[ Red returns only when she's certain everything alright. At the Institute, with Yusuke, with herself ( whatever had ... happened ). Discussing it was never an option, given the things that Boxer must have seen, the things that he tried to keep her from ( with good reason, now that she's seen it all; she would have wanted the same for him if she had the option ).
Which means it's late — the common areas continue to be empty at times like this, everyone either getting the rest that they desperately deserve or out searching. She's the same — it's easy to slip upstairs to her room ( their room ) without being spotted by anyone. Pausing before she turns the doorknob, taking a deep breath — it's fine, it should all be fine, there's no reason for him to notice anything anymore, and—
( If she thinks that she hears the ghost of a laughter, faint and barely there, she decides to dismiss it entirely. )
She opens the door. The Transistor propped up against the wall, emitting its usual soft, teal light ( the walls look like they're glowing white, almost, and she blinks that away once more ). She looks ... alright, at least, if not a little tired, as she closes the door behind her and leans against the wood. Eyes searching for the familiar figure, all the while bracing herself for the worst.
( Faint splashes of color run up from her upper arm, to the back of her neck. Her hair done up in a bun. A familiar jacket covers her arms, but the moment she leans away from the door— ) ]
[No figure in the room when she walks in—she's been gone a while, but not long enough to count as strange. And it's been a hell of a day. (He doesn't sleep, exactly, not quite the way he used to. But sometimes, times like this, all long-day and low-on-reserves, he sort of...gets close. Checks out. Recharges.) Still, the Transistor flickers up to bright again as Red makes her way into the room, flashes with the static sound of his voice.]
Red? That you? [His vantage point is low, from here. The room's dim enough now that the sun's setting. Even as he says it, he knows the answer, so—] Hi. Didn't hear you come in.
[A little bit of a question in it. She'd been out a while.]
[ A nod in greeting, a brief flicker of a smile as she looks towards the Transistor ( it shouldn't feel normal, yet here they are ). She's tempted to just change out of her clothes and sleep the rest of this all off, but to do so without arousing suspicion is another story entirely. And while it's not that she wants to keep things from Boxer, it's...
She wants to keep this particular thing from him. No reason for him to worry over something that's rapidly on its way to becoming old news; she'll tell him, eventually, once everything is a little less raw ( once he won't immediately be reminded of Richie when he finds out, and how close that could have been; she doesn't want to think about that, either ). So—
I needed fresh air. Which isn't... untrue, exactly. She reaches to shrug the jacket off, and immediately thinks better of it — she'll have to figure something out, if she wants to get changed. Just not right this moment.
She does, however, cross the room ( turns her back towards the teal glow of the sword, whether or not she realizes it ). ]
[Here they are. Hard to say if it's a factor of resilience or resignation that this is normal, now. (Both maybe, in different measures for each of them.) But, y'know, still no match for the real thing. Stubborn, he pushes his luck and risks triggering that proxy function one last time today so he can be with her, what's left of him. The same convincing imitation, managing to render in behind her, evident in the way his voice sounds a little less manufactured the next time she hears it, even before he catches up to her across the room.
And, with an air of understanding—
Long day. Least it's almost over.
[And if she needed space—well, they've got a pretty full house, on better days. She's back, now. So it's reflex, at first, the way he steps in next to her, raises a hand to brush her hair back, kiss her temple hello. Offer to take her (his, her) coat from her so she can make herself comfortable—
(The Transistor still recognizes Red as the USER when she's in range. And mostly he just pushes it to the back of his attention, because with no Process in the city there's usually little reason for a read on her vitals or a look at her chosen loadout of Functions. Unless...)
He goes still, attention narrowing. His fingertips hover at the sliver of stained skin at nape of her neck. Still, carefully—]
Hey, Red— [He's good at disguising the little creep of fear in his voice. But no one knows him better than she does.] Could you...?
[ It's too easy to lean into the contact — some of the day's weight being placed on someone else, even for just a moment. She hums in response to his comment, eyelids briefly closing shut — just as much of a reflex as him leaning towards her is, by this point. Even if they're not constantly checking over their shoulder for a stray camera, a nosy fan — the privacy of their room is, as always, a very welcome thing.
