Post by Pyro on Nov 16, 2006 11:25:44 GMT
OOC: Somewhere midway through Chapter 3, after Magneto dismisses Elliot
Why the hell do people pace?
Probably because it’s better than trying to sit still, because when you try to do that everything just builds up inside until you just have to move, even though you know the pacing doesn’t help any…
John’s had time to experiment with both since leaving the basement, and neither have done anything much. Burning things is better, as is punching the walls, but both draw far too much attention and neither can really make things stop hurting…
”Pyro, mate, you okay?”
… tearing apart the face behind those words won’t either, but it’ll feel so damn good he might stop caring about the ache for a moment or two. He freezes in his manic careering, back still to the door and the direction the faux-, but still annoyingly-chirpy voice is coming from, fists clenching.
”… Py?”
It’s more hesitant this time, as if she knows what he’s thinking (which, okay, she probably does…). The thumb topping the right first rolls back …Click-Fwoosh… and in the doorway Elliot tenses. Doesn’t cry out, or run, but he can still tell. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? So very easy, and then…
… it wouldn’t change anything.
”Fuck, Elliot, I’m not going to kill you” The spark dies, and her relief is as tangible as his raging agony, or agonized rage, or whatever (because they’ve yet to invent a word which can even begin to convey a small part of it). John’s voice is raw, and stretched, and at the same time rich with something vast and damp, the voice which comes when you’ve cried yourself drought-dry and railed until there’s nothing left and still haven’t quite forced out everything lingering inside… except that John’s skipped the first two stages as if he knows they won’t help, opting instead for silent and self-destructive, turning everything in. Which is where it would end up anyway, and where it belongs, everything being his fault… apart from the parts which are hers. ”We’ve got real bad guys to kill, after all. Can’t waste lighter fluid on a backstabbing bitch like you ‘til afterwards… though fuck, what’s to stop a tragic accident mid-battle? ”
”You don’t mean that”
She takes a step or two in, intending to draw close enough to pull off some mix of comforting and hey, this is me, and freezes again as he turns to face her. If looks could kill… Suffice to say his is venomous, and all the more terrifying because it’s infused with the harsh, brittle quality which only comes when you think you’ve nothing to lose. The look which means you’d do anything, anything, because consequences don’t matter any more.
”The hell I don’t… for a telepath you’re pretty fucking bad at reading people. But then again, that’s got more to do with you being an idiot…”
”P-John, I…”
He cuts her off ”or vindictive, I can’t decide. I’m hoping the first… No, the other one, actually. That way I don’t feel bad for hating you… why the hell are you here?”
”I..” she stammers ”I wanted to see if you were alright.”
”Then why check in in person. Why didn’t..” – he catches her look – ”Oh… Right… Is that why you told him?”
”John, I… what?”
”Simple question, Elle. Did you tell Magneto what you saw because what you saw in my head freaked you out? Because you couldn’t handle seeing a guy’s hand on my…”
”Okay, yes” she jumps in before he can complete the image, her discomfort obvious and deeply satisfying. ”And no. And… I can’t explain it. It’s not…”
”Spare me.” He turns back away from her, recommences the pacing until he gets to the wall and stops with a defeated sigh at how it’s still not solving anything. ” ‘you ever think how things would have turned out if I hadn’t picked you up?”
She nods, biting her lip for a moment before replying. ”If it’d been another road, if I’d picked someone else to psyche out… I guess everyone thinks about the what if’s, sure.”
”And where does thinking that take you?”
”I don’t know” Her voice is quiet, the please don’t hurt me voice she uses around Magneto only tinged with a little more sadness. She steps forward briefly, moving as if to offer some sort of hug, and then stopping dead – doesn’t take a psychic to pick up on the Fuck off vibe – with a sigh of her own, eyes downcast. ”I used to think… that it would be a bad thing, never having met you. Now I’m not so sure… The *You* it was back then…”
”He isn’t around any more.” He cuts her off again, harshly, no mourning for what was or what might have been, only the simple declaration that things aren’t like that now.
