ataraxionlogs | "You’re a bitter little lady." "It’s a bitter little world."

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"You’re a bitter little lady." "It’s a bitter little world."

CHARACTERS: Wichita (

cons) & Brendan Frye (

dirtyword), closed.
LOCATION: Wichita's room
WARNINGS: Noir slang and trust issues?
SUMMARY: Brendan needs to make sure things are kosher.
NOTES: Backdated to a few days after Strela.

There's only so much pacing in front of a door that a person could do, even if that person was used to moving back and forth while he thought.

It wasn't an odd thing to do, he knows this. Especially since this ship was full of God knows what and apparently even outside wasn't safe. No, venturing outside gets you a bloodied lip, a busted nose and a jaw that still felt odd if he opened his mouth too quickly. In a weird way, it felt like old times, like he was back in San Clemente. All that was missing was heroin and a mustang, really.

Except for the fact that there was an odd feeling in his chest. One that was making him walk back and forth, back and forth in front of Wichita's door. It's something he recognizes--and something he doesn't particularly like. Brendan's nervous. Why, he's pretty sure--it's not that he looks like he got the shit kicked out of him (which he did), or because it's Wichita. It's because he's decided to actually check on her instead of pinging her over the network.

Sucking it up, he finally manages to pull out his communicator, clicking it to audio.

"Open the door."

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It's really weird, having your mind get poked at, washed out, reformed. She can't remember what had happened exactly between getting caught trying to steal shit with Tate, being taken to a room, some room, feeling her mind squish in her head until she couldn't take it anymore, until she was screaming because she was scared and in pain and it didn't make sense, it just didn't. And then everything kind of-- stopped. She wasn't herself anymore.

And then she was back on the ship, in her bed.

The weird thing is that right now? She doesn't feel that fear so much anymore. Her head aches and she keeps getting nosebleeds, but she feels oddly collected. There are nightmares, she's found herself waking up in a panic, but it never lasts. It was only a dream, after all.

When her comm beeps and she hears Brendan's voice come through, there's no snarky retort to being told to let him in. She just gets off of her bed, pads over to the door, and opens it. Simple.

"Hey. Come on in."

Her smile's a little off, tired mostly, but she is glad to see him, that's clear. He looks so nervous though, tense, which isn't new for him, but instead of just letting it pass, she finds herself curious, so curious as to why. Like whatever secrets she used to just accept were there, now they were important. Now they mattered. She needed to know because otherwise- Well, that was the whole point of being part of the crew here, wasn't it? They needed to share. Not to mention those abrasions on his face...

"Are you alright? What happened to your face?"

Like it couldn't have possibly been the psychotic outpost they just visited. No way did something like that happen there.

No retort. That should have been a warning bell--because Wichita without some level us sass meant she wasn't too well or completely serious. Neither of which boded well. But in all honesty, it was the tone in her voice when she asks if he's fine that gets him. Makes him hesitate.

Brendan still steps in, though, letting the door shut behind him. He shrugs, hands still in his pockets.

"Strela. I was in a right spot, that's all. You status quo?"

"Oh. I think so, yeah. Headachy, but I'm sure it's nothing a little more water can't fix."

Yes. Water will fix the brainwashing.

"Have you been to medical? It looks like you might need stitches" She frowns at the thought, reaches up to touch her thumb to his jaw, right beside a cut that looks a little deeper than the rest.

Brendan's about to protest--because no, he's not going near medical if he can help it, and no, he doesn't need stitches--but her words catch him off guard and he can't hide the apprehensive look, even as hands graze over his jawline.

"It's nothing I'm not used to." It's all he really can say, because Wichita's behaving oddly and the first conclusion Brendan reaches is that she's been assimilated.

"Just wanted to make sure you hadn't disappeared on Strela."

"Disappeared? Oh, no. No, no. Somebody brought me back on the shuttle. I can't really remember much about it, who it was. I still need to thank them for it, though."

She moves to sit down on her bed, lays back until her shoulder finds a pillow that's propped against the wall. It's obvious she's been laying around like this all day, doesn't even have to think about it or shift around to get comfortable. Her toes tap absent rhythms on the floor.

"Feels kinda like I'm in a dream, you know? Hazy. Or I was, maybe. It's weird."

Brendan follows. He doesn't sit down, though--he gets close to the edge of the bed, looks at her tapping her feet, and simply begins to pace.

"So they got you in a room, huh." Not a question: a flat-out statement, and he finally stops pacing. They never got him--the moment someone grabbed him he fought tooth and nail, managed to get away. Wichita wasn't as lucky, and Brendan's already got that look on his face. The blank slate that's hiding grim determination and cold, bitter cynicism.