And with that, she forgets — not quite letting her guard down, but an imitation of it. No need to worry within the safety of their four walls, where the danger has long passed ( while still protesting when his hands move to her jacket, hugging it closer around herself ). She's comfortable here; it's easy to remember to make sure he doesn't find out, but not as easy to remember what exactly that entails.
So, while she hears the creep of fear in his voice, it takes her a minute before she realizes where that comes from; she's already tilted her head, looking up and over her shoulder. Blinking up at him, wondering what it could be for, what he wants, and then realizing that the day isn't quite over yet.
She can only pray that he hasn't noticed ... everything. Somehow. Her arms are still covered, at least, surely there isn't much else— ]
[He'd come to her straight from ground zero. From manhandling what was left of Rich away to wherever he'd gone to rest, and whatever had done it to him. And more fool he is for it—he hadn't thought too much of it at the time. Too much to sift through at once, too many pressing things to worry about. And what was a dangerous contagion, in Cloudbank? Nothing, less than nothing.
Now, in hindsight, it's the first thing he jumps to, when he sees the staining on her neck. His chest constricts, the convincing psychosomatic illusion of blood in his veins going cold. She turns, but he brushes his fingers at the mark as it creeps around her neck, behind her ear, under her hair. Traces it as it vanishes under the collar of his old coat. Brows furrowed, apprehensive.]
There's something— [That mark—it's new, he knows. Looks far too much like the ones on the victims. He hesitates, again, as if afraid of the answer. But, so much better to know. So—] Red... You seeing this?
[It keeps going, doesn't it? Just how far? (How bad?)]
[ The path his fingers take triggers the worst of her instincts — the pain flaring, as it just had. Or at least, that's what it feels like; whether or not that thing is still crawling inside her remains to be seen, but the reminder that it could tears down her composure like it never existed in the first place. The poor facade of normalcy shattering as she gasps, back tensing, pulling away from his grasp entirely.
She turns from him, immediately — protecting the most vulnerable part of her body ( for now ) by keeping it hidden from the people that have access to it. Eyes wide even before what she's done sinks in properly, as the ghost of the laughter echoes around the room.
( Laughter, mixed with finally, finally—, the rest disappearing into unintelligible mumbles. It's an improvement, against all odds, a definite confirmation that the effects are properly fading. That doesn't lessen the bone-chilling terror that grips her. )
— And then, silence. It's too late to feign anything, she knows. The longer the truth of what just happened sinks in, how much Boxer would have picked up, the less she's certain of what she needs to do. This isn't like her; the doubt that's settling isn't supposed to have her paralyzed with indecision. She needs to pick something, anything, she's fine.
Surprisingly, she opens her mouth ( I— ). Unsurprisingly, no sound comes out. ]
[He isn't expecting such a violent reaction, and it shows. She gasps in pain and pulls away. He jerks his hand back away from her neck as if burnt, himself. Eyes wide, startled, sort of wounded, until his wits flood back and he swallows the creep of fear and the brush of horror best he can, steels himself into something steadier.
He holds, there, watching her sharply. Keeps his hands where she can see them. Palms out. Frozen on the spot. As if afraid he might chase her back again somehow.]
Red...?
[His heart twists at the sight of her even as he races to work out what the hell is wrong. (She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She flinches and folds in on herself, twists and freezes in fear, and something is wrong, he should have realized it sooner. Should have—what? Seen this coming? Gone with her, wherever she'd gone, after he'd—)]
I'm so sorry. [For hurting her. (For bringing this down on her, if he did.) Every word of it slow and clear, pitched low and mollifying and steadier than he feels. Is she hurt? Sick? Confused? Is that why she'd been so slow to get home, so startled when he'd touched her? He's thrown for a loop, and he hates not knowing.] I just...need you to let me in.
[They aren't much for oversharing. Take space for themselves when they need it. But hiding something like this? After all that's happened? She couldn't have meant to try. And yet—he doesn't dare approach. Not yet.]
What... [At a loss, he pauses. Then—] What happened?
[ Of course he'd apologize — she suddenly has to resist the urge to laugh, the entire situation ridiculous. Between him and her and the circumstances they've ( she's ) landed themselves in, the distance she's creating feeling farther than ever. Red bites her tongue, holding his gaze for as long as she can ( if there's one thing she's confident in, it's this ).
He should not have found out about this. Ever ( another one added to the list ). But the likelihood of everything going her way was never very high, was it? She straightens out her shoulder, pursing her lips together for a moment before she eventually raises her arms.
