[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.
[She has trouble making eye contact, torn between being recognized and the tar creeping up the back of her throat--(a delusion. A delusion from when she had nearly lost her mind, she had been so certain that the rotting pieces of her mind were dripping down her throat, filling up her empty chest cavity where the heart no longer beat and the soul had long since fled. She imagines that it creeps back up to strangle her sometimes.) It's somewhat hoarse when she murmurs,]
The mind is the most attractive part of a person. The rest is inconsequential. Forgettable.
[And her mind was... not as sharp as it could be. She longed for perfect, for superior, but all she found were limitations and she cut herself on them, duly.
(It's Blonde, who has looked after her. He watches, reacts when she starts curl inwards, although neither of them will admit that's what he's doing when he puts his fingers into her hair. It's still not enough. She still won't ask for his help beyond borrowing his skin.)]
I don't think you give a damn about being attractive. [Though she's beautiful for all that she's battered and malnourished, and there's little doubting she knows that.] Unforgettable... maybe.
[Chase can't tell quite what she sees in Blonde, he's dubious enough but doesn't strike the doctor as much of a challenge. If asked he'd posit the security blanket theory and likely be berated for it.
He takes the kit he's brought, a small selection of hollow needles of different gauges, and crouches so she can see the choice.]
I'll do a maximum of two for now. After we agree payment.
[No, she had never cared about being physically attractive. She and her brothers were striking, just the right mix of mother and father, dark hair with large eyes and starkly defined features. That had never been something to take notice of, to be proud of. They were borrowed attributes. Her mind was hers, and that she valued. Her mind was unforgettable, and if there was one thing she liked, it was invading others, leaving her mark on them.
She stares at the metallic instrument he's held up. She had been hard to touch, once. Lured in by only two men in twenty-five years and hundreds of other encounters. It had only taken one to break her and now the marking seems to be the only part of living she really understands.]
[He raises an eyebrow, perhaps amusement, perhaps interest.]
Is that an order? I can if you want.
[Deliberate misinterpretation, but that's why they're here, isn't it? Distraction. And she's never quite managed to unravel his intentions, binding them up too closely with the traits of people she knows better. He doesn't offer her too much to go on (though there's the curious fact of her knowing more of his secrets than anyone in the city, bar one), and the face he shows her looks different to the one others recognise him by.]
You'll keep the wound site clean. [The needle is pressed back into its slot.] Follow the instructions I'll give you for doing it. Get your roommate [That word will always be slightly weighted. Jealousy or envy? They're different things.] to help you if you need to. If it starts to reject, show me. Gets infected, show me. You have a bad day and screw with one of the bars too much, show me the day you do it. I'm asking you to look after yourself.
[Self-obsessed as she is, too distracted by her own anger to really understand him, or anyone else, she does know that. That he is, on occasion, much too honest with her for his own good--(she values it, him. And she liked secrets besides, liked to have them and know them, but sharing ruined their value. They're safe with her.)]
[At this moment, it is as close as she is going to get to acknowledging in words just how infatuated she has become with him. Unfortunately, she does not take well to being denied, not once the obsession has blossomed. He planted it there. They always do, never realizing how much harm they'll do her when they humor her curiosity and her needs. Barbet had almost understood it, the first night she pressed on him to sleep with her. He had seen too much adoration on her face for his tastes, but he hadn't listened to his own advice. Too bad. She was dangerous, destructive. She blamed Barbet for it, for ruining everything he touched, but maybe that was her gift after all.]
It's a choice. Consider this the standard disclaimer.
[And, as with everything inside these whitewashed walls, nothing happens without an agreement on her part. He can stand where he is as long as it takes, but he's willing to lay bets on which of them is less patient.]
[Her choice. She had remembered, that he had said she would have to ask for this, an impressive bit of memory on her part, considering how often she lost things, and how exhausted and bloodied she had been. She doesn't want to ask again, but any answer she gives is going to feel like it anyway now.]
