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Text her, I meant.

[she throws a smirk his way, a veiled reassurance, or it's trying to be one, and starts driving again.]

But it's fine. Sure. I don't mind waiting for whatever needs doing.

[would like to go in with him for whatever needs doing, but he'd probably hate it, carol thinks. she can bum a magazine from the waiting room and sit in the car, or something. whatever he wants is fine.

god, this is hard.]

[Badou grunts again, baited back into tense silence by the painful pricking in his face (and the pricking in his chest)]

[when they get to the LEU, he slams the car door again on the way out, taking off at a jog and not looking back]

[he's gone a good fourty-five minutes, and doesn't send any texts]

[in the end carol decided on stealing a book of crosswords from the bullpen, and she's currently on the third one (the first two given up in frustration halfway through).

it's hard to focus through the worry beating a tattoo against the inside of her skull (skull, ribcage, heart maybe), because it's taking a while, surely it shouldn't take this long, but every time she checks her phone it's hardly been any time at all.

she's got her sunglasses up in her hair and is scribbling an ugly, exaggeratedly pointy-toothed skrull in the margins when he's finally done.

when she straightens in her seat and looks over at the doors it's like a prairie dog poking up out of its hole.]

[eventually, the prairie dog will spot the stray; he shambles out considerably slower than how he went in, face extremely pale, even sicker looking with the bright new bandages on]

[his heart still feels like it's beating too fast, and he twitches roughly and looks at the sun as if he'd somehow forgotten about it, drawing his hat lower]

[the car door is yanked open without preamble, and he sits down with sneakers up on that nice, new seat, making it creak with small, almost unnoticeable tremors]

[it's a rough mutter]

...Go, already.

[before he puts both hands behind his head, elbows resting on his knees and squeezing in, creating a cage of his own limbs to sit in and try to breathe]

Edited 2013-08-05 13:21 (UTC)

[wordlessly, she caps her pen and tosses the book onto the passenger side floor, but carol doesn't go yet. because every time he can't breathe, every time she can see it anyway, her own lungs try to stopper up in sympathy.

there's nothing she can think of to say that won't make things shitty again (like always), and maybe this'll make things shitty too, but she can't just sit here and be useless when he looks like that.

so--

a hand settles on his back, between his shoulder blades over that shitty new-old coat he's dug up somewhere, rubbing gently once, twice, then stays there. easy to shrug off. expecting it.

carol keeps her eyes firmly on the steering wheel.]

Edited 2013-08-05 13:42 (UTC)

[and maybe for the first time, he doesn't flinch to her touch; he shudders under it, but not away]

[it seems like a sick, twisted joke, to have wrapped himself in his brother and then proceeded to go looking for him in all the wrong darknesses, like the shadow beneath that mound of bandages on his face and the pockets of this shitty fucking coat]

[he's not sure what he expected to find, other than pain and empty space; he's not sure how to cope with everyday atrocity and missing his brother like drowning]

[Dave sometimes initially forgot his birthdays; he burned cakes and he rarely had enough money for a good gift, but they were always together, one day where the city could wait for saving, and Badou got to have the full force of his brother's heart]

[it's jittered out, through rubber banded, snapwire jaws]

I'm, I'm h-hungry...

[he's always, always hungry; starving with famine, in more ways that just his body]

[what she really wants is to lean over the gearbox and pull him in and fucking hug him, like she would with any other stupid kid who was in and out of the hospital, stitched-up and bandaged-up and keyed-up so goddamn always. but the fact that he's allowing this much feels like a small victory, a step, at least to carol's mind, and that's good enough.

she rubs his back a couple more times, now, and squeezes the fabric of the jacket gently. an I've got you, somebody's here for you, even if it's not somebody you want. you're okay.]

Okay. All right. We'll go eat.

[and she starts the car one-handed, looks at him for a second.

swallows around everything that's caught up in her throat (worry fear anger anxiety, worthlessness, and that overwhelming affection for him that pricks her every time she tries to get near) and lets her hand fall away.]

Honeybee okay?

[later, he'll think on that touch to his back, and how the contact was dulled by the heavy, stupid coat. later, he'll think about how he still doesn't trust Carol, and wonder where and how she fits into the bullshit life he now has to live without him to trust instead]

[it's hard to understand a heart that spans that wide, a care that burrows that deep, when those kinds of things are relegated to such a rare and sharp commodities in the Underground]

[there's a ducking motion from the caged boy that seems affirmative enough; he won't speak another word, won't make another sound (another genetic defect -- Nails are loud and bothersome when content, silent and pliable when not)]

[content enough with that for now, carol drives, the LEU -- the clinic -- sinking fast out of sight behind them. it's gone now, he's done there, he's okay, and maybe if she keeps repeating it like that (he's okay he's okay he's okay) she can will it true, but she doubts it.

the ride is quiet from both ends, the boy stuck somewhere she can't reach him, and carol desperately wanting to reach anyway. one eye is on him the whole time, sometimes more, and it may be a dangerous way to drive for anyone else, but cheeseburger danvers has threaded a jet through a canyon-crack with heavy fire raining down on her. cars are instinct by now.

if only teenage boys came that easy to her, fluid and effortless and weightless like breathing.

through the gates, into the shopping district, pulling up outside the little café. she doesn't get out, checking first to make sure the kid is ready for this.

there'll be people inside. noise. carol will field it all for him if he needs.]