"Mm, all white. Really tiny, too. Just this... pressure-"

But that's- kind of horrifying to think about. And she's sucking in a hard breath with it, slamming her eyes shut. Although that makes it worse, somehow, she can't remember why but shutting her eyes just fills her with dread, like she'll lose herself again, lose her mind and her ability to think for herself. By the time she opens her eyes again she's managed to scramble back on the bed more, back flat against the wall and her knees tucked up under her chin, hands in the sheers. But she catches herself, only takes a few seconds to cross her legs and sit like that instead, elbows on her knees and head in her hands. Her breathing's picked up, time to fix that, though she sounds frantic now even as she talks down at her lap.

"Jesus Christ. We can't talk about that, okay? Gotta just leave it for a while."

"Okay. Okay," Brendan's voice is a bit softer, scooching up to join her on the bed. She's sick, he realizes--and he knows there's after affects of the whole assimilation thing, yes, but it's just occurred to him that Wichita's not just some useful acquaintance. She's a friend and she's sick.

So he treats her like he would when Em would panic--an arm slings around her, pulling her close, and he moves a strand of hair from her face. The Brick.

God, he'd almost forgotten about that.

We're safe now.

Edited 2012-08-08 06:51 (UTC)

Her instinct, at first, is to shove him away. It's a weird reflex, just this- auto-response she has when she's this upset or freaked out, like she can't let anyone get too close right away or she won't be able to lock it all up again, but she doesn't this time. there's a flinch when he first has his arm around her, but it's easy to let the tension sink away once she's leaning into his side, her face pressed against his shoulder.

"That place really fucked me up, Bren, I can't figure it out."

That's the issue, really. She feels... wrong, like something's wrong. Different. But she can't pinpoint it, not beyond the fact that she can't seem to control her emotions as well as she did before this whole mess, but that's- that happens, right? She remembers when the virus first hit, that really fucked her up too. Took her a while to get back into the right mindset, the safe mindset that kept her alive. Maybe that's all that was happening here.

"I don't wanna go home, but I don't wanna be here anymore either. I keep thinking everyone will get better once my sister is here with me too, but it won't. She'll just have to deal with this place the same as everyone else, and I can't even begin to handle how much that would suck. This sucks."

Bren.

The nickname hits him like a ton of bricks and he pulls Wichita tighter. It's unconscious, the fact that he wants to protect her, wants to keep her safe, wants to keep her out of the dangerous world out there. It's a fucking disaster and if she'd just see that, if she'd just stop wanting to be with other people, just stay with him, then--

No. Wichita is not Emily, he knows that and he's acting like a lunatic, he knows. He also knows that Wichita would sooner shoot him than be coddled like a princess. But the tone in her voice, how scared she feels...

Brendan just pulls her closer, placing his chin on top of her head, giving her a few seconds to get all of the words out of her system.

"We're all behind the eight ball on this, Wichita. It's going to be alright."

Yikes. He's comforting her, isn't he? And it's working, shit. Wichita's oddly pliant through this, letting him hold onto her as tight as he wants, shifting and getting comfortable against him, like it's all normal, all okay. It's confusing, but she can't be bothered letting herself try and think through it, instead just letting it be. For now.

"Eight ball... I don't follow." She tried to sort that one out in her head, but it's just not translating. "Sorry." For asking, for not being able to understand. Like it's some foreign language, when it's really not. She guesses it's frustrating for him, having to translate without knowing what he's saying sounds different, but she can't not ask. She wants to know.

Edited 2012-08-08 09:24 (UTC)

"Pool," Brendan doesn't mind explaining--not to Wichita. To anyone else it irks him, but Wichita and Jack have a free pass. Wichita, especially. She's not annoying about it. She's curious. And Brendan likes curious. A lot, actually.

"When you're playing and the cue ball's behind the eight. It's difficult, but it can be fixed if you got the know-how." If you have experience. Brendan sighs for a moment, shoulders heavy--he's still tense, still holding on to Wichita like she's going to leave him. "I can fix it--you let me, I'll help you fix this mess."

"Oh. Hey, that's clever." Wichita's even smiling a little bit now, even as she starts to squirm from being held so tight. It's not a fidget, or a shove, just a slow shift because maybe he doesn't- realize-

"There's nothing really to fix." Not in this anyway. And now she's thinking about how Neal reacted to the news about Moriarty, I'll handle it. Why is it suddenly people wanted to do things for her? She didn't know how to take it. "Can't undo a bad dream, you know? Besides, I feel fine. And I've got just as much know-how as you do when it comes to brainwashing. As in none, so we may as well just move right along." If she could be looking at him right now, she'd be nodding and forced-serious, seriously let's just not. But! She's tucked up under his chin, and okay wow, she's just going to pry- his- arm- from around her shoulders, move it so he's holding her by the waist instead, her arm resting over his. A mutual thing now, not just him holding her.

