forthedog | (no subject)

Entry tags:

darrow,
neil

(no subject)

It's not uncommon for him to come home covered in blood. But this is a lot of blood.

It's not as bad as it might have been. He's cleaned off what he can, washed his hands, and the rain has taken care of some of the rest. He could have gone to the asylum, where he keeps a change of clothing for exactly this reason, but now that the adrenaline has left him completely he's tired and a little drained.

In ways that have nothing to do with the wound on his throat.

Now that sanity has reasserted itself, he's sort of wondering how that's going to be taken.

But there's nothing to do about it. He pulls the bike into the garage and heads in through the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. The wet clothes are something else he wants to shed.

He's still not sure what tonight even means. He supposes he'll figure it out eventually.

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It's late and the girls are asleep. Not that it's really a surprise, having him come in after bedtime, but I still wait up for him, listening to the rain hit the roof with the TV volume turned down low.

When he walks in, finally, I sit up, rubbing at tired eyes, watching the shape of him move around in the shadows of the kitchen.

"Hey, how'd it go?"

"Fine." He's not sure what else to say. Describing what he does has never been something he's good at, though it's not that he expects Neil to be shocked. He takes off his boots before he gets much further in and scrubs a hand through his hair, sighing.

"It was... intense." He closes his eyes for a brief moment. "I need a shower."

Pushing myself to my feet, I make my way toward him, bare feet shuffling against the floor, but I stop about halfway when I see all the blood on him.

It's... not unusual, but there's still that moment where my heart clinches and I wonder how much of it is his. How deep are the wounds, and how much deeper can he take before he can't get back up again?

But those are all feelings I've gotten used to dealing with. It's part of the deal, between us. I only stand there for half a second before I'm stepping closer, looking for the source of the blood. It's when I find it that things sorta skew sideways.

"What the fuck..." I breathe out, looking at the familiar marks on his neck, stomach lurching. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

He knows what it's about the second it's said and he sighs, hand going to the bite almost instinctively. It had been stupid, he knows that, but in the moment it had felt perfect, like exactly what he needed to do.

He doesn't have a death wish. But it's occurred to him to wonder whether there's really a difference between a death wish and a pathological inability to be afraid of anything. The end result might be the same.

Fear, he knows, does serve a function.

"I'm okay. It barely got me." Got him because he let it, because he practically lured it in before he put the blade in its neck and took off its head.

"It wasn't one of the ones turned me. It was the same as Spike."

The same as Spike seems pretty fuckin' hilarious, since I saw him, big fuckin' bad that he is, letting two five-year-olds paint his nails purple the other day. I don't really have time to laugh, though, because I can't really get past the bite on his neck, and the way he doesn't seem all that concerned.

Because he's not. That's what makes him a good hunter. That's what makes him a fuckin' idiot.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" I ask, 'cause he's been being careful, lately. Or at least, I thought he was. Anyway, it seems a little off, that he'd let one get the drop on him like that. But sometimes, I forget that he's only human, regardless of growing evidence to the contrary.

He looks at Neil for a moment, jaw working slightly, then turns to the sink and cuts the tap on. Yes, he needs to shower, but he doesn't see that happening anytime very soon, and the blood on his skin is crusting and starting to itch. He grabs a paper towel, moistens it, holds it to the side of his throat.

How the fuck to explain.

"I let it," he says finally, and God, yes, it does sound just as bad as he thought it would. "I wasn't alone," he adds, as if that might make it more okay, which he almost wants to laugh at.

"Jesus," I choke out, and I don't even know if I'm really surprised. I expected it, somehow, and maybe that makes it even worse.

"What the fuck... Is that supposed to make me feel better? What the fuck were you doing?"

"No, it's not supposed to make you feel better. It's supposed to be the thing that makes me not a complete fucking idiot." He leans over the sink, his eyes half closed. He had been insane, and he had also been deep in the pit of the darkest, coldest sanity he possesses.

"Does it matter what I was doing?"

"Yeah, it kinda fuckin' does. It matters," I say, arms folding protectively over my chest.

"I kinda need to know what the fuck you were doin', so I can understand why you thought this was even remotely okay."

"I didn't think it was okay. I didn't think about that at all." He isn't thinking now, because thinking will look like lying and if he's aware of nothing else, he's well aware that he absolutely can't lie now. Not about this, not about anything. He turns, dropping his hand away from his throat.

"I was fighting. I was... It was more than that. I was showing someone..." He trails off, his eyes abruptly unfocused - sighted and blind. "What it really is that I do. And I wanted to. So I did."

He's done... a lot of fucked up shit, and I feel like I've been a hell of a lot more understanding than most people would be. It's how we work, how we've always worked, but part of the reason why it does is that I rarely feel like I wasn't a factor in the decisions he makes.

It's been a long times since he's done something to really hurt my feelings, like this. I don't really know what to do with myself, now that he has.

I cough out a laugh, finally, words slow and deliberate when I say, "I watched you die on the kitchen floor not three fuckin' months ago, and you did this to fuckin' show off to someone?"

He could defend himself. For a fraction of a second he thinks about trying. Arguing semantics, arguing the significance of what it meant to be seen like that, fully clothed but naked in a way he only is with so few people. The sheer power of it. The awe.

But he sees what's building behind Neil's eyes and he knows it would all just be excuses. In the end.

"Not exactly." He manages an extremely pained smile. "But yeah, that's close enough."

I think what's wrong with you, but I already know what's wrong with him, and maybe that's why I feel so sick with myself.

"I can't... Fuck, Mike. I can't keep doin' this," I say, scrubbing at my eyes, like that's gonna stop them from burning. "I can't let you do this shit. This is not okay."

