jigokulogs | [SEMI-CLOSED] wretched and wild, all glory and trash.

[to her credit, Emily looks marginally less tired when Andy shows up. her people are home, the curse is broken, and she's keeping the new promotion under wraps for the time being. it means the clinic will have more money, and she thinks she can persuade someone in the Alliance to potentially set up enough assistance to at least give the volunteers a stipend. so she's in the middle of paperwork, and looks up from it all to give Andy a smile, an honest one to see her awake.]

I was wondering when you'd come back to us. It's wonderful to see you.

[and to see her intact. not in that hospital with others.]

[ Feels like it's been ages since she's seen Emily smile. It makes her pause a little before she finally answers with the usual wryness: ]

I was barely gone.

[ As if she'd gone out for a stroll. But Andy has to be allowed her little deflections. Though, maybe some part of her means that too — what's a few days to her anyway? She's almost seven thousand years old by now. And even mortal, she made it out of that cursed tower better than most of the others. Largely unscathed, by some miracle — and thankful. Her pride wouldn't have stood for troubling the doctor. Might have been preferable to bleed out in front of Kaigo no Bou.

Either way, it's done. More importantly: ]

Did you get a little sleep?

[ She lays her offerings out on the corner of Emily's desk before taking her own coffee, still black, into her hands. ]

I did, as it happens.

[hardly long enough, when the exhaustion has settled in , but at least it was comfortable and deep and she doesn't need to do anything where she'd doubt her fine motor skills. instead she pauses on the paperwork and takes her coffee, adding a bit of creamer and sugar to make it right. honestly, she does want one of the pastries, and the look that flashes over her features is considering it.]

Whatever comes next, we can handle it without the curse overhead. So, Andy, thank you for your bravery in going after it.

[she knows there were teams, but Andy is the one in front of her that she can personally thank for the efforts.]

[ She knows without being told that Emily couldn't have possibly slept enough to make up for how chronically overworked the woman is — but something is better than nothing, and their Emily is stubborn as hell when she wants to be, so Andy will take what she can get. ]

Guess I was just getting tired of washing the fucking blood rain out of my hair. [ Another little deflection — though that one's a bit more honest, especially considering that untamed mane that lives on Andy's hand. She doesn't seem much interested in the topic of bravery and heroics. Instead, she quietly counts the number of sugar packets and little creamer cups Emily adds to her coffee. ] Almost didn't recognize the damn city when I woke up.

[ Reaching out, she picks up one of the pastries and breaks it in half, holding out one piece for Emily. Not that she feels strongly about coffee shop pastry, but maybe the excuse of splitting one with her will make indulging a little easier. With a pointed glance at Emily's paperwork, she goes on wryly: ]

Now that you've slept, we'll have to work on getting you to take an actual day off.

[she takes the half with a quiet thanks, a small bite before she considers replying. half would be all right - it's not a holiday, so she can't go too far, but half now, and perhaps a half later. but the idea of a day off perplexes her, and that's written across her face.]

A day off would be nice, but that will have to wait. There's far too much to still do in the wake of all that's been happening - apparently, there's lingering cursed energy that keeps causing accidents. And my manager at the club wants to put on a special performance to draw business back now that they can actually open their doors, which there was no opportunity to decline.

[another little bite. true, she could quit the club, now that she's been promoted, but singing makes her happy. even if it's a different kind of work, she doesn't want to give it up.]

There's not enough hours in the day, unless I use them all.

[ It's not an answer that surprises her. At this point, she knows how Emily is with these things. The woman seems practically allergic to rest. Taking a bite of pastry, Andy lets Emily go uninterrupted as she lists all the various reasons why she couldn't possibly take a day off now.

Finally, with the usual wryness: ]

There's always going to be a crisis, Em. You'll always find excuses. But the world's not going to end if Emily Dyer looks away for a minute. [ She wags her pastry lightly in Emily's direction as she speaks. ] You could take your boys with you. Go on a fucking vacation or something before one of you gets fucked up again. Might regret not taking the time someday.

[she lets Andy speak, but the disbelief she feels is extremely obvious.]

You don't understand what it might take to get Majima to take a day off. I had to push to keep him in the clinic when he woke. Izo feels penitent for leaving us. And as for the rest...

[she exhales, trying to find a nice way to say it.]

You say the world won't end if I look away. I don't have much faith it won't. I'm well aware of what I contribute and how I keep things...stable. It's simply the wrong time to be thinking selfishly.

