pain_train | SANCTUM INBOX

Alright, that sounds absolutely disgusting, and it’s hilarious; popping heads is all fine and dandy, but there are a few lines even he won’t cross. Drinking pulpy demon? Definitely one of those.

There’s a snort, a toothy grin to go with her smirk, and a very careful elbow in her side, and for all intents and purposes, this is as close to relaxed as he can possibly get. Shitty food, cheesy movie (although he’s very here for the eye candy siblings), and good company. Friend. It’s a strange word, feels strange to parse over in his head, but it fits. He shifts a bit on the couch, letting her lean a bit more comfortably, and yeah, that seems to be okay. He could maybe get used to this. Funny, how such little things are so hard. Violence, sex, all par for the course, but companionship? Still difficult.

He mutters something about blood being awful for showering around a mouthful of noodles, but it’s pretty difficult to make out the actual words. Whatever, they’re not too important, especially not when there’s a loud explosion from the holo display, because alright, that’s pretty cool. Explosions? Always good in his book, unless they-

Oh, there’s an incessant noise from his glasses.

Annoying, really. There shouldn’t be anything important going on, he doesn’t really have any other acquaintances (friends, really) that would bother to message him at this time of night, and sure as shit he’s technically off the clock. Really, the urge to ignore whomever is trying to get ahold of him is incredibly high, but the noise won’t stop, and so he regrettably reaches to grab the damn things and figure out what’s going on.

All it takes is a cursory glance at his messages. Tension bleeds back into him, evident in the way his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. He’s careful to not jostle her too much as he extracts himself form the couch, and there’s a mumbled apology as he rises. Everything is set down, and there’s a casual wave, “back in a moment.”

With that, he exits Orion’s apartment, and it’s certainly more than a moment; nearly fifteen minutes pass before the door opens again, but he’s true to his word. He offers no explanation as he worms his way back onto the couch, there’s a very faint acrid chemical stench that fades after a moment or two, but then it’s back to steadfastly concentrating on the movie. If he’s a bit quieter than before, he brings no attention to it, “did I miss much?”

"Huh? Sure!" Wrath just pauses the film when Maine gets up. She's seen this one before; she doesn't need to see it again to know what happens, for sure. She occupies herself while Maine is gone by screwing around on her digital painting frame, playing with some ideas for the painting she's going to do for Christine. She might not have actual paints yet, but she can do sketches and play with ideas for what might work once he has some actual space.

Wrath gives him a smile when he gets back, one that becomes puzzled when she catches a whiff of him. She saves her work--sketches of ballerinas--and sets it back aside. "You didn't miss anything. I paused it. Future technology--it's awesome!" She grins at him.

Once Maine's settled back down on the couch, she leans against him again and offers him the bottle of orange juice. "Everything work out?" Since presumably he had some kind of call he needed to answer. It must have been urgent.

The sarcasm is appreciated, and it gets a good natured eye roll from him. Real futuristic shit, here; there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep up, might as well give up now and admit defeat. Okay, he can’t even continue with that train of thought, it’s too ridiculous.

It’s a decent distraction though, lets him deflect; god, it can’t be healthy to push away this much, she’s got to be right about that. But no, he’ll deal with it later, maybe. Perhaps never. He’ll deal with it when he’s able to deal with it. Yeah, that’ll have to do. At least it’s a start, even if he knows he’s lying to himself.

“Mn,” comes the reply, noncommittal enough in its own way. Things are worked out for better or worse, his knuckles kind of hurt, and now he’s back, the couch is fairly comfortable, there’s takeout and movies, and being relaxed was really nice, so he’d kind of like to go back to that. He takes the bottle, doesn’t figure to be polite enough to inquire about a glass and just takes a draw from it before handing it back, shifting a bit so that she’s not pressed up against his shoulder so much as she can lean on his chest, because that has to be better for her back. “Worked out just fine.”

"Okay." Wrath almost doesn't notice, that anything's all that off. Maine is quiet, but Maine's always quiet. And he's still letting her lean against him, which is a big deal. But it's his knuckles that eventually give it away. Wrath likes hands, likes trying to draw them, so she notices things about them.

Which is a little worrying, even if he's acting okay.

Wrath carefully takes his hand, turning it so she can examine it better. The dark red of early bruises--she knows those really well, thanks--and a few little splits in the skin. Definitely different, though; between when he left and when he came back, he must have hit something, really hard. She smooths her hand very lightly over his knuckles and curls her fingers around his. (And that's okay, right? She and North held hands a lot, back when they were just friends. It doesn't have to be more than that or mean anything else. It's just a way of telling someone you're there with them.)

Everything is fine, it’s always fine, and it’s nice that there’s no pushing on the subject. Easy enough to slip back into the casual turn the night has taken, ignore the clones and their fates, and just try to be normal, for fuck’s sake. Whatever normal passes for in this new universe, at least.

But there’s a sharp intake of breath at the sensation of her hand, his gaze immediately hyperfocused on every small movement she makes. The punch had been a rash decision, no logical thought in it at all because it didn’t change the fact that there’s another dead clone, but it had at least helped to purge some of the confusion bubbling in his brain. That should have been it, but Wrath is far more observant than he’d thought, and now there’s a feeling of vulnerability, because the wound is very visible proof that perhaps he’s not quite as fine as he’d like to believe. Fuck.

His hand twitches, he could push her away it wouldn’t be hard. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

His fingers entwine with her’s instead.

She'd be very easy to push away, and she wouldn't fight him on it. She hasn't been friends with Maine that long, after all. And she's already gotten into his personal space a lot tonight.

Wrath already knows that Maine isn't fine, for whatever reason. It's a relief that Maine also knows Maine isn't fine. She links her fingers with his, her other hand stroking the back of his soothingly, avoiding the darker spots of developing bruises.

"It's okay, Maine," she says quietly. To be upset. To feel anything. To hold on. A lot of things.

It’s bullshit, is what it all is. He’s a soldier, killed innumerable people, blew up York, and there’s never been regret for anything. Everything is a casualty of war, it’s a hard fact of life, and lingering on it never makes it any better, so why the fuck is it any different in this place. Why should he care about any of this when there’s work to be done, and there’s work to be done back home. First priority should be getting home.

Getting home. Getting shot. Losing his mind.

It makes him tired, so very tired. Too many revelations in such a short period of time, from people invading his head, to learning his own fate, to the cause of all of his future problems showing up only to dissolve away. Definite bullshit.

His response can’t be heard so much as felt, a deep rumble low in his chest, barely an exhale. Wrath shouldn’t be indulging this, he shouldn’t be indulging it, but he doesn’t move. “Worked out just fine.”

Wrath squeezes his fingers lightly, covering his hand--well, as much of it as she can, he's got much bigger hands than her--with her other firmly for a moment. She looks up and gives him a wry little smile. "You're being dumb, Maine." She has to keep saying that to freelancers. She's starting to really sense a pattern about shit that program did to people, and she's not liking it at all. Or maybe that's just the social atmosphere from whatever century Maine and North and York are from. (Or maybe she's the weird one, who knows.)

But it's not live fire, it's not a distraction from the mission. He can feel bad if bad things have happened, and he doesn't have to pretend it's all okay. