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aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
dondarrion) wrote in aviary2012-08-12 02:44 am
Entry tags:
CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN
 |
prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog. |
[ It's half past three in the morning when she comes for him, bad arm wrapped tight in the sleeve of her sweatshirt and pressed hard against her chest, cradled. There's blood, a lot of it really, but the fact that it's raining helps, most of it washed away or seeped through the fabric and made to bleed evenly, the pre-dawn light making it look like Polly's wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt, not that she's slowly bleeding out by degrees.
She considers breaking in through his bedroom window (wouldn't be the first time she's had to force her way inside to get to somebody) but in the end she figures better safe than sorry and simply knocks, pale knuckles wrapping sharp upon the door, the whole of her shaking as she leaves a small, pink puddle of rainwater spattered onto the floor around her. ]
She considers breaking in through his bedroom window (wouldn't be the first time she's had to force her way inside to get to somebody) but in the end she figures better safe than sorry and simply knocks, pale knuckles wrapping sharp upon the door, the whole of her shaking as she leaves a small, pink puddle of rainwater spattered onto the floor around her. ]
[ It's half past three in the morning, which means he's been asleep for about an hour, having stayed up drinking and watching quiz shows on the telly. Still, there's the sound of movement behind the door (he pulls on a pair of sweatpants before shuffling through the apartment, and, at length: ]
Fuckin' Christ.
[ Then, the jangling of a chain and the click of the lock, and the door swings open. Whatever sleep had hung to his frame is gone in an instant, replaced by a disoriented sort of panic. He's no stranger to the sight of blood, but even by her standards, this doesn't look good. Almost immediately, he steps aside to allow her in. ]
What the fuck happened t' you?
Fuckin' Christ.
[ Then, the jangling of a chain and the click of the lock, and the door swings open. Whatever sleep had hung to his frame is gone in an instant, replaced by a disoriented sort of panic. He's no stranger to the sight of blood, but even by her standards, this doesn't look good. Almost immediately, he steps aside to allow her in. ]
What the fuck happened t' you?
[ She looks like a half-drowned rat on his doorstep — all that platinum blonde gone dirty with muck (is that blood), roots showing and face pale, her cheeks more sunken than usual. There's a drawn, desperate quality to Polly's expression, the likes of which Barry's never seen on her before. If he's amazed, if it's struck or compelled, he'd better get a good long look now because this may be the only time he gets to see it.
Her brow — so often pressed down low over her eyes in a sneer — lifts when Barry opens the door and it makes Polly look young and relieved but also frightened. (Another sentiment he's never seen before.) One hand twitches anxiously around the bloodied sleeve of her arm and then Polly comes inside, leaving a small trail of puddles and bloodspatter in her wake.
The first thing she does is kiss him, long but somehow meager, her mouth pinched in wince against his, teeth nipping from behind other teeth. ] Bit off more'n I could fuckin' chew, [ Polly mutters and then kisses him again (more briefly this time) before moving off into the kitchen to open drawers and shut cupboards, muttering needle, thread; needle, thread to herself the entire time. ]
Her brow — so often pressed down low over her eyes in a sneer — lifts when Barry opens the door and it makes Polly look young and relieved but also frightened. (Another sentiment he's never seen before.) One hand twitches anxiously around the bloodied sleeve of her arm and then Polly comes inside, leaving a small trail of puddles and bloodspatter in her wake.
The first thing she does is kiss him, long but somehow meager, her mouth pinched in wince against his, teeth nipping from behind other teeth. ] Bit off more'n I could fuckin' chew, [ Polly mutters and then kisses him again (more briefly this time) before moving off into the kitchen to open drawers and shut cupboards, muttering needle, thread; needle, thread to herself the entire time. ]
[ It says something about how much Barry cares about her (and that he cares at all) that he doesn't crow. Anyone else, any other time, he'd have made fun. But he just goes pale (young), teeth biting down on the inside of his lower lip. He's never seen that expression on her face before and he never wants to see it again. (Nobody messes with Polly Q. Do they?)
There's no real rhyme or reason to the way that things are set up in his apartment, so it's Barry who retrieves a needle and thread (part of a pack of a numerous other things, some of which are missing from the small box), calling, ] Oy, Polly, [ before offering the whole kit and caboodle over to her. ]
Anythin' else y' need?