"Can't let me do what?" What he's feeling isn't guilt. It's somehow worse than guilt, because guilt contains the memory of when one was different and leaves open the possibility of being something else. This is an iron fist in his stomach, not twisting or punching but simply sitting there.

"I'm kinda doing a lot right now."

"Don't play fuckin' dumb, Mike. I let you do what you've gotta do, and I'm okay with a lot of fuckin' shit, but it doesn't work if I don't trust that you know what you've got waiting for you at home," I say, struggling to keep my voice pitched low, even though Mack and Flo usually sleep through anything.

"I need to know that you give a shit how this comes back to us, how it affects us. Your fuckin' family, and if you didn't notice, seein' you with bite marks on your goddamn neck that I wasn't fuckin' present for affects me," I hiss, teeth bared angrily.

"I'm not stupid. I know what shit like this means. You go too far down a road like this, and I'm not gonna be able to keep you anchored anymore. And you get that's what I'm doin', right?"

Edited 2014-05-19 04:36 (UTC)

He's quiet for a long moment, and for some reason he's looking down at his right hand, not its scarred back but the faint white line down his palm. There's a streak of blood across it, partially obscuring it.

You're dancing right on that edge. Aragami-san.

"I can feel it pulling," he murmurs. "Since we got back, I could feel it. It's like a slow slide down. That road." He lets out a soft laugh. "I feel like I just cheated on you."

"Yeah, well, I kinda feel like you did, too, so at least we're on the same fuckin' page," I say flatly, tears seeping silently out of my eyes before I can stop them.

"I can't follow you there, Mike. I... I want to. I would, but I can't. Not all the way. I can't leave your kids here alone. Our fuckin' kids," I say firmly, "You gotta stay on this side of the fuckin' line with us, because I don't wanna do this shit alone again."

Please don't make me. Please, God.

"You can't follow me there, are you insane?" His head snaps up, hand clenched into a fist, and for a second he's as close to fear as he's come in a long time. "Even if you could, you'd... You can't. You can't ever do that. Jesus, I won't even take you in the asylum."

He leans back against the edge of the sink and rakes both hands into his hair, almost pulling at it. "I don't wanna go there. If I do, there's no coming back. You think I wanna leave you alone? You think I ever wanted to do that?"

He doesn't even know where it's coming from, now. Pouring out of him, even as his neck is clotting.

"I should be so fucking scared of this."

"Am I insane?" I say, looking at him like he's just said the fucking stupidest shit ever.

"You think I'd let you go someplace without me, if I had a fuckin' choice? We're supposed to be in this shit together. Everything, that was the fuckin' deal, and you're just... You're not letting me, anymore. I'm losing these pieces of you, and yeah, you fuckin' should be scared."

Leaning back against the island counter, I scrub a hand over my face, feeling humiliatingly, pathetically, like I've been betrayed. If he'd fucked someone else, I'm not completely sure it would've felt worse than this. I'm not sure I'd have felt more inadequate and stupid than I do right now, waiting up for him at home with his daughters sleeping upstairs, while he was off doing what he had to do. What he wanted to do.

"Who was it?" I ask quietly, hating myself for the question, but it's out there and I can't take it back. I know it wasn't Spike. Oddly enough, I trust that he wouldn't have let it happen in the first place.

"Kisuke," he says, low and flat. His hands are hanging loose by his sides now, still no attempt at mounting a defense. "I dunno if you know him. He ran into me, we started talking..." One thing led to another.

"It felt good. Being watched. You've only seen me like that once."

I turn my face away, struggling suddenly against a wave of nausea, this sick weight in the pit of my stomach.

"I don't know him," I answer flatly, because it's really the only thing I'm entirely certain of. The rest of it, how I feel right now, I can't really make sense of.

"But you don't want me to see. You won't take me to the fuckin' asylum, you won't..." I stop myself, jaw clinching tight, "It's startin' to feel like you've got me boxed up here, bein' the borin' fuckin' Dad, 'cause somebody's gotta be sometimes, while you're... out doin' what feels good."

Arms dropping uselessly to my sides, I say, "You can't protect me from this. If you can't let me see this shit, then you shouldn't be fuckin' doin' it! Sure as hell not with some fuckin' guy I don't even fuckin' know."

Edited 2014-05-19 05:53 (UTC)

He almost laughs again, because suddenly it really is so goddamn funny. That after everything that's happened and everything he's allowed himself to become, after letting the part of himself that was frightened by everything be destroyed, this is still something he can't seem to shake.

There are places he knows he can't go with Neil. But those borders have been expanding, slowly, without him even really being aware of it.

You weak little idiot, whispers something with awful eyes and far too many teeth. That was not part of the deal.

"So maybe I should. Let you."

"So fuckin' do it. You can't keep shutting me out. And you can't... You can't lose sight of this. This is our fuckin' life, right here, in this house. A house that you fuckin' wanted, by the way, and if this is somethin' you wanna keep, you gotta learn that you can't run around doin' whatever the fuck you want just 'cause it feels good," I say, and honestly, I can hardly fuckin' believe it's coming from me-- this speech that's basically grow the fuck up and take responsibility for your shit.

"It's not gonna work anymore that you're living one life here with me, and another one out there with... whoever the fuck else. I've already been with somebody who wasn't really with me, and I'm not doin' that shit again."

And that's the final lash. He stands for a moment, taking it in, then pushes away and heads through the room toward the sliding doors that open onto the deck. His house, yes. That he wanted. That he wants. The blinds are drawn and he can see out into the dark, where part of him desperately wants to be.

And that's not where he really belongs.

He lifts a hand and presses it against the glass. "Help me."

Heaving out a sigh, I follow him to the door, stepping up behind him, my arm sliding across his chest and my chin resting on his shoulder.

"I can't help you until I see what's goin' on," I say. "You're gonna have to let me see."