His hand is moved and he snaps out of it--for the time being--but he curls it around her waist naturally, shifting so he can put a hand on her other hip. Too risky, maybe, but Brendan's not thinking correctly.

He wants to see if the sketchbook is still under her pillow, but he dashes the thought of his mind the moment Wichita looks over at him, and Brendan finds himself exhaling.

"S'not what I mean. You're a capable dame; you even have a gun, just want to make sure if you're in a tight spot you know you can count on me."

"I don't like to count on anybody."

She says it before she really thinks about it, and although there's no tone to it - just a flat, simple statement - she still feels bad for saying it. Almost. It's the truth though, and he's said the same about himself to some degree, or maybe she's just assumed it because of the way he acts, so. When she sits up a little more, it's just so she can tilt her head and make an attempt at eye-contact. She's caught wanting to reach up and move that one curl that's right in his eyes, but she won't. Her bangs do the same thing, so it wouldn't seem right. He's got his shield, and she's got hers. fine, fine. She does find herself drawn to that split in his lip though, her tongue nudging the inside of her own like she wants to address it but she knows it won't change anything, won't make him get to medical any faster.

"It's not that I don't want to. Count on you, I mean. That's just a lot to put on someone, and I'm not used to asking for it. You don't owe me anything."

Edited 2012-08-09 08:52 (UTC)

"Yeah, I'm not used to offering it, either."

There. It's as close as Brendan's ever going to get to anything intimate right now, despite the fact that both of his arms are curled around Wichita, looking at her and actually meaning what he says. It's almost worrying to him.

He doesn't comment on the fact he doesn't owe Wichita anything. He knows he doesn't, he's offering anyway. It's a slippery slope, he thinks.

Wichita's thinking about it too - the way they're sitting, talking, looking. There's no angle here, not even a background thought of what can I get out of this and she's not used to it. She doesn't... not like it, either. It's confusing, and usually more than enough to make her want to just screw it all up somehow, say the wrong thing, shove him away without even getting her hands dirty-

But maybe not this time.

Yiiikes.

"So you mean you're not always this sweet with every brainwashed girl you hang out with? I think I feel special."

Brendan snorts, though he does move her a little bit closer. That last remark proved she was getting better--back to sarcastic snarking, at least--and he was glad for that, if nothing else.

"Not normally this sweet on anyone, really."

I like you, Columbus. But my sister and I are going to do whatever it takes to survive, so.

It's not deja vu, not exactly, but it's close enough. They're not dancing, but they're close enough to breathe the same air, so her gaze falls to those cuts and scars, not his eyes. And for a second she looks sad, like honest to goodness sad because what happens now, what happens when she'd normally detach and backpedal, but she's lacking the reasoning she's always relied on to do so? To make it easy? Her sister isn't here, she's got nobody to protect but herself.

"Okay. Okay." Her face drops forward at that, eyes shut, a slow breath. She chews her lip in thought but no words come to her, not really. Not beyond those pestering excuses that her gut is telling her to hit him with shove shove shove. When she looks up at him again she's... smiling, a little bit anyways, kind of squinting though because why did he have to say something like that?

"There's better people, Brendan. I mean, for that kinda thing. I'm not-" she sighs, again. "I'm not saying I don't like you, cause I do, but. There's, um. That- That line that I haven't let myself cross in a really long time. I just don't wanna mess this up."

Edited 2012-08-12 21:30 (UTC)

"I know." Brendan knows because he does the same thing--he knows he's destructive in that sense, too. He latches on and he can't let go, can't stop. He suffocates other people and it's something he wasn't aware of until that one day that Emily and him were at the back of the school, and Em was telling him to forget it--just to forget she ever said anything.

Brendan can't let things go. It's a horrid trait but he's not sure he even cares at this point--because Wichita's like him. Wichita's learned to step back and not trust anyone, because sooner or later someone's going to get you.

He doesn't want to fuck it up, either. He knows he's going to but he can't help himself, can't help leaning just a little bit closer, lips almost touching hers. Brendan wants to tell her so many things--that this is a bad idea, that they both know it, that they should stop--but he winds up wanting to kiss her and--

No. He pulls away and settles for giving a light, uncharacteristic smile. She'd just been brainwashed, this needs to be her own decision.