[ His first aid experience, needless to say, is somewhat limited. ]
There's no real rhyme or reason to the way that things are set up in his apartment, so it's Barry who retrieves a needle and thread (part of a pack of a numerous other things, some of which are missing from the small box), calling, ] Oy, Polly, [ before offering the whole kit and caboodle over to her. ]
Anythin' else y' need?
[ His first aid experience, needless to say, is somewhat limited. ]
Edited 2012-08-25 06:35 (UTC)
[ Here's a secret. In the big wide world Polly Q might be a big dog with a mouth full of teeth, but back on Cartazonos soil she's nobody important — a bitch among bitches, not too high but not too low. Just far enough on the ladder to skate by without getting fucked by the wrong people, but nowhere near respected. (Respect isn't part of Sparrows' code. Violence, coercion, humiliation, domination. Polly's classmates deal with a lot of different decks but respect doesn't factor into any of them.)
Barry offers the first aid kit and she's trying to pry it open with her good hand when she looks up, her expression odd again (hesitant, unsure). He asks her if she needs anything else and the only thing she could answer beyond the last five hours of my life back is a wavering: ] —you?
[ (It dips up at the very end, like she's not even sure it's the right answer.)
A moment passes, then two, then Polly's turning away, hunching her shoulders up near her ears, trying to coverup all of that self-consciousness with a posture that aims for tough but just lands somewhere near defensive. ]
Listen, I got it covered, [ she mutters and it's so obviously bullshit, the way her fingers still try to pry at the metal lid to the tin. But Polly's proud, just as proud as Barry, and the last thing she means to do is fuck this up, even when the rest of the world's gone sideways. ] Just— just sit tight.
Barry offers the first aid kit and she's trying to pry it open with her good hand when she looks up, her expression odd again (hesitant, unsure). He asks her if she needs anything else and the only thing she could answer beyond the last five hours of my life back is a wavering: ] —you?
[ (It dips up at the very end, like she's not even sure it's the right answer.)
A moment passes, then two, then Polly's turning away, hunching her shoulders up near her ears, trying to coverup all of that self-consciousness with a posture that aims for tough but just lands somewhere near defensive. ]
Listen, I got it covered, [ she mutters and it's so obviously bullshit, the way her fingers still try to pry at the metal lid to the tin. But Polly's proud, just as proud as Barry, and the last thing she means to do is fuck this up, even when the rest of the world's gone sideways. ] Just— just sit tight.
[ You, she says, and it's the first time in his life that anyone's expressed that kind of sentiment. (Nobody gives a shit about kids like Barry Weiss, too hopped up on pure living for the teachers to try to slow them down, nothing waiting back at home and nothing to their names save what they manage to snatch and steal. Nobody gives a shit about kids like them and nobody gives a shit about them when they grow up, either.) He doesn't manage to answer ('m yours, Polly, always have been) before she speaks again, his brow soon pinching when he hears what else she has to say. ]
Not on y' fuckin' life.
[ He reaches into the circle of her arms, not hard enough to really bump into her — to worsen the damage — but firmly enough that he manages to pop the tin open before pulling (or being pushed) away. The nasty pitch to his voice is gone, replaced by something clearer (something that hints he's much smarter than people usually give him credit for). ]
You need t' get to a hospital, Polly. I can't— I d'know how t' stitch you up.
Not on y' fuckin' life.
[ He reaches into the circle of her arms, not hard enough to really bump into her — to worsen the damage — but firmly enough that he manages to pop the tin open before pulling (or being pushed) away. The nasty pitch to his voice is gone, replaced by something clearer (something that hints he's much smarter than people usually give him credit for). ]
You need t' get to a hospital, Polly. I can't— I d'know how t' stitch you up.
I said I got it fuckin' covered, [ she snaps, the words a messy tumble out of her mouth, her whole body turning to shoulder him aside as she spills the contents of the newly-opened tin out onto the table in front of her. It's wet everywhere, rain and watered-down blood, and with her free hand, Polly rummages through blister packets and handi-wipe napkins, alcohol salves and medical tape and gauze, lots of gauze. (She pushes it aside, apart from the rest.)