”I know…” Elliot pauses, turns as if she’s considering going, and stops. This is one of those *last chance* conversations after all, and dreamer that she is she can’t afford to let things go unsaid because somewhere deep inside she’s still hoping for that cinematic ending, however distant Happily Ever After now seems. ”You do that a lot, don’t you? Kill yourself. Over and over… One day you might find a model you like, right?”
”I thought I had one, sure. The *real* me. Something I could be happy with… But he only ever came out to play in the dark and besides, you’ve broken him now. So no, I’m not going to find a *me* I like. Not now.”
”You don’t…”
”You’ve been in my head. You know how I feel. Don’t fucking tell me none of it’s true just because you can’t get your head around it.” It’s the nearest to tears she’s ever seen him, and she knows that even if he won’t allow himself to cry in front of her the moment she leaves all hell will break loose... just as she *knows* what he’s saying is true.
”Of course it’s true, John. I don’t need to see inside your brain to see that. You…” – she’s wishing the next few words didn’t feel so much like defeat – ”You really love him.”
”You have no idea.”
”No… I don’t understand, but that’s not the same thing.”
”What’s to understand? What’s so fucking complicated about it? Maybe it’s not your sugar-coated fluffy hearts and flowers and doves, is that it? Well, newflash, kid. That’s the one that isn’t real. It’s just something they make up so they can sell it to you. Because no one would buy the reality. ‘Real’ love hurts like hell. That’s the truth of it, the great secret...”
”Then why do you…”
”You can’t ask me that. Not now. Not knowing what you know.”
Elliot sighs again, biting back her own tears because she knows it wouldn’t mean anything to him, just give him another reason to hate her, and knowing that makes it harder. ”I don’t understand. And I can’t pretend to like it…”
”I can’t pretend to give a fuck whether you like it or not.”
She bites her lip again, clears her head, continues. ”But I’m sorry. Really. I just wanted my dream come true”
Nothing more to be said. Elliot turns to go, and John snatches her wrist to stop her. She almost cries out, but bites that back too. ”That’s why you did this?”
She can’t answer.
”That’s why?” John’s more insistent now, becoming something nearer crazed with each repetition because he can’t believe it. ”That’s fucking why, Elliot?” She pauses, nods, a short sharp don’t hurt me gesture, and he lets her go and falls back, equal parts stunned and disgusted. She dashes to the door, getting out of range as quickly as possible, while he drops onto the bed, sat on the edge, head in hands.
”Can’t hate me for that, right?”
”Trust me Elliot, I can… though I don’t. Not now. Not knowing that you have to live with that, knowing what you destroyed because you were selfish and pathetic” – he hopes it’s a smaller version of what he’s feeling, though by rights it should be much larger, because what he did was for them, however fucked up the reasoning, while she’s only ever worried about her. The look he catches spreading across her features when he glances up doesn’t disappoint. – ”Not just what it’s doing to me, what it’s done to” – no, he’s not going to let this strangle him, not now, not for her – ”Bobby. You’ve seen what he’s doing down there. And it’s all your fault.”
”I’m sorry” she chokes out, somehow, a small childish squeak of a voice which would normally raise pity but her just sparks off disgust. ”I just…”
”Because the best part of all that is that I know my dream had a chance. One in a million, that. One. So there’s no room for yours, is there? Never would have worked. The rest of us can get away with all this, knowing it was for something” – and it’s true, because that’s how things work, how you stay sane, whether that something is love, or the Cause, or whatever – ”But your evil, Elle, is a pointless and hollow one, no justification whatsoever. And since you’re not ready for the getting away with the usual sort, it’s going to be so much fun living with that”
Elliot clears her throat, draw a deep breath. ”I think you should know he’s putting up one hell of a fight. You should be proud. He’s…” – it pains her to admit it, and it’s not going to do any good saying it, but it’s real and true and just… has to be said. – ”He’s something.”
”Isn’t he?” Is that the ghost of a smile? It might be, and it makes sense, a sort of twisted pride tinged with the sadness of knowing that he’s never going to come anywhere close, never going to deserve having owned that even for a moment.
”I can tell why you love him…”
”… why he loves me is a bit more of a problem, right?”