Fine.
[A lack of patience, or a lack of will. She's not in the mood to think about it.]
[For all that it sounds like he's directing the mise-en-scene of a particularly niche porno, he's barely looking to see that she complies. The paper packet of a sterile cloth is torn open by the blunt catch of his teeth and, really, placement is most important over here, where he's working.]
Not going to flinch if I don't numb the area?
[The irony is that this will hurt less in his hands than almost any others she could have chosen.]
[It is entirely too familiar to be directed around that way, to be ignored while she does it. Jumping through hoops to finally get her turn under the artist's hands. Maybe it won't hurt as much, but it was the hands that she wanted--(It was the hands that held all the power, a thought she had pondered over, long before the bullet made hers useless.)]
I'll be very still.
[She shouldn't say those sorts of things, she's just mocking herself with it, maybe him too.]
There's time to get it out of your system. This will be cold.
[The spray and application of the wipe let him adjust her position, altering the curve of her neck and watching the movement as his fingers press along the outlined vertebrae.]
You could do with a little more to clamp. [But he's following a different thought process now, the back of his hands reaching to test the temperature of the thin skin that pulls over her pulse points in her throat, and below her ears.]
[She doesn't want to answer that question, head tilting slightly to let his hand fit more easily against the side of her neck.]
Cold.
[It bothers her, when her pulse gets sluggish and her skin goes cold. It's just one more reason that she spends her time picking fights and having sex, eating. It keeps her warm, but it always fades when she stops. She's always back where she started when it's over, alone with herself, stuck inside her own corpse, and it's cold.]
[It's easy, with his hand placed here, to feel the minute tensions in her jaw that give away discomfort.]
But you burn off your intake at an incredible rate. You should be giving off heat.
[Though he gives voice to the observation, it's more a note to himself. She can't see the slight crease to his brow that he'll sometimes get when he knows he's caught on to a thread of her that might be unravelled. A man with an inclination for picking things apart.
After a moment, he pulls his hand back, and there's cold metal against her neck but no pinch yet while he finds the clamp's placement.]
[The tension works from her jaw to her shoulders, wing bones flexing under her skin. She had wondered, a little, upon first arriving here if the virus would begin taking victims. It was on her skin, in her breath. She knows it's in her blood. It hasn't happened, and she knows exactly how long it would have taken, were it going to.]
You're not satisfied with this, doctor?
[She's had her blood drawn. She hadn't been kidding about being fastidious about her check ups, but she had said no for a reason when Saya had suggested she let Chase be the one to give them.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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;
The mind is the most attractive part of a person. The rest is inconsequential. Forgettable.
[And her mind was... not as sharp as it could be. She longed for perfect, for superior, but all she found were limitations and she cut herself on them, duly.
(It's Blonde, who has looked after her. He watches, reacts when she starts curl inwards, although neither of them will admit that's what he's doing when he puts his fingers into her hair. It's still not enough. She still won't ask for his help beyond borrowing his skin.)]
too early;
[Chase can't tell quite what she sees in Blonde, he's dubious enough but doesn't strike the doctor as much of a challenge. If asked he'd posit the security blanket theory and likely be berated for it.
He takes the kit he's brought, a small selection of hollow needles of different gauges, and crouches so she can see the choice.]
I'll do a maximum of two for now. After we agree payment.
too early;
She stares at the metallic instrument he's held up. She had been hard to touch, once. Lured in by only two men in twenty-five years and hundreds of other encounters. It had only taken one to break her and now the marking seems to be the only part of living she really understands.]
You're going to make this difficult.
[Her eyes finally flicker up, lips pursing.]
too early;
Is that an order? I can if you want.
[Deliberate misinterpretation, but that's why they're here, isn't it? Distraction. And she's never quite managed to unravel his intentions, binding them up too closely with the traits of people she knows better. He doesn't offer her too much to go on (though there's the curious fact of her knowing more of his secrets than anyone in the city, bar one), and the face he shows her looks different to the one others recognise him by.]
