. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he walks back around the chair, a hand on the back of it and leaning just enough to meet her eyeline evenly.]
Guess we'll just have to see about giving it a new distraction.
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;
too early;