I'm fine. Too little, too late. She knows, but she still has to try nonetheless. Just a sore spot. I should have said something. Still should.
The next set of signs come slowly, hesitantly, her eyes finally moving to stare at his shoulders, instead. I went to go visit Yusuke.
( She tried, really, to keep it from him. She still would, if he hadn't found out so easily, if the uncertainty in his voice wasn't so obvious. But she knows a lost battle when she sees one. They aren't much for oversharing, but willful ignorance burned them badly. ) ]
[It takes him longer to respond than her—because he needs to parse the symbols she's making and then make them make sense when they really, really don't. She wouldn't need to visit if Yusuke had come home, so, half a second too slowly, like he wishes he were reading her wrong—
You went back there?
[He's both thrown by it and utterly unsurprised, but he hates the thought of it. Red walking in on the blood-stained halls he'd tried to spare her from. Alone, unarmed, to that poison place, even after they'd managed to dodge the bullet it represents. For once. And then come home hurting anyway, hiding it away like she'd hoped he wouldn't notice.
It tracks a little too well. The blindsiding of it is enough to spur the sick spin of fear and stubborn worry into helpless, endless frustration. Aimless, his hands clench at his sides.]
Red, what in the world did you think you were going to find?
[ ( It's not the first time she's been targeted by the things he tried to protect her from. )
Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
[Doesn't he know it. Only really stings the worse, for it.
He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
[ It's a lie by omission, technically — she wouldn't have gone back if the place was still swarming with extremists and assholes, she's not that suicidal. She just hadn't expected things to still linger, not before it was too late. And when it was too late, well —
By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
[They are very different people in a lot of ways. And in a lot of ways it works to their favor. But then—]
I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
[Even his slow-burning temper has limits, can crawl up to a boiling point after a bad day. And it has been, fighting his frustration and his self-inflicted too-tight rein on his mouth and her own stubbornness and her own frustration with the barrier her forced silence puts between them. She finally gives him what he's asking—not to the letter, of course, because she can't. But she stops trying to hide it, drops away the jacket to bare what's left of the experience on her skin.
He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
surprise
Which means it's late — the common areas continue to be empty at times like this, everyone either getting the rest that they desperately deserve or out searching. She's the same — it's easy to slip upstairs to her room ( their room ) without being spotted by anyone. Pausing before she turns the doorknob, taking a deep breath — it's fine, it should all be fine, there's no reason for him to notice anything anymore, and—
( If she thinks that she hears the ghost of a laughter, faint and barely there, she decides to dismiss it entirely. )
She opens the door. The Transistor propped up against the wall, emitting its usual soft, teal light ( the walls look like they're glowing white, almost, and she blinks that away once more ). She looks ... alright, at least, if not a little tired, as she closes the door behind her and leans against the wood. Eyes searching for the familiar figure, all the while bracing herself for the worst.
( Faint splashes of color run up from her upper arm, to the back of her neck. Her hair done up in a bun. A familiar jacket covers her arms, but the moment she leans away from the door— ) ]
no subject
Red? That you? [His vantage point is low, from here. The room's dim enough now that the sun's setting. Even as he says it, he knows the answer, so—] Hi. Didn't hear you come in.
[A little bit of a question in it. She'd been out a while.]
no subject
She wants to keep this particular thing from him. No reason for him to worry over something that's rapidly on its way to becoming old news; she'll tell him, eventually, once everything is a little less raw ( once he won't immediately be reminded of Richie when he finds out, and how close that could have been; she doesn't want to think about that, either ). So—
I needed fresh air. Which isn't... untrue, exactly. She reaches to shrug the jacket off, and immediately thinks better of it — she'll have to figure something out, if she wants to get changed. Just not right this moment.
She does, however, cross the room ( turns her back towards the teal glow of the sword, whether or not she realizes it ). ]
no subject
And, with an air of understanding—
Long day. Least it's almost over.
[And if she needed space—well, they've got a pretty full house, on better days. She's back, now. So it's reflex, at first, the way he steps in next to her, raises a hand to brush her hair back, kiss her temple hello. Offer to take her (his, her) coat from her so she can make herself comfortable—
(The Transistor still recognizes Red as the USER when she's in range. And mostly he just pushes it to the back of his attention, because with no Process in the city there's usually little reason for a read on her vitals or a look at her chosen loadout of Functions. Unless...)
He goes still, attention narrowing. His fingertips hover at the sliver of stained skin at nape of her neck. Still, carefully—]
Hey, Red— [He's good at disguising the little creep of fear in his voice. But no one knows him better than she does.] Could you...?
[Just...c'mere a minute.]
no subject
And with that, she forgets — not quite letting her guard down, but an imitation of it. No need to worry within the safety of their four walls, where the danger has long passed ( while still protesting when his hands move to her jacket, hugging it closer around herself ). She's comfortable here; it's easy to remember to make sure he doesn't find out, but not as easy to remember what exactly that entails.
So, while she hears the creep of fear in his voice, it takes her a minute before she realizes where that comes from; she's already tilted her head, looking up and over her shoulder. Blinking up at him, wondering what it could be for, what he wants, and then realizing that the day isn't quite over yet.
She can only pray that he hasn't noticed ... everything. Somehow. Her arms are still covered, at least, surely there isn't much else— ]
no subject
Now, in hindsight, it's the first thing he jumps to, when he sees the staining on her neck. His chest constricts, the convincing psychosomatic illusion of blood in his veins going cold. She turns, but he brushes his fingers at the mark as it creeps around her neck, behind her ear, under her hair. Traces it as it vanishes under the collar of his old coat. Brows furrowed, apprehensive.]
There's something— [That mark—it's new, he knows. Looks far too much like the ones on the victims. He hesitates, again, as if afraid of the answer. But, so much better to know. So—] Red... You seeing this?
[It keeps going, doesn't it? Just how far? (How bad?)]
no subject
She turns from him, immediately — protecting the most vulnerable part of her body ( for now ) by keeping it hidden from the people that have access to it. Eyes wide even before what she's done sinks in properly, as the ghost of the laughter echoes around the room.
( Laughter, mixed with finally, finally—, the rest disappearing into unintelligible mumbles. It's an improvement, against all odds, a definite confirmation that the effects are properly fading. That doesn't lessen the bone-chilling terror that grips her. )
— And then, silence. It's too late to feign anything, she knows. The longer the truth of what just happened sinks in, how much Boxer would have picked up, the less she's certain of what she needs to do. This isn't like her; the doubt that's settling isn't supposed to have her paralyzed with indecision. She needs to pick something, anything, she's fine.
Surprisingly, she opens her mouth ( I— ). Unsurprisingly, no sound comes out. ]
no subject
He holds, there, watching her sharply. Keeps his hands where she can see them. Palms out. Frozen on the spot. As if afraid he might chase her back again somehow.]
Red...?
[His heart twists at the sight of her even as he races to work out what the hell is wrong. (She opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She flinches and folds in on herself, twists and freezes in fear, and something is wrong, he should have realized it sooner. Should have—what? Seen this coming? Gone with her, wherever she'd gone, after he'd—)]
I'm so sorry. [For hurting her. (For bringing this down on her, if he did.) Every word of it slow and clear, pitched low and mollifying and steadier than he feels. Is she hurt? Sick? Confused? Is that why she'd been so slow to get home, so startled when he'd touched her? He's thrown for a loop, and he hates not knowing.] I just...need you to let me in.
[They aren't much for oversharing. Take space for themselves when they need it. But hiding something like this? After all that's happened? She couldn't have meant to try. And yet—he doesn't dare approach. Not yet.]
What... [At a loss, he pauses. Then—] What happened?
no subject
He should not have found out about this. Ever ( another one added to the list ). But the likelihood of everything going her way was never very high, was it? She straightens out her shoulder, pursing her lips together for a moment before she eventually raises her arms.
I'm fine. Too little, too late. She knows, but she still has to try nonetheless. Just a sore spot. I should have said something. Still should.
The next set of signs come slowly, hesitantly, her eyes finally moving to stare at his shoulders, instead. I went to go visit Yusuke.
( She tried, really, to keep it from him. She still would, if he hadn't found out so easily, if the uncertainty in his voice wasn't so obvious. But she knows a lost battle when she sees one. They aren't much for oversharing, but willful ignorance burned them badly. ) ]
no subject
You went back there?