[ Honestly, it's probably not her business. Maybe she cares too much about it for someone who's on the periphery of it all. It's not as if she really understands what they have — Majima simply saying she could be family isn't the same as going through things together. Suffering together. She knows that. It's just — how else is she supposed to tell them that she gives a damn? That she worries? That she wishes it wasn't so goddamn hard all the fucking time?

The one that's selfish is her. Because it's painful to her — seeing them hurt. Seeing them worn and tired. Being powerless to change any of it. What was the point of her leaving them to fight in that fucking tower anyway? It came too late to save Majima. It didn't keep Izo home and safe. It's hardly done a thing to lift the burden off Emily's shoulders.

She looks away, her voice a little distant when she finally answers: ]

Okay. [ Simply: ] I'm sorry.

[she hears that, and it's like a shard of glass in her stomach, twisting hard. she's explaining this all wrong - but how is she supposed to do it, when it requires a deep understanding that she knows she's the lynchpin to a few key things, that her being there as a support was necessary even when she wanted to scream and cry and hit things, that she had to breathe and be calm and be a rock even when she feels eroded by everything around her. if she collapses, who will support Goro, Izo, Andy herself? who will stop Nishitani from bleeding out in some alleyway when he's near death? who will fix the lost causes, keep this place afloat so people have sanctuary without judgement, find ways of easing even what hangs heavy on the mind?

if she collapses, who will fix all the mistakes she made as ◼◼◼◼◼? atonement is hard, thankless work. this way of life is utterly without merit. she does not do this for thanks, for consideration, even as she takes an amount from gratitude. she does it because she has to, or she is nothing more than the lowest scum there is. there's no room for the self in that. even the people she loves don't understand that, because there is no way to express it without burdening them. and they carry so, so much, so much that pains them, tears at them, leaves gaping wounds that should be shielded-

oh, god. all of these thoughts, they cycle around herself. selfish, selfish woman. even in trying to deflect it, it's about her, isn't it. why does she keep doing this.

she doesn't realize she set the food down until she breathes, softly.]

You don't have anything to apologize for, Andy. I know you're saying it because you mean it. Because you care. Please don't think that's overlooked at all.

[she should be the one apologizing. the woman came in here after risking her life with nothing more than a friendly suggestion, and Emily's thrown it in her face as if it couldn't possibly be so.

even if that's the case, there's always a way to be better about it. stupid, stupid.]

Edited 2022-06-26 07:24 (UTC)

[ If they were capable of talking to each other about these things, Andy might be able to tell her that she understands a little — the awful burden of guilt, the impossible labor of seeking redemption. It's been centuries now. Millennia. She still can't let go of the things she's done — even if anyone she hurt back then is long dead, less than dust on the steppe. It won't ever be enough. She could fight another seven thousand years and it still wouldn't be.

But they don't talk. Not about that. Maybe Andy doesn't even know how to.

The silence drags out between them until Emily finally speaks. The words are the right ones — there's good intention there, an olive branch of a kind maybe. An effort to acknowledge and reassure. Somehow, Andy prefers when Emily had rebuked her. With an exhale, she sets her food down too, brushing her hands off with a subconscious impatience. ]

You don't have to say that shit to me. [ It's low and a little clipped when she answers. ] Maybe I didn't even mean it. Maybe I'm just tired of having the same fucking argument with you when I know you're just going to work yourself to death anyway.

[ Is that the truth? Or is she just being cruel because she doesn't know how else to be when she has these kinds of feelings? ]

Sometimes I don't know what the point of me giving a damn about you even is.

...I never asked you to in the first place.

[the tone that comes from her is soft, but has a scalpel's edge. bitter as black coffee, sharp and piercing, brittle as bones. she is tired, and everything adds up little by little.

it shouldn't come out. but this is a crack in the dam of everything she was holding for weeks upon weeks. terror and fear and sorrow and sleepless nights, nightmares where there is no rest to be found. she hurts, and she knows it needs to end, and she can't find the exit, the relief. just a needle to heal herself, the same bruises, pressed into over and over.]

Do you think this is fun for me? Do you think I take great personal joy in it? Do you think I do it for accolades? I am not some martyr rejoicing in what occurs - I do this because I have to. You do not understand, and you could not, even if I explained it. Everything I do, I do because I have to. And you speak like I have some degree of a choice about it. As if I wanted it.

[it chokes her, fills her, ruins her, it's weapons left in her flesh and the endless sound of rain, it's the most repulsive hunger and wishing she could tear herself to pieces, it's wanting to disappear like the others did if only so that people stop asking, for just a moment. she has nothing, and she still gives more.]