You'll keep the wound site clean. [The needle is pressed back into its slot.] Follow the instructions I'll give you for doing it. Get your roommate [That word will always be slightly weighted. Jealousy or envy? They're different things.] to help you if you need to. If it starts to reject, show me. Gets infected, show me. You have a bad day and screw with one of the bars too much, show me the day you do it. I'm asking you to look after yourself.
[He sits back on his heels, playing naive.]
Is that difficult for you?
too early;
him. And she liked secrets besides, liked to have them and know them, but sharing ruined their value. They're safe with her.)]Those are stipulations, not costs.
[And yes, they are difficult for her.]
too early;
[Standing, he's moving away again, back to the cart laid out with things that gleam, like the prize display on a cheap gameshow.]
But if you don't keep up the repayments then, short of an emergency, it's going to cost you the possibility of my... getting involved again.
[As if he could extricate himself so easily. But he says it without doubt.]
too early;
Don't threaten me.
[At this moment, it is as close as she is going to get to acknowledging in words just how infatuated she has become with him. Unfortunately, she does not take well to being denied, not once the obsession has blossomed. He planted it there. They always do, never realizing how much harm they'll do her when they humor her curiosity and her needs. Barbet had almost understood it, the first night she pressed on him to sleep with her. He had seen too much adoration on her face for his tastes, but he hadn't listened to his own advice. Too bad. She was dangerous, destructive. She blamed Barbet for it, for ruining everything he touched, but maybe that was her gift after all.]
too early;
[And, as with everything inside these whitewashed walls, nothing happens without an agreement on her part. He can stand where he is as long as it takes, but he's willing to lay bets on which of them is less patient.]
too early;
Fine.
[A lack of patience, or a lack of will. She's not in the mood to think about it.]
too early;
A larger needle's going to bleed more, hurt more. If I use a smaller one, I can't put in a flexible bar. Any preference?
too early;
[It should bleed. They know why she's sitting here.]
too early;
[For all that it sounds like he's directing the mise-en-scene of a particularly niche porno, he's barely looking to see that she complies. The paper packet of a sterile cloth is torn open by the blunt catch of his teeth and, really, placement is most important over here, where he's working.]
Not going to flinch if I don't numb the area?
[The irony is that this will hurt less in his hands than almost any others she could have chosen.]
too early;
I'll be very still.
[She shouldn't say those sorts of things, she's just mocking herself with it, maybe him too.]
too early;
There's time to get it out of your system. This will be cold.
[The spray and application of the wipe let him adjust her position, altering the curve of her neck and watching the movement as his fingers press along the outlined vertebrae.]
You could do with a little more to clamp. [But he's following a different thought process now, the back of his hands reaching to test the temperature of the thin skin that pulls over her pulse points in her throat, and below her ears.]
Which do you feel more often, hot or cold?
too early;
Cold.
[It bothers her, when her pulse gets sluggish and her skin goes cold. It's just one more reason that she spends her time picking fights and having sex, eating. It keeps her warm, but it always fades when she stops. She's always back where she started when it's over, alone with herself, stuck inside her own corpse, and it's cold.]
too early;
But you burn off your intake at an incredible rate. You should be giving off heat.
[Though he gives voice to the observation, it's more a note to himself. She can't see the slight crease to his brow that he'll sometimes get when he knows he's caught on to a thread of her that might be unravelled. A man with an inclination for picking things apart.
After a moment, he pulls his hand back, and there's cold metal against her neck but no pinch yet while he finds the clamp's placement.]
Can I take some blood?
too early;
You're not satisfied with this, doctor?
[She's had her blood drawn. She hadn't been kidding about being fastidious about her check ups, but she had said no for a reason when Saya had suggested she let Chase be the one to give them.]
too early;
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