Her breath catches and her eyes shut and okay, okay, okay, wait, wait, wait, go, go, go. When that pressure never comes, no contact is made, she blinks her eyes open, catches that smile, presses her lips shut tight. If she huffs it's- it's completely because she wants to not because of any sort of mildly disappointed or flustered reaction.

"You've no idea-" No, she's not going to finish that sentence, not when it's easier to leave it hanging and let him guess. This ship has her frustrated in every kind of way, has her on edge and her nerves are frayed, and it would be easy, so, so easy to distract herself this way. She did when she first got here, found herself caught in the lift with one of their own here, someone she doesn't even talk to anymore, and that's- that's the clue, that she shouldn't, that maybe she's just not capable of holding onto someone for very long after things like that. But how can she know? Isn't that the point - there's no way of knowing, especially here.

But she finds herself shifting, lifting up and settling back down in his lap again, facing him properly now with her knees on either side of hips, hands at his shoulders, gripping his shirt. She rests her forehead against his, crowding him.

"You say you know, but do you? Really? If I kiss you, would you be able to let it go after? I can't promise you anything, not one way or the other. You gotta know that."

Brendan doesn't really have time to think because Wichita's up and around and her hands are on his shoulders, right above the flimsy duct-taped hole and he finds his hands on her hips, squeezing gently, almost reassuring as she talks.

She's right--she's always right, she's not a dumb broad--and Brendan peers at her through his bangs, straining despite his glasses. Maybe he can pierce the veil.

"I don't want you do to this when you've just been brainwashed, Wichita." Pointing out the obvious. Pointing out the easy way.

"It's just a headache now." But she's sitting back again, one of her hands lifting before she can stop herself, a finger curling in a lock of his hair. She should take his easy cue, she knows, take the out that was handed to her, but instead she's just finger-combing his hair, kind of, not out of his face but just to fuss. Something to keep her distracted, occupied.

"But, we can wait." Like it's a big deal. "I guess." Realizing now that she's making a big deal out of something that could be pretty simple. "No, what? What am I even- Whatever."

Wichita shakes her head before laughing, what the hell?, then she's finally just leaning in to kiss him, simple as that. Simple. Just a kiss. One that's careful to avoid putting too much pressure near that cut, favoring his top lip instead, the rest of her very still, at first. Her hands slide in, towards his neck, thumbs tucking under his jaw to help tilt his head just right. There, there.

He'd be an idiot if he didn't reciprocate, even if it was 'just a headache.' He's only got so much chivalry when there's a beautiful girl lip-locking him.

His hand moves up her back, moving her hip closer with his free one. His jaw hurts and his lip still sucks and his joints are stiff and he's pretty sure his ribs are bruised but he could care less right at that moment, right when it's the two of them.

When he breaks away it's not because he wants to. It's an immediate, knee-jerk reaction to her knee on his side and after he hisses he automatically reprimands himself, even if it's not completely his fault someone made sure to try to beat him to a pulp.

Again.

She sucks in a breath when he pulls back to quickly, thinking the worst, thinking- wait, what would be the worst here? She doesn't know. She has no idea. But that hiss is a clear sign of pain, though she doesn't back off too much, not beyond putting her weight on her knees, settling more into the mattress than his lap.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't mean to smile, but of course she would manage to mess that up, poke at wounds when she's just trying to kiss him. Her thumb brushes the curve of his jaw as she waits, still not willing to sit back just yet, but she's not moving back in to kiss him too quickly either. No, instead she's just sitting still, not bumping her nose against his because he's been hit there too, she can see, but just so she can find his eyes with hers, try and figure out what she's feeling. But she doesn't know, this is all so, so out of her element, she has no idea. Maybe that's why she's looking to him to try and figure it out. "Maybe we really should wait. Just until you're healed up, I mean." More grinning, because yep, yeah, she is shameless.

Brendan's response is swift. It would be panicked if Brendan was capable of panic. He's not--not right now, anyway. Not with Wichita. Wichita settles down but Brendan's long-fingered hands grab onto her waist, preventing her from moving.

"Close your head. I already said I'm dizzy with you, dollface." All the reassurance Wichita's going to get. Verbally, anyway, because he's leaning over to kiss her, mindful of his own lip but not caring to the point of stopping--you can't when you're lip locked with the prettiest girl aboard Tranquility.

"Nnh-!"