Elliot shakes her head, smiles sadly. And with that she’s gone. It takes about five footsteps for her to shatter, and in that at least it seems they’re the same...
Why the hell do people pace?
Probably because it’s better than trying to sit still, because when you try to do that everything just builds up inside until you just have to move, even though you know the pacing doesn’t help any…
John’s had time to experiment with both since leaving the basement, and neither have done anything much. Burning things is better, as is punching the walls, but both draw far too much attention and neither can really make things stop hurting…
”Pyro, mate, you okay?”
… tearing apart the face behind those words won’t either, but it’ll feel so damn good he might stop caring about the ache for a moment or two. He freezes in his manic careering, back still to the door and the direction the faux-, but still annoyingly-chirpy voice is coming from, fists clenching.
”… Py?”
It’s more hesitant this time, as if she knows what he’s thinking (which, okay, she probably does…). The thumb topping the right first rolls back …Click-Fwoosh… and in the doorway Elliot tenses. Doesn’t cry out, or run, but he can still tell. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? So very easy, and then…
… it wouldn’t change anything.
”Fuck, Elliot, I’m not going to kill you” The spark dies, and her relief is as tangible as his raging agony, or agonized rage, or whatever (because they’ve yet to invent a word which can even begin to convey a small part of it). John’s voice is raw, and stretched, and at the same time rich with something vast and damp, the voice which comes when you’ve cried yourself drought-dry and railed until there’s nothing left and still haven’t quite forced out everything lingering inside… except that John’s skipped the first two stages as if he knows they won’t help, opting instead for silent and self-destructive, turning everything in. Which is where it would end up anyway, and where it belongs, everything being his fault… apart from the parts which are hers. ”We’ve got real bad guys to kill, after all. Can’t waste lighter fluid on a backstabbing bitch like you ‘til afterwards… though fuck, what’s to stop a tragic accident mid-battle? ”
”You don’t mean that”
She takes a step or two in, intending to draw close enough to pull off some mix of comforting and hey, this is me, and freezes again as he turns to face her. If looks could kill… Suffice to say his is venomous, and all the more terrifying because it’s infused with the harsh, brittle quality which only comes when you think you’ve nothing to lose. The look which means you’d do anything, anything, because consequences don’t matter any more.
”The hell I don’t… for a telepath you’re pretty fucking bad at reading people. But then again, that’s got more to do with you being an idiot…”
”P-John, I…”
He cuts her off ”or vindictive, I can’t decide. I’m hoping the first… No, the other one, actually. That way I don’t feel bad for hating you… why the hell are you here?”
”I..” she stammers ”I wanted to see if you were alright.”
”Then why check in in person. Why didn’t..” – he catches her look – ”Oh… Right… Is that why you told him?”
”John, I… what?”
”Simple question, Elle. Did you tell Magneto what you saw because what you saw in my head freaked you out? Because you couldn’t handle seeing a guy’s hand on my…”
”Okay, yes” she jumps in before he can complete the image, her discomfort obvious and deeply satisfying. ”And no. And… I can’t explain it. It’s not…”
”Spare me.” He turns back away from her, recommences the pacing until he gets to the wall and stops with a defeated sigh at how it’s still not solving anything. ” ‘you ever think how things would have turned out if I hadn’t picked you up?”
She nods, biting her lip for a moment before replying. ”If it’d been another road, if I’d picked someone else to psyche out… I guess everyone thinks about the what if’s, sure.”
”And where does thinking that take you?”
”I don’t know” Her voice is quiet, the please don’t hurt me voice she uses around Magneto only tinged with a little more sadness. She steps forward briefly, moving as if to offer some sort of hug, and then stopping dead – doesn’t take a psychic to pick up on the Fuck off vibe – with a sigh of her own, eyes downcast. ”I used to think… that it would be a bad thing, never having met you. Now I’m not so sure… The *You* it was back then…”
”He isn’t around any more.” He cuts her off again, harshly, no mourning for what was or what might have been, only the simple declaration that things aren’t like that now.
”I know…” Elliot pauses, turns as if she’s considering going, and stops. This is one of those *last chance* conversations after all, and dreamer that she is she can’t afford to let things go unsaid because somewhere deep inside she’s still hoping for that cinematic ending, however distant Happily Ever After now seems. ”You do that a lot, don’t you? Kill yourself. Over and over… One day you might find a model you like, right?”