Do not speak to me like you understand me. If you do not mean what you say, then do not voice it at all, and save yourself the trouble. I did not ask you to be kind to me, to waste your breath and your time and your arguments.

[if she's trembling, it's from the force required to not raise her voice. to not scream and tear at herself because she hates it, hates it, hates herself so much right now that she'd dash herself to pieces if she could just punish herself for this.

reach out and hit her, hurt her. scare her. do something, anything, make her actually suffer. she wants it - she needs it. it was so much easier when she could die every day if she chose. do something, because she's in agony, and wants to cut her own throat for saying this. for breathing a word of it. for letting anything show.]

[ It would probably be easier if they were shouting at each other. But neither of them has the energy — they stayed, they fought, they tried so fucking hard — and these sharp little cuts hurt worse. Fresh wounds over the old ones. All that shit that hasn't ever really healed. Andy isn't even sure if it's really about Emily — or about something else, something buried that rears its head because she's worn to the bone and doesn't know how to show other people that she cares anymore.

She hates that she's like this. But in the moment, she doesn't bother to try and stop herself either. It's too late. It's already been broken open. And maybe some part of her can resist the chance to self-sabotage — because she is selfish, she is cruel, and she loves to use that against herself more than anyone. ]

Fine. I don't fucking understand you. I barely even know you. [ She bites back, baring her teeth on the words. ] You didn't ask me to give you anything, and it's my own fucking fault that I wanted to anyway. Even though I knew better. Even though I knew you didn't fucking need it.

[ She doesn't have to raise her voice to be aggressive. It's in her body language. The frustration and self-loathing. Love and hate. Regret and desire. The tension it creates in the line of her posture, emphasizing the natural severity of her face. ]

Maybe that's what I'm sorry for. I'm sorry that I thought it fucking meant something when you called for me — when you used my name. [ Andromache. Nobody's said it like she does in so, so long. ] I'm sorry I thought that meant I was allowed to care. I'm sorry, and I'll stop.

[ Liar. ]

[she takes the words head on - she doesn't stand, doesn't walk away. she takes them as someone might face down the firing squad, feels herself as a ghost watching this whole thing from outside.

(feeding her past selves into an incinerator. wire around her wrists, forcing her to dance. that endless nothing that had wanted to tear her apart. the city utterly desolate and dead, devoid of life. what is another way to die?)

she wishes Andy would scream at her. she wishes the woman would use her strength, throw her desk, get in her face. terrify her. remind her that she doesn't belong here, that she's weak. remind her that this is what she's good for. hate her, because she earned it.

her expression is unreadable, carefully held in reserve, as if to show more emotion would strike her dead. it's only in her eyes how they flicker between a thousand things, in how she holds her hands on her lap so tight.

Andromache. no. she has no right to say that name. not now, not ever again.]

If that's how you feel, then please leave. I have to finish working myself to death, and I cannot do such in your presence.

[the words feel like bile in her throat.]

[ If only it were hate. Hate is easy. Andy knows what to do with hate. Look at her — look at the violence that so obviously lives underneath her skin, how naturally the instinct to harm rises in her body when her emotions are in her throat. She's torn men apart with her bare hands. She's killed over things that hurt her less than this. But it's not hate, is it. It's a different kind of tension. The violence inherent here comes from the sweet fucking agony of giving a damn.

She should leave. She doesn't belong here. She never did, and there was a point when she didn't fucking want to — when did that change? Why did she let it? Why is she always so willfully stupid — as if trying one more time will somehow make it different than the hundred times before.

There's no real answer to any of it. And maybe it doesn't matter. Because nothing changes. Seven thousand years, and here she is again, fucking up the same way she has for centuries. She won't stop. She can't. She doesn't know how. It's only a shame that she's made it Emily's burden to bear this time. She can see what she's done — she can see it in how Emily clenches her hands in her lap. She can see it in her eyes.

Even Andy isn't sure what she means to do when she closes distance between them. Her hands end up on either arm of Emily's chair, gripping there tight. She leans down, the weight of her attention so intense that it seems possible she's killed with her stare as easily as any weapon. ]

Is that what you want? [ Lowly: ] Are you telling me to leave, or leave?