[He's both thrown by it and utterly unsurprised, but he hates the thought of it. Red walking in on the blood-stained halls he'd tried to spare her from. Alone, unarmed, to that poison place, even after they'd managed to dodge the bullet it represents. For once. And then come home hurting anyway, hiding it away like she'd hoped he wouldn't notice.
It tracks a little too well. The blindsiding of it is enough to spur the sick spin of fear and stubborn worry into helpless, endless frustration. Aimless, his hands clench at his sides.]
Red, what in the world did you think you were going to find?
no subject
Her anger, as always, is a quick, flaring thing. Easily told in the tell-tale signs of a tensed jaw and harsher eyes, a mask of cold indifference settling on her face. Meeting fire with fire, every step of the way ( she's stressed, exhausted, and frustrated, all at once. Her track record of thinking through things alone still something she refuses to apologize for ).
At least the shock is gone. The confusion and the guilt being replaced with this, as tension rises in the room.
I wasn't going to leave him there. She couldn't. She's mourned before, watched someone's death play out in front of her. No one deserves that.
The place was cleared out. I wouldn't have gone back if it was still dangerous. ]
no subject
He can see her hackles picking up, feel it in the tense hum of argument ready to happen in the air. He doesn't raise his voice, doesn't take advantage of the fact that she has no choice but to let him talk over her. It's been a long day, a long week, or more, and they're all at the end of their collective ropes in one way or another, and he really doesn't want to make it longer. But—he digs his heels in. Because it all sounds sensible enough, when she spells it out that way—until she claims that the place was cleared out. Safe. Because there remains the little problem of the jacket still clutched stubbornly and symbolically around her shoulders to keep him from knowing what's underneath.
So he doesn't raise his voice, but it comes away sharpish despite himself. It's been a long day—and it isn't as over as she'd like it to be.]
Don't lie to me, Red.
[Not like this. Not today.]
no subject
By that point, she couldn't turn back.
She holds his gaze — expression barely flickering when he holds his ground, because some part of her knows that he couldn't step down ( just like how she can't, either ). Not here, not over this.
So, once more ( with feeling ): I'm fine now. Don't expect me to apologize for going. ]
no subject
I'm not asking you to apologize.
[Don't put words in his mouth, Red. Here, the frustration bleeds through audibly. Hands fisted at his side as he struggles to make himself understood.]
Red, I'm just asking you to talk to me.
[Unfortunate phrasing, maybe, but he's too caught up to catch it. (Maybe they dodged this bullet again, maybe she is fine. But how is he supposed to feel, knowing she'd been hurting and hiding it from him? That he might never have known anything was wrong at all until it was too late?)]
no subject
She's not unreasonable, at least ( most of the time, anyway ). Unfortunate vocabulary choices aside, it's enough to give her pause — guilt will take its time before it returns, but his request isn't entirely impossible. Even with her hackles raised, she knows he's not asking a lot.
( Well — sort of. But she knows that if she was standing on the other side, she'd be handling it a lot more poorly than he is, right now. And that's — that's enough for her to consider it, even for a moment. )
The silence stretches. She refuses to move. If there's conflict, she refuses to let it show. It's hard to convey tone when she chooses to remain expressionless, her movements curt and controlled — or maybe that's all that he needs to tell.
She takes off her jacket — the shirt she's wearing does little to hide the trail of color that starts on her arm, trailing up to the back of her neck. The edges of it fading, turning into a darker shade of her skin.
Identical to some of the victims, alive or dead. ]
no subject
He'd suspected. Seeing it laid out is different. The fight seems to drain out of him, all at once. Like he's been clocked in the jaw, voice low and hushed with restrained horror, growing guilt, the same breathless, helpless feeling as watching her fight through the city and take blow after blow and be powerless to stop it.]
Oh, Red. [He doesn't dare close his eyes, or he'll see the bloody halls, the burned skin on the victims. The nonsense fear that he'll open them to find the burns spreading, cracking and bleeding. Finally, he breaks out of the standoff to meet her where she stands. Rests his fingers lightly at the sides of her shoulders, as if afraid to hurt her further. Hesitates, as if unsure what to do, where to start. Until, simply, almost pleadingly—] I can't lose you.
[He'd tried and failed to keep her safe before. But please.]
You don't have to do any of this alone. Not— [Not always. Not as far as he can try and fail and try to be there for her. More than he could, in those few days. If, it seems, never enough.] Not anymore.