Two seconds ago she'd been confessing I just need you and now she's as good as driving him out with a glare over his shoulder but even with the adrenaline pumping and her nerves singing with both anxiety and pain, Polly knows which of these reactions is the right one and which is just fear sharpening all of her edges in the hopes that Barry gets snagged. ] Don't look a'me, [ she says, when she catches him watching a short distance behind. ] What're you, fuckin' goddamn deaf—
[ Her whole body tenses and then shudders as she tries to wriggle herself free from her shirt. ] Y'can't do it, Barry, and there's no friggin' way— I ain't goin' to a hospital, just—
[ Get out. Leave. Go away. But that's not what she wants. Not really. ]
I need some alcohol, okay? Can y'get some? Just leave it over there an'— [ A hiss, bitten back. ] —just leave it, an' don't fuckin' look a'me.
Two seconds ago she'd been confessing I just need you and now she's as good as driving him out with a glare over his shoulder but even with the adrenaline pumping and her nerves singing with both anxiety and pain, Polly knows which of these reactions is the right one and which is just fear sharpening all of her edges in the hopes that Barry gets snagged. ] Don't look a'me, [ she says, when she catches him watching a short distance behind. ] What're you, fuckin' goddamn deaf—
[ Her whole body tenses and then shudders as she tries to wriggle herself free from her shirt. ] Y'can't do it, Barry, and there's no friggin' way— I ain't goin' to a hospital, just—
[ Get out. Leave. Go away. But that's not what she wants. Not really. ]
I need some alcohol, okay? Can y'get some? Just leave it over there an'— [ A hiss, bitten back. ] —just leave it, an' don't fuckin' look a'me.
Yeah.
[ A beat. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He doesn't look. He keeps his head low, like he's afraid of getting snapped at again. (Usually, he gives as good as he gets. But then again, usually doesn't involve her bleeding all over the floor.) There're two dulls thumps as he sets down a half-empty bottle of vodka and a tube of Neosporin down on the table before turning away, shuffling off into the next room.
Finding his duffel bag isn't hard — there's not much in the apartment, and it's more often used than some of the rest of the stuff. (All things told, he doesn't suspect that they're going to be staying all that long — and she doesn't have a choice, this time; wherever she's going, he's coming with her. Whatever'd gotten her had gotten her bad, and if it's something she can't handle, he knows he doesn't stand a chance. And so, as quietly as he can, he starts throwing things into the open mouth of the bag, though the effort is half-hearted at best, his ears pricked for any noise from her. ]
[ A beat. ]
Yeah, sure.
[ He doesn't look. He keeps his head low, like he's afraid of getting snapped at again. (Usually, he gives as good as he gets. But then again, usually doesn't involve her bleeding all over the floor.) There're two dulls thumps as he sets down a half-empty bottle of vodka and a tube of Neosporin down on the table before turning away, shuffling off into the next room.
Finding his duffel bag isn't hard — there's not much in the apartment, and it's more often used than some of the rest of the stuff. (All things told, he doesn't suspect that they're going to be staying all that long — and she doesn't have a choice, this time; wherever she's going, he's coming with her. Whatever'd gotten her had gotten her bad, and if it's something she can't handle, he knows he doesn't stand a chance. And so, as quietly as he can, he starts throwing things into the open mouth of the bag, though the effort is half-hearted at best, his ears pricked for any noise from her. ]
[ She doesn't want to be alone — she never has, but it's always been in the cards — but Polly knows an ugly sight when she sees one and the mess wrapped up tight in the sleeve of her shirt is some of the messiest shit she's seen in a long while. A hiss and then a cough not entirely unlike a laugh, like even she's startled to see it again once she's gotten the sweatshirt off and it falls to the ground with a wet plop. All raw meat and thank god no bone, but ragged, splintered broken teeth running up and down the tear in her in skin, trying to keep it together like so many stitches.
She actually cries when she touches it, the tears rising hot and unwanted in her eyes, bringing bile up in the back of her throat with it which she swigs out with a bit of vodka and spits up into the kitchen sink. She cries when she tries to sew it up too, tries to push those teeth back into her own flesh, the stitches lopsided and too deep in places, the skin still splitting, more teeth filling in the gaps.
Sad, pathetic, strained noises filter in from the kitchen, obscured by the sound of rain and punctuated by the occasional bang of Polly's fist upon the counter.
