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

[ 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.]

[ But she's not here because it's convenient, is she? If that's what she wanted, she would have rejected Majima outright that day he came to her place and offered her somewhere to belong. People to care about. She knows better — it's a lesson she should have learned a hundred times by now — because caring has always been painful for her. It's painful now. How could it not be? How could she watch Emily cry and not feel that ache in her chest?

Andy lingers close, finally withdrawing her hands from the arms of the chair to reach for Emily, sighing quietly as she coaxes the other woman towards her, into her embrace, offering her shoulder as a place for her to bury her face. ]

Don't fucking need it to be easy.

[she can likely feel the way Emily trembles with the force of trying to hold everything back, every muscle and nerve drawn to their limit, but she's hidden in Andy's embrace, and it's comforting to cling on. like this, she just feels like Emily, and she doesn't know what to do with that. she wants a dozen things, and nothing. she wants to scream, and to be silent. it's dizzying, confusing, and she can only just try to breathe, to breathe.

she is breathing, though. the scent of Andy's clothes, the comforting darkness and warmth. calm, calm. she's not crying as much as she would if she let it go, her feelings are in a white knuckled grip, but she's packing them away again. sweeping up the broken pieces, folding away what remains in a trunk.

she'll be okay in a moment. as okay as she can get for the rest of the day, really.]

[ There’s no hurry. Andy’s embrace is as strong and solid as she is - and it doesn’t waver. Maybe she’s always struggled to acknowledge her desire for this kind of closeness - her love and her affection are things not so easily verbalized - but underneath the rough and profane exterior is a terribly tender creature, and to hold Emily like this feels more natural to her than anything.

Her nose nudges lightly against Emily’s temple as she tucks the other woman against herself, her voice a low murmur when she tries again - one last attempt to give their good doctor some small, temporary reprieve: ]

Let me take you home. Let me just take care of you a little while.

[ If only for one day. One night. ]

[it's that tenderness that breaks her again, knocks all of what she had out onto the floor, leaves her wetting the front of Andy's shirt with tears.

it's all she can do to give one nod, a surrender instead of protesting further. she has no more fight left in her. she has nothing else. all she can do now is trust Andy to take her home.]

[ Andy can feel that little nod against her chest more than she can see it — but that's enough. It's permission. She's allowed to care — to act with a bit of tenderness. Her hands may be keen when it comes to acts of violence, but they're surprisingly gentle for Emily, holding her for another minute or two before she starts carefully pulling back. Just enough so that they can look at each other. ]

Come here. Let's get you home. [ Her hands find Emily's wrists now, urging her to stand — to lean on Andy. Her voice is low, her wryness both a warm and a bit rueful when she goes on: ] I'll carry you the whole fucking way, if I have to.

[she stands, pausing to grab a tissue and dab at her eyes along with her bag. what she would do for some illusions right now, so no one can see the evidence of her tears. instead, she can just wipe away tears, the mascara that's smeared, trying for a semblance of dignity.

what is she going to say, when they pass out there to leave? what will she do, terrified that someone will see this lapse in herself? she doesn't know, but she reaches back for Andy.

tell me what to do.

if the front desk is smart, they will never mention it in their lives. if Emily has to be guided out, half hiding her face, no one should say anything.]

[ Breaks her heart a little, seeing Emily try to compose herself like that. Andy knows it's because it matters to her — to be strong where people can see her. To hide the fact that she's struggling. It must have taken a lot for her to show even this much vulnerability to someone else. Especially someone like Andy, who only met her two months ago — still a mystery, despite all the ways that they've become close. ]

Wait here a minute.

[ It feels a bit strange to pull away now, to separate from Emily after everything that's happened — but it'll only be a moment that she's gone, slipping out the door for a few minutes before she's back again, gesturing from the doorway for Emily to follow her. Outside, the hall and reception area are temporarily empty — who knows what Andy said to the volunteers, or what silly errand she invented for them, but for the moment, the coast is clear. She can guide Emily out, her hand on the other woman's opposite shoulder, keeping her close and shielded as they leave the clinic behind for the day.

If Emily wants to talk on the walk to her apartment, then Andy's willing to talk — but she's content all the same to walk in silence. It's all details, and nothing so important as getting Emily home. ]

[heaven knows what Andy said to them to get them to leave. heaven knows how agonized she feels over having to leave before she's supposed to, a desertion of duty. but if she stays, she'll collapse - this is fact, and she has to avoid it. she sticks close, as if using Andy for protection, not saying anything, just being near and keeping her face away from others. no one notices her when she shrinks into herself. unobtrusive, exactly as she wants it.

it's only when they're before her door, and she has to unlock it, that she speaks again.]

I'm so sorry to put this on you.

[let her apologize. let her walk in, put her bag up, do all the necessary things she has to do in order to feel in control. which really amounts to her sinking to her floor in what the general room is, on the floor pillows and with her head propped up on her elbows. honestly, she's scared to admit how tired she is. if she sleeps - if Andy stays, like this, there's no way she's not going to have nightmares.]

[ Andy lets Emily say and do what she needs to. Under different circumstances, maybe she'd argue against the apology — it's not as if she didn't choose this. She could've walked away any number of times. Their ugly fight would have been enough of an excuse. But instead, here she is, back in Emily's apartment again. She toes her boots off at the door, shrugging her jacket off and hanging it up before coming to join the other woman on the floor.

For a moment or two, she just lets the space and the quiet exist between them. Then, finally, she sinks down on the pillows too, feeling her own tiredness creep up on her. She lays at Emily's back, shifting just a little so that her forehead just barely presses between Emily's shoulder blades.

Finally, quietly: ]

Let me hold you?

...Yes.

[and the moment she does, Andy will feel Emily not so much relax into her as collapse, like taut strings were cut. she wants to cry again, out of stress and shame, gnawing at the edges of her being, that say she's asking too much of Andy. who's checked in on her? after whatever horrors that tower held? who's looking to Andy now?

it's easier to think about this than her own wretched state, to admit she's gone too far, that the precipice she's on is crumbling beneath her. it's too galling to say more, but for now....she does want to be held.]

[ It's easier than it really should be, wrapping her arms around Emily's middle and tugging her just a little closer. Andy's always been a sentimental creature — she was made for holding someone else, for fitting another person's body against her own. She folds Emily in to her chest, her heart steady and strong underneath her ribs, beating in the same rhythm that it has for thousands of years. Maybe there's something reassuring about that. She's solid and warm. The tide of her breath is just barely tangible against the nape of Emily's neck, her nose nudging gently at the fine baby hairs there.

Finally, low and quiet: ]

It'll be alright. I've got you.

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

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