”I thought I had one, sure. The *real* me. Something I could be happy with… But he only ever came out to play in the dark and besides, you’ve broken him now. So no, I’m not going to find a *me* I like. Not now.”
”You don’t…”
”You’ve been in my head. You know how I feel. Don’t fucking tell me none of it’s true just because you can’t get your head around it.” It’s the nearest to tears she’s ever seen him, and she knows that even if he won’t allow himself to cry in front of her the moment she leaves all hell will break loose... just as she *knows* what he’s saying is true.
”Of course it’s true, John. I don’t need to see inside your brain to see that. You…” – she’s wishing the next few words didn’t feel so much like defeat – ”You really love him.”
”You have no idea.”
”No… I don’t understand, but that’s not the same thing.”
”What’s to understand? What’s so fucking complicated about it? Maybe it’s not your sugar-coated fluffy hearts and flowers and doves, is that it? Well, newflash, kid. That’s the one that isn’t real. It’s just something they make up so they can sell it to you. Because no one would buy the reality. ‘Real’ love hurts like hell. That’s the truth of it, the great secret...”
”Then why do you…”
”You can’t ask me that. Not now. Not knowing what you know.”
Elliot sighs again, biting back her own tears because she knows it wouldn’t mean anything to him, just give him another reason to hate her, and knowing that makes it harder. ”I don’t understand. And I can’t pretend to like it…”
”I can’t pretend to give a fuck whether you like it or not.”
She bites her lip again, clears her head, continues. ”But I’m sorry. Really. I just wanted my dream come true”
Nothing more to be said. Elliot turns to go, and John snatches her wrist to stop her. She almost cries out, but bites that back too. ”That’s why you did this?”
She can’t answer.
”That’s why?” John’s more insistent now, becoming something nearer crazed with each repetition because he can’t believe it. ”That’s fucking why, Elliot?” She pauses, nods, a short sharp don’t hurt me gesture, and he lets her go and falls back, equal parts stunned and disgusted. She dashes to the door, getting out of range as quickly as possible, while he drops onto the bed, sat on the edge, head in hands.
”Can’t hate me for that, right?”
”Trust me Elliot, I can… though I don’t. Not now. Not knowing that you have to live with that, knowing what you destroyed because you were selfish and pathetic” – he hopes it’s a smaller version of what he’s feeling, though by rights it should be much larger, because what he did was for them, however fucked up the reasoning, while she’s only ever worried about her. The look he catches spreading across her features when he glances up doesn’t disappoint. – ”Not just what it’s doing to me, what it’s done to” – no, he’s not going to let this strangle him, not now, not for her – ”Bobby. You’ve seen what he’s doing down there. And it’s all your fault.”
”I’m sorry” she chokes out, somehow, a small childish squeak of a voice which would normally raise pity but her just sparks off disgust. ”I just…”
”Because the best part of all that is that I know my dream had a chance. One in a million, that. One. So there’s no room for yours, is there? Never would have worked. The rest of us can get away with all this, knowing it was for something” – and it’s true, because that’s how things work, how you stay sane, whether that something is love, or the Cause, or whatever – ”But your evil, Elle, is a pointless and hollow one, no justification whatsoever. And since you’re not ready for the getting away with the usual sort, it’s going to be so much fun living with that”
Elliot clears her throat, draw a deep breath. ”I think you should know he’s putting up one hell of a fight. You should be proud. He’s…” – it pains her to admit it, and it’s not going to do any good saying it, but it’s real and true and just… has to be said. – ”He’s something.”
”Isn’t he?” Is that the ghost of a smile? It might be, and it makes sense, a sort of twisted pride tinged with the sadness of knowing that he’s never going to come anywhere close, never going to deserve having owned that even for a moment.
”I can tell why you love him…”
”… why he loves me is a bit more of a problem, right?”
Elliot shakes her head, smiles sadly. And with that she’s gone. It takes about five footsteps for her to shatter, and in that at least it seems they’re the same...