(Suck it up, Quinn. No pussyfooting around.) ]
She actually cries when she touches it, the tears rising hot and unwanted in her eyes, bringing bile up in the back of her throat with it which she swigs out with a bit of vodka and spits up into the kitchen sink. She cries when she tries to sew it up too, tries to push those teeth back into her own flesh, the stitches lopsided and too deep in places, the skin still splitting, more teeth filling in the gaps.
Sad, pathetic, strained noises filter in from the kitchen, obscured by the sound of rain and punctuated by the occasional bang of Polly's fist upon the counter.
(Suck it up, Quinn. No pussyfooting around.) ]
[ He finishes packing sooner rather than later. (He doesn't have much. Never has.) The bed creaks as he perches on the edge of the mattress, head bowing as he runs a hand back through his hair, still mussed by sleep.
Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
(Fucking useful, he is.) ]
Barry Weiss doesn't quite seem like himself when he calms down. (It's because he almost never does. Most of the time, he's too busy vaulting himself around with a sort of energy that would break bones if he ever hit a wall.) Somehow, it takes years off of him rather than put them on. The focus smooths out the lines that run across his face, turns manic energy in a sharp concentration, strips away the mask — paperthin to begin with — and leaves a pallid kind of fear. Not true fear — a man who has nothing doesn't feel fear — but a vague insecurity, one that doesn't have a true source but which flows through the blood nevertheless.
Still, he sits on the edge of the bed and he waits. Because he can't do anything about the blood or the teeth, can't do anything but do as she's told him.
(Fucking useful, he is.) ]
[ It takes her longer than she thinks it should but, then again, Polly's working at a gross handicap with only hand worth anything. Even trying to concentrate on the task at hand, her mind keeps wandering to this thing and that. (She should've called, should've thought this through better. Now that she's here and Sparrows' dogs are on the hunt, that means Barry'll have come with her. That had been the plan from the get-go hadn't it? Maybe yes, maybe no; Polly doesn't know anymore.)
In the end, she forgoes the scissors and the gauze and tears the last of the thread with her teeth, wrapping the whole thing up with an old ace bandage an tying it tight with a knot in he hopes that it'll replace the worst pain with a neverending ache and staunch the worst of the bloodflow at the same time. There's a swig of vodka left in the bottle and she takes it before stumbling back to the bedroom. It feels like there's barely enough blood left in her to keep her on her feet, but still she manages, her sweatshirt abandoned and her bare skin prickling against the rain water that cools on it, her dressings already beginning to seep red and her face pale. ]
Barry— [ she mumbles, her previous edge gone, her eyes red and rimmed with the last of her tears. (She's hardly recognizable like this, so small and soaked through and uncertain. Polly's knuckles go white agains the doorframe as she tries to stay on her feet. ] —gotta go.
In the end, she forgoes the scissors and the gauze and tears the last of the thread with her teeth, wrapping the whole thing up with an old ace bandage an tying it tight with a knot in he hopes that it'll replace the worst pain with a neverending ache and staunch the worst of the bloodflow at the same time. There's a swig of vodka left in the bottle and she takes it before stumbling back to the bedroom. It feels like there's barely enough blood left in her to keep her on her feet, but still she manages, her sweatshirt abandoned and her bare skin prickling against the rain water that cools on it, her dressings already beginning to seep red and her face pale. ]
Barry— [ she mumbles, her previous edge gone, her eyes red and rimmed with the last of her tears. (She's hardly recognizable like this, so small and soaked through and uncertain. Polly's knuckles go white agains the doorframe as she tries to stay on her feet. ] —gotta go.
[ Almost as soon as she appears in the doorway, he's on his feet, taking just a few tentative steps towards her. Not close enough to be in her space, but near enough to catch her should she fall. The strap of his back is already slung over his shoulder, pulling at his jacket. He doesn't know much about where she comes from but he knows it's bad news, and yet, when it comes to her, he stays his ground instead of running from Sparrows' shadow entirely. ]
'D you think I hadn't figured that out already? [ The words are forced, like he knows he shouldn't be joking at a time like this but he doesn't know what else to do. ]
Look, you— sit down for a bit, Polly. I'll pull the car 'round t' the front. [ Neither of them are getting all that far on two feet, and Barry's bike isn't exactly going to do them a whole world of good. ] Or y' want t' come with me down t' the garage?