Wichita ends up smiling against his mouth before she's kissing back, and all she can think about now is dizzy, yeah, dizzy's accurate. Spun about, dazed, flipped around. To avoid what he apparently doesn't care much about, she keeps the kiss light, leaning back when he leans in, tilting her face down to avoid too much pressure. She gets it, she does. She wants to- Well, she wants a lot of things, but it should wait. Just until they don't have to worry about hurting each other or pushing it too far, too fast. For whatever reason, she doesn't want to rush it. When she breaks to breathe, her lips press along his chin, breaking apart but leaving no space. Because she has to keep some semblance of control, has to pace herself or she won't be able to stop.

And she can't do that, not yet. Not with Brendan, not if he's... dizzy, and if she might be too. That kiss finds the corner of his mouth, then the space below his cheekbone, and maybe it's affectionate, too much so for them, but it's better than trying to stop full tilt. She blows a puff of air at his bangs, just to watch it fall back into place.

"..I'd rather wait... than crack open your lip again.. don't need you bleeding all over me." More smiles against his jaw, even though she's serious, and when she leans back again, her eyes level with his, just to make it stick. "We can wait. Right? Can you do that for me?" And now she's smirking.

Edited 2012-08-17 09:30 (UTC)

Brendan's mind goes to a darker place, one laden with profanity at the situation, even if his brain doesn't. She's right--he knows she's right--but it doesn't stop him from wanting more than just light kisses and soft touches when it comes to the brunette.

"...Okay," He says finally. Tries not to let that air of defeat show. Instead, he straightens up somewhat, taking the other's blowing of his bangs and reacting to them normally--the way he would if Emily did the same thing. He pushes his hair out of his face, blinking through his glasses. At least she said wait and not 'never.' "I'll hold you up to that, dollface."

"Oh, yeah? Not like I'm stopping for my benefit only." Her smirk turns to a smile because he's easily read, right now he's so easily read and she's reaching up with one hand to drag her fingers through his curls, putting them right back where they were. "I'm just saying... if I'm gonna wear you out, I want it to be a challenge." Then she's leaning in to pretend to take a bite of his jaw, kissing once, twice, until she's nuzzling his neck. His skin's warm and she's drawn to it, and no she's not intent on marking up his skin ( not yet ), but each kiss is designed to make him notice, understand that what she's murmuring into his skin is a promise; "Because I fully intend to wear you out."

"Nnnn-hmmm," Brendan's reply is short and lazy, all flat tones but surprisingly drawled out. He's finding it hard to concentrate anyway, what with Wichita's lips everywhere and the not-so-subtle threat that whenever Brendan gets better he'll actually get to have a bit of fun. He may be stubborn, pessimistic, and antisocial but he's still, at heart, a member of the male species.

"I'll hold you to that."

Good, yep. That's good enough for Wichita. Eventually she pulls away, face a little flush.

"Spend the night." Yep, blurted out, just like that. She's finally settling back to sit on her feet instead of leaning into him, hands on his shoulders again, still comfortable but distanced. "Sleep in here, with me. ..Unless you're a kicker, do you kick in your sleep? Or snore? I can't handle snoring."

"None of the above." Brendan doesn't have the heart to let her know that he doesn't really sleep--not normally--and that he's going to probably be wide-awake, left to his own devices.

Still.

There's no harm in just shutting his eyes. Even if he doesn't sleep--and to seal the deal he leans forward, catching her bottom lip with his mouth, playfully nipping at it.

She tips her head back a bit, willingly, a quiet hn hummed at the back of her throat with the pressure of his teeth. It'll be some miracle if she manages to keep her hands off of him for any extended period of time now, but, she's not about to deter him from nibbling if he so chooses. She's a big fan of nibbling, actually, huge advocate.

Although some part of her knows he mustn't really sleep, not when how dark those circles are under his eyes. It's not just from the fight he was in, she knows that, because they were there before too. She's seen them on herself, on Columbus and Tal when they first met. Eye-contact means everything when you're running a con, and maybe it's something she's gotten used to. Reading what your eyes tell her. And Brendan's, in part, tell her about a number of long, sleepless nights.

"Thank you."

For agreeing to stay, for agreeing to wait, for checking in on her. All of the above.

"Gotta make sure a dame's alright." A casual 'you're welcome' because Brendan can't actually say those words. It's a lot more difficult than it looks, saying things like please and thank you and I'm sorry.

What scares him the most, though, is that he almost called Wichita his dame. Not a dame.

Instead, he settles for pushing her bangs back and nodding, kissing her lightly on the lips again.

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"You’re a bitter little lady." "It’s a bitter little world."

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AHH sorry, just noticed the various typos in this thread good lord why didn't I edit this stuff lol

dude it was like 4/5 am it's all good.

Re: dude it was like 4/5 am it's all good.

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