[like a lawn chair, the boy unfolds]

[and if Carol's expecting him to steel himself, or seek reassurance, or even take a breath, it never comes; he just pulls his hat down against that too-bright sun, and obnoxiously slams the door open as he always does]

[kicking it closed, however, he mumbles (still a bit hoarsely) over his shoulder]

...Ya wanna grab a table? I'll be there inna sec.

[her face broadcasts loud and clear that she wants to know why? but carol stops herself short, gives him what he asks for.]

Okay.

[and she starts inside, throwing idle smiles at the staff who greet her and making a beeline for the empty back corner, to wait.]

[there are a lot of options; he could kick in Honeybee's window, he could smash his fist against Carol's perfect car, he could run inside and growl the dirtiest fucking slur he knows at the biggest, dumbest looking guy in there]

[he could howl and scream and cry and shake and curse]

[and for once, he realises that none of it, not a god damn bit of it, would fix anything that feels broken. it wouldn't give him any answers. it wouldn't even make him feel better, and it would probably get him fired, or beaten up, or worst of all, cared for by kind strangers, and made to feel more isolated and defective than he already does]

[so he doesn't feel bad, knowing there's a lot worse things he could do, knowing that he's trying, when he digs into that awful coat and pulls out a worn pack of smokes and a black lighter]

[thunk goes the window pane, as the not-substantial-enough weight of him leans heavily against it]

[over the heads of the other customers, Carol might spy a mop of orange, and a plume of ash above it]

Edited 2013-08-06 09:38 (UTC)

[a mop of orange, a plume of ash, and a world of problems she doesn't know the half of; carol spots it all right, and she wants to run out there and yank it off him, shout you're only hurting yourself more with this, can you just stop?

the lecture can wait, though, for a day when he's okay and it won't feel like beating him down on top of everything else and he'll just ignore her anyway.

one of the workers brings her coffee, and she drinks it black, sugarless and bitter. she doesn't ask for one for badou because she doesn't even know if he drinks coffee, and is it weird, not knowing that, after she's lived with him all these weeks?

anytime you're ready, kid.]

[when he comes in, halfway through her coffee, his face is a little more slack around the eye and mouth, not brittle and sharp like bone (those jagged edges that constantly bruise Carol, every time she gets too close)]

[and although he's been working there for a week and a half already, he doesn't seem to really say hello to any of the workers, ordering a drink at the counter and joining Carol at the table]

[it's a tall mug of hot chocolate, loaded up with whipped cream, a biscotti shoved in it like a flag in the earth, the whole concoction stinking of sweet, sweet sugar -- and he tends to it methodically, if not with his usual vigour for consumables]

[the acrid stink of smoke lingers under the café smells of goods baking and coffee brewing and the ridiculous thing the kid's ordered, but to her credit carol doesn't mention it, or even wrinkle her nose.

what she does do is lean back in her seat, rolling her shoulders, visibly untensing.]

Need more sugar there? I think you're only a couple steps away from truly diabetic levels.

[she hides her smirk behind her coffee cup. it's gentle, though, and so is the comment; testing the waters.]

[the boy scowls over his mountain of whipped cream; normally, he'd be too embarrassed to order something like this in front of anyone (chocolate was such kid stuff), but today wasn't really a normal day (and he hadn't thought about it)]

Shut up.

[but (some of) the tension is easing out of those junkyard shoulders, too; if he closed his eyes, it could be a cafe at home, and it could be someone else making fun of his beverage choices]

[gulp]

Edited 2013-08-07 19:46 (UTC)

Haahh -- !

[too hot too hot too hot]

[a laugh bubbles up out of her before carol can help herself, all surprise and sunny relief.]

You're a spaz, kid. You're supposed to sip it.

[and she leans forward across the table, coffee spoon at the ready, moving in to try and snake a glob of whipped cream off his drink while he's distracted.]

[and that's achingly familiar, too (since he's always been a spa -- impatient, and susceptible to sneak attacks from those who were a little smoother, a little less obviously roughed around their edges)]

[he smacks after that spoon, misses, drags his wrist through his whipped cream instead]

...

[licks it, like a stupid dog]

[and goes back to sipping (sipping!) his hot, stupid kid's drink]

...Shut up.

[carol snorts indelicately at him, spoon in her mouth, feeling the world tilt a little further back onto its axis. for now, anyway.

the rush of sweetness is a little more than she was prepared for, and she drains her coffee after to wash it down.]

Gonna get something to eat too, there, cowboy? I could go for something.

[if badou is scoffing down food like a garbage disposal, all is right with the world, after all.]

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