'D you think I hadn't figured that out already? [ The words are forced, like he knows he shouldn't be joking at a time like this but he doesn't know what else to do. ]
Look, you— sit down for a bit, Polly. I'll pull the car 'round t' the front. [ Neither of them are getting all that far on two feet, and Barry's bike isn't exactly going to do them a whole world of good. ] Or y' want t' come with me down t' the garage?
[ He's got a bag already packed and it's slung over his shoulder, not near as heavy as it should be, waiting for Polly along with the rest of Barry in the bedroom. ]
No— [ Polly pulls away from the doorframe, protesting, though protesting to what and why an how doesn't seem to be anywhere in her train of thought. It's a bad idea, trying to tug back so sharply when the ground's gone so soft beneath her feet already. ] No, [ she says again, but it's plaintive now and fading fast and Barry seems very far, far away.
A cold sweat breaks out along Polly's forehead and arms and the world slips dangerously dim as she staggers, new pain blossoming up and down her arm and teeth scraping along one wall as she tries to catch herself and fails, flopping backwards like a dead fish. Polly's head connects hard with the floor in the hallway and thank god that it's carpeted or else she'd run the risk of biting her own tongue off in the process. The world swims and goes quiet and dark and Polly sleeps for what feels like an eternity — the pain in her arm a constant storm that shapes her dreams into something dark and foreboding. ]
No— [ Polly pulls away from the doorframe, protesting, though protesting to what and why an how doesn't seem to be anywhere in her train of thought. It's a bad idea, trying to tug back so sharply when the ground's gone so soft beneath her feet already. ] No, [ she says again, but it's plaintive now and fading fast and Barry seems very far, far away.
A cold sweat breaks out along Polly's forehead and arms and the world slips dangerously dim as she staggers, new pain blossoming up and down her arm and teeth scraping along one wall as she tries to catch herself and fails, flopping backwards like a dead fish. Polly's head connects hard with the floor in the hallway and thank god that it's carpeted or else she'd run the risk of biting her own tongue off in the process. The world swims and goes quiet and dark and Polly sleeps for what feels like an eternity — the pain in her arm a constant storm that shapes her dreams into something dark and foreboding. ]
[ When she wakes up, they're already on their way out of London, Barry's knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He's laid Polly out in the back seat, a towel underneath her and a ragged throw over her shoulders, the first aid kit haphazardly reassembled and tossed onto the floor, rattling now and then as he drives. He isn't driving as quickly as he usually does, having curbed his usual tendencies in order to make the ride as smooth as possible. (He doesn't need to be responsible for jostling anything else out of place.)
This isn't the sort of situation that he's exactly equipped to deal with. He can run with the best of them, but he's always done it on his own up until this point, and he's never had to care for anyone so badly injured. Looking after yourself doesn't quite amount to the same thing.
It's raining, and the dull rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Almost as soon as she's awake, his eyes fix on her in the rearview mirror, brow creasing in concern. ]
Y' wake?
This isn't the sort of situation that he's exactly equipped to deal with. He can run with the best of them, but he's always done it on his own up until this point, and he's never had to care for anyone so badly injured. Looking after yourself doesn't quite amount to the same thing.
It's raining, and the dull rumble of thunder echoes in the distance. Almost as soon as she's awake, his eyes fix on her in the rearview mirror, brow creasing in concern. ]
Y' wake?
[ She dreams of dark grey eyes, amused, and a mouth that pinches up at the corners too sharply whenever it smiles. She dreams she's in a car, eight years old and in the back seat, with those dark eyes laughing at her and a hand with white fingers picking at the hem of her skirt. She hates the man with those laughing eyes, hates the hand that looks to touch her. But when Polly goes to bite, there's no snap, no shut. No teeth, just bitter shards of glass crunching in her gut and in her mouth, the sound of it not enough to drown out the smug satisfaction of the man's voice.
Peekaboo, I see you, Polly Q.
She wakes with a start. ]
Barry—?
[ It's dark and the flickering of the passing lights disorients her for a moment, her good arm slung over her face and her bad arm laid out an angle, her hand resting lightly upon a cupholder, her dressings seeped through and stiff. Polly tries to sit up and pain screeches through her body as she does, but she doesn't like the feeling of being laid out like a dying person. Still, her voice is weak. ] —Barry, he's—
[ Her head hurts. Squeezing her eyes shut she leans tiredly against the back of the driver's seat, the fingers of her good hand coming to curl over Barry's shoulder. It's another needy gesture, one that begs for attention, and part of Polly hates herself for it, but fuck it feels good to know that he's there and he's solid. ] —fuck.