[if only those hands were around her neck, it would be easier. there's an acceptance that comes in when you know you're going to die, that no one can save you, a surrender that takes over. it feels like something similar here. she knows Andy won't kill her, but

don't ask her what she wants, because she wants far too much. she wants things to be quiet. wants to stop thinking, to stop having to make decisions for a while. wants to seal up the wounds on everyone she loves so they stop bleeding out in front of her and they aren't in pain. wants to sleep for a week straight. wants to want nothing at all, so she can keep pushing, keep going, keep running and running and running and -

stop looking at her like that. like you can see her. she has to run away, but there's nowhere to run to. that gaze pins her down so that she can't even flinch. there's no air in the room, and this is familiar - crisis, again.

so why isn't she afraid? or maybe she is, and it's so familiar that she barely registers it coming back anymore.]

If you've decided to not care about me, then there's no reason for you to stay. It'd be better for your own sake then, to leave.

[leave her. she wants to work until she bleeds from it, because that makes sense. it's what's needed. she's got to.]

Edited 2022-06-27 08:11 (UTC)

[ It would probably be a mercy if she did leave. A mercy for both of them. Then all of this could just stop, and they could lick their wounds. Andy could take the excuse to stop trying so hard — to at least pretend like she doesn't care about what happens to this woman. But she's never been as good at pretending as she'd like to be. And even if she wanted to stop giving a damn, it's probably too late for that now.

She's always known — caring is a kind of cruelty. A double-edged sword. And caring about someone means you're willing to let them maim you with that fucking blade. ]

That's not what I asked you.

[ When she leans in, the weight of her stare only intensifies with their closeness. ]

Is that what you want?

[she's too close, and she doesn't have the mercy of turning and hiding her face. there's nowhere she can deflect and get away, and she feels it as a peculiar sort of agony. wanting to scream, and smothering it behind her lungs. do something, anything, before the hairline cracks in her amount to something, before she can't stem the bleeding.]

...I...

[so soft. weak. pathetic, just disgustingly so. a coward who can't even finish the job before her, since she already let something out.]

...I don't know what I want.

[it's as if Andy cracked open her chest and fit her hand around her heart, fluttering and fragile. there are so many ways to crush it. to leave her defeated, broken, with new scars. go on, hate her, for being a pitiful thing.

but it's true. she doesn't know. she doesn't even know if she's allowed to want something right now. she doesn't know, and a hint to all of this inner torment is probably in her face, her eyes. Andy has her exposed, and can be satisfied knowing that she's right about it all. this cannot be sustained.]

[ It's not that Andy is incapable of cruelty. No, cruelty and tenderness live entwined together inside her, each in equal measures — and maybe in a different mood, with a deeper wound, she'd be willing to crush that fragile heart in her hand. Maybe she'd even want to, damn the regret and guilt. But not now. Not when Emily sounds like that, her voice so small that it seems barely there at all when she makes that painfully vulnerable confession.

How could she possibly bring herself to hurt someone who sounds like that?

A heavy sigh swells at her chest. Her grip loosens a little on the arms of that chair as she crouches down in front of Emily, looking up at her with those dark eyes, deep and knowing. It doesn't take much force with these things when someone is already laid so bare. She doesn't have to shout or threaten or push. ]

Do you really not know? [ She asks, her stare unwavering. ] Or do you just feel too guilty to say it?

[ Close as they already are, she only has to lean in a little to bring them nearly face to face. ]

Tell me to leave. Or ask me to stay.

[brown eyes meet hers, and Emily feels cut open, a living dissection subject, the air so painfully cold. she wants and she does not want, she feels and she cannot feel, it's her own hands feeding herself into the fire. the storm never ended, it just carried on inside her head. it's always there, it's engraved in every corpse she left. it's a madwoman's keening like the banshee on the moors, unable to bring herself to stop because there is too, too much inside of her to close the door when perhaps she should.

how do you want, when you've mastered crushing desire into dust under your heel? she can't bear to have her here, leaving her open to the elements. she cannot make herself command her away, because she doesn't know if she wants to be alone.]

I don't know...I don't.

[and as she breaks eye contact to try to breathe, Andy will probably understand the emotion that grips her, bends her posture, twists her expression. shame, coursing through her like so many strings pulled taut. shame, that someone sees this. someone she's supposed to be protecting, nurturing, shielding from this. that's her role, to let them brace themselves on her, a foundation when they crumple.

even as she wants to shrink, to disappear, she manages one thing. to move her hand, and place it over one of Andy's on the arm of the chair. every part of her is tense, but it's not trying to remove her. it's the desperate reaching out of someone trying to find a lifeline, to not drown by. breathing, stuttered in the tell-tale way of someone trying not to cry, to not panic.

she looks up at her, and has to look away again, unable to bear it. she'll weep, if she has to face that piercing gaze for too long. tries to speak, cannot. tries again, and her voice is a whisper, at risk of disappearing.]