Peekaboo, I see you, Polly Q.
She wakes with a start. ]
Barry—?
[ It's dark and the flickering of the passing lights disorients her for a moment, her good arm slung over her face and her bad arm laid out an angle, her hand resting lightly upon a cupholder, her dressings seeped through and stiff. Polly tries to sit up and pain screeches through her body as she does, but she doesn't like the feeling of being laid out like a dying person. Still, her voice is weak. ] —Barry, he's—
[ Her head hurts. Squeezing her eyes shut she leans tiredly against the back of the driver's seat, the fingers of her good hand coming to curl over Barry's shoulder. It's another needy gesture, one that begs for attention, and part of Polly hates herself for it, but fuck it feels good to know that he's there and he's solid. ] —fuck.
'M right here, Poll.
[ On instinct, he reaches up, one of his hands coming to cover hers on his shoulder. (It's too sappy a gesture, probably, but he doesn't much care. She could bite his hands off, but that'd leave them both in the shitter, and he's fairly certain he can take whatever she chooses to dish out in her current condition.) ]
No one else in the car with us.
[ It'd been a hassle getting her downstairs and into the car — it wasn't every day that the people in the block saw a known troublemaker carrying a bloody and battered body down into the garage (they'd never seen that sight before, actually, he'd never been that brazen). He's lucky, he assumes, that they got out of the city before the cops could catch up. It wasn't like they'd believe he hadn't fucked the girl up himself. ]
Y' feelin' any better?
[ On instinct, he reaches up, one of his hands coming to cover hers on his shoulder. (It's too sappy a gesture, probably, but he doesn't much care. She could bite his hands off, but that'd leave them both in the shitter, and he's fairly certain he can take whatever she chooses to dish out in her current condition.) ]
No one else in the car with us.
[ It'd been a hassle getting her downstairs and into the car — it wasn't every day that the people in the block saw a known troublemaker carrying a bloody and battered body down into the garage (they'd never seen that sight before, actually, he'd never been that brazen). He's lucky, he assumes, that they got out of the city before the cops could catch up. It wasn't like they'd believe he hadn't fucked the girl up himself. ]
Y' feelin' any better?
[ She looks around anyway, her eyes hammering nails into her fucking skull with every passing set of headlights and each flickering yellow street lamp. No one in the car, but she can feel somebody looking at her nevertheless, like there's something moving around in the constantly shifting darkness of the cab — something she can't bite or beat or grab with her hands. It makes her skin itch uncomfortably, a sharp spike of panicked adrenaline kicking through her body in an unwanted wave of anxiety. ]
Something's wrong. Just— fuck.
[ Her hand slips from his shoulder even though part of her brain doesn't want it to. (No, she wants to stay anchored to Barry, wants him to be steady for her for a minute, maybe two. If they could both manage that maybe the world would stop spinning so fucking fast for a goddamn minute, but Polly's Polly and standing still means bang, you're dead, so she's begun rummaging around the backseat, trying to find her things, in search of her cell phone. ] Did he call—? [ she asks, her voice heated, frantic, still disoriented. ] Baby, did somebody call?
[ She's never called him that before. Polly doesn't even seem to notice. ]
Something's wrong. Just— fuck.
[ Her hand slips from his shoulder even though part of her brain doesn't want it to. (No, she wants to stay anchored to Barry, wants him to be steady for her for a minute, maybe two. If they could both manage that maybe the world would stop spinning so fucking fast for a goddamn minute, but Polly's Polly and standing still means bang, you're dead, so she's begun rummaging around the backseat, trying to find her things, in search of her cell phone. ] Did he call—? [ she asks, her voice heated, frantic, still disoriented. ] Baby, did somebody call?
[ She's never called him that before. Polly doesn't even seem to notice. ]
[ The niggling itch under his skin is set off more by her own unease than his own perception of any third party. He's not attuned to that kind of thing, having grown up believing that whatever went bump in the night was probably just the neighbor's cat getting out again. There's a pinch in his brow when he glances back in the rearview mirror, head bobbing in a stiff sort of nod.
(Baby, she calls him, and he thinks it either means things are set to get better or she's gone crazy already. He knows how Polly Q works and never once has she bothered to be that kind of sweet, not to him and not to anybody.) ]
Text message, [ he says, free hand gesturing in the direction in which he'd left her phone. ] Didn't try reading it.
(Baby, she calls him, and he thinks it either means things are set to get better or she's gone crazy already. He knows how Polly Q works and never once has she bothered to be that kind of sweet, not to him and not to anybody.) ]
Text message, [ he says, free hand gesturing in the direction in which he'd left her phone. ] Didn't try reading it.
[ (Polly Q works one way, but Polly Q belongs to Sparrows. A little girl with a bad temper whose parents didn't want her, worth more shipped off to nowhere with no return address than taking up the spare bedroom and eating a girl-shaped hole through finances already stripped thin. Polly Q was nobody, and maybe still is nobody; she's never had anything, never needed and never wanted, but the girl hunched over in the back of Barry Weiss' car — she's different. She's something. If only by virtue of the fact that some dumb boy with nothing left to lose was willing to pack his only duffle bag on her behalf. It's maybe not the best bargain, but it's more than Polly Q ever had.) ]
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]
Fuckin' right, y'didn't try readin' it.
[ More fumbling comes from the back of the car, interspersed with some cursing, all muttered beneath Polly's breath. There's a pause when she stops and takes a momentary breather, the pain coursing a little too loudly through her veins to just carry on, but it's not long at all before she's rummaging again, her hair hanging round her face in damp strands, the white too white against her face and her roots near to black in the ever-moving dark. When she finally finds it, and thumbs through to find the message, she curses again (louder this time) and throws the phone at the car door opposite, its battery splintering off and his screen cracking once, indelicately. ]
Jesus christ. [ Exhaling sharply, Polly drops her head into her own hands, that tenseness loosening to something slack and defeated. For a moment it seems as though she's going to cry again, her fingers crawling up into her hair while her arm throbs and throbs and throbs ]
[ It's a near miracle that he manages not to swerve when she throws her phone, the crack sending a jolt of surprise straight down his spine. ]
Careful where y' throw that thing, [ he calls, though his irritation is feigned at best. ] Haven't got the cash to spend on a new car, case y' hadn't noticed. 'Sides, 's just you an' me now, yeah?
[ The words stop somewhat abruptly, as if he'd realized that he'd just been talking in an attempt to fill the silence (in an attempt to reassure himself).
(Barry Weiss doesn't belong to anyone but himself — himself, and Polly Q, maybe. A little boy with a bad temper whose parents didn't want him, who didn't bother sending him away and didn't bother doing anything else, either. He'd been nobody, a failure in every career path except that of a vagrant, only ever worth as much as he had in his pockets.
But he has her, now. Kind of, anyway.) ]
Know y' don't need lookin' after, but you don't get t' argue this one.
Careful where y' throw that thing, [ he calls, though his irritation is feigned at best. ] Haven't got the cash to spend on a new car, case y' hadn't noticed. 'Sides, 's just you an' me now, yeah?
[ The words stop somewhat abruptly, as if he'd realized that he'd just been talking in an attempt to fill the silence (in an attempt to reassure himself).
(Barry Weiss doesn't belong to anyone but himself — himself, and Polly Q, maybe. A little boy with a bad temper whose parents didn't want him, who didn't bother sending him away and didn't bother doing anything else, either. He'd been nobody, a failure in every career path except that of a vagrant, only ever worth as much as he had in his pockets.
But he has her, now. Kind of, anyway.) ]
Know y' don't need lookin' after, but you don't get t' argue this one.
[ From underneath the dirty mass of whiteblonde hair, she curses again. ] What th'fuck's that s'pposed t'mean?
[ She's not stupid, she knows what it means. It means, from here on out it's the two of them: Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss, the biggest set of fuck-ups the world's ever seen. How long, she wonders, until it all falls apart, until he can't stand being around her anymore and turns out to be just like the rest. It's a miracle he hasn't up and hiked off already and there's a part of Polly that's convinced it would've only been a matter of time for them. They were salvaged by that she could only get off campus every once and a while, circumstances dictating that they'd see each other once a month, if that, fucking and fighting and fucking again before her twenty-four to forty-eight were over and it was back to the Academy all over again. There was no way, no way in fucking hell, that he'd have stuck around as long as he had if she was around all the time. And that's what this was, wasn't it?
Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss. (She frowns under her hair.) Fuck, she thinks. I've fucked this up and we're fucking doomed.
Despite herself she sobs, the sound of it wracking her entire body and sending her into a fit of shivers and shakes. (Fuck you, Polly. Fuck you, you fucking asshole fuck.) Still, she tries to fight, though the followthrough is half-hearted and pathetic at beast. ] Y'don't get t'tell me what t'do, Barry. Okay?
[ She's not stupid, she knows what it means. It means, from here on out it's the two of them: Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss, the biggest set of fuck-ups the world's ever seen. How long, she wonders, until it all falls apart, until he can't stand being around her anymore and turns out to be just like the rest. It's a miracle he hasn't up and hiked off already and there's a part of Polly that's convinced it would've only been a matter of time for them. They were salvaged by that she could only get off campus every once and a while, circumstances dictating that they'd see each other once a month, if that, fucking and fighting and fucking again before her twenty-four to forty-eight were over and it was back to the Academy all over again. There was no way, no way in fucking hell, that he'd have stuck around as long as he had if she was around all the time. And that's what this was, wasn't it?
Polly Q and Barry fucking Weiss. (She frowns under her hair.) Fuck, she thinks. I've fucked this up and we're fucking doomed.
Despite herself she sobs, the sound of it wracking her entire body and sending her into a fit of shivers and shakes. (Fuck you, Polly. Fuck you, you fucking asshole fuck.) Still, she tries to fight, though the followthrough is half-hearted and pathetic at beast. ] Y'don't get t'tell me what t'do, Barry. Okay?
[ With a lilt that betrays his words to be affectionate more than anything else: ] Shut up, Polly Q.
[ He's a fuck-up in every sense of the word, but once he gets his teeth into something (no irony intended) he doesn't let go. And he doesn't mean to let go of Polly Q. The more she'd stayed away, the more he'd wanted her, and now that they're together, he wants her more still, in a way that goes beyond fighting and fucking. Not maudlin, not with the way that they are, but close enough. Close enough that he says I love you and means it because it's never crossed his mind to lie to her, not properly.
And, truth told, it's almost always been that people run out on him than the other way around. (He doesn't blame them, in a distant sort of retrospect.) ]
[ He's a fuck-up in every sense of the word, but once he gets his teeth into something (no irony intended) he doesn't let go. And he doesn't mean to let go of Polly Q. The more she'd stayed away, the more he'd wanted her, and now that they're together, he wants her more still, in a way that goes beyond fighting and fucking. Not maudlin, not with the way that they are, but close enough. Close enough that he says I love you and means it because it's never crossed his mind to lie to her, not properly.
And, truth told, it's almost always been that people run out on him than the other way around. (He doesn't blame them, in a distant sort of retrospect.) ]
[ Shut up, Polly Q, Barry says and — for once in her fucking life — she actually does what she's told. Not because she wants to obey (no, in fact, she wants to do the exact opposite) but because she can't bring herself to anything else. Her arm hurts, her back hurts, her eyes ache when she tries to follow the lights moving outside the car window and they ache whenever she closes them. In all her years at the Academy she's seen some heavy action and has taken some heavy hit, but this was different, this was damage done by her own sisters' hands. (And — first lesson — if there's one thing that can take down a Cartazonos girl, it's another Cartazonos girl; they're simply hotwired that way.)
Sulkily, irritably, Polly lets herself lapse into a long, trudging silence, the heels of her palms pressed against her shut lids, trying to push the pain out of her eyes like wine wrung from a grape. At long length, her voice finally quiet, almost defeated. ] Margaret. [ When she lifts her head a moment later it's just far enough for Barry to catch her dark eyes watching from the shadow of her own brow. ] It's Margaret Quinn.
My name.
Sulkily, irritably, Polly lets herself lapse into a long, trudging silence, the heels of her palms pressed against her shut lids, trying to push the pain out of her eyes like wine wrung from a grape. At long length, her voice finally quiet, almost defeated. ] Margaret. [ When she lifts her head a moment later it's just far enough for Barry to catch her dark eyes watching from the shadow of her own brow. ] It's Margaret Quinn.
My name.
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