...help me, Andy, please.

[if she was asked what she meant, she wouldn't know how to answer.]

[ It's the tender agony of being seen by another person. Andy knows it — and sometimes she's hated it more than anything. Sometimes she could barely stand it, almost preferring to flay herself out of her own skin that to be vulnerable in front of another person. But then there were other times. Times when being perceived in all her terrible, broken glory is the only thing that kept her desperate loneliness at bay. The only thing that made her feel real. Solid. It gave her something to hold, to save her from drowning.

She doesn't know which it is for Emily. But maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe there's a lot that doesn't matter when Emily puts her hand over Andy's. The world becomes very small, just then. Anchored to that one spot of contact. And when she whispers out that fragile plea, it feels for a moment like there's nothing she wouldn't do to answer it. To help.

Centuries, she's been like this. Sentimental. Weak to the whims of her heart. How could she possibly leave now? How could she ever stop caring? ]

Em...

[ It's a low murmur. Those piercing eyes now hide beneath half-lowered lashes, softening her gaze as she reaches with her other hand to gently nudge Emily under her chin — coaxing her ever so carefully to look at her. ]

I want to. I've always wanted to.

[she looks, and her eyes are full of tears - she's exhausted and ashamed and feeling like something bad is going to happen if she lets go, admits she wants to go home and cry her eyes out, until she can sleep without feeling crushed by iron bars and pressure. but she can't. she can't because there is so much still to do, and she has to be strong even if it hurts so, so much.

she has to do something? but what? what happens now? what has to give, right now, so she can keep breathing?]

What do I do?

[this is how she can help her. tell her what to do. tell her to finish her work for the day, and she will. tell her to keep going. to smile. to pretend this never happened.]

[ There's never a right answer to these things. Sometimes human effort is futile no matter how much of it is given — and sometimes there's always going to be something that falls between the cracks no matter what choice you make. Andy doesn't know what the right thing is — whether it's better for Emily to sacrifice herself for the good of everyone else, or if everyone else should be told to fuck the hell off so Emily can get a moment of peace and quiet — but she knows which one she selfishly wants.

Who knows if Emily would even listen to her. They've fought about this same thing enough times. And the rotting gods know they've both said plenty to each other this time.

It's not a solution. It doesn't fix anything — but maybe it can be a fleeting distraction, something to keep Emily's thoughts from wandering too far. There's only a scant few inches between their faces anyway, and it's not as if Andy's ever really needed the excuse to kiss her. She only has to lean forward a little from where she crouches in front of that chair, tilting her head just so their mouths fit together in a kiss a little more urgent than the ones they've shared before. ]

[it's contact, it's kindness, and because it doesn't hurt it hangs so oddly on her. she was expecting something stronger, something to prop her up until later. an order, a direction. not this - not this sweetness that burns like disinfectant on a gunshot wound. it hurts in how it doesn't hurt, and even as she responds, wants to desperately hold on, the tears silently escape her eyes and fall, too too much inside of her to not leak out of the cracks somehow.

she's still holding on, uncertain of what to do next.]

[ There's things that her touch communicates better than her words. Andy isn't always eloquent — she's rough around the edges, a creature of curses and blasphemy, and sometimes the dozens of languages she knows all manage to fail her. But there's a surprising tenderness to the way she kisses Emily's face, her lips pressing gently to those salty cheeks, catching those tears as they tumble down. She's sorry it hurts. She's sorry that Emily is so tired. And she's sorry there's so little she can do about it.

She can offer this distraction though. A moment of comfort. And acknowledgement. Even if that doesn't make the problems go away. Or even make up for the cruel things she said before this. Still, it feels sincere when she finally speaks again, her voice a low murmur as she lingers close: ]

I do care about you, Em. I do.

[she weeps, and it's obvious she's trying not to, that the tears fall anyway. the desperate scrambling of someone trying to pick up the pieces while they slip out of their hands, trying and trying to remain calm, trying to collect something of her dignity before it's all washed away by her own crying.]

It'd be easier if you didn't.

[whispered to her, the words choked and strangled by the emotion she wants to wrest back into its box. stop. stop. why won't it stop? if Andy could only order her to, could say something sharp again, she could recover. someone could come in - someone could see her, and it scares her.]

[SEMI-CLOSED] wretched and wild, all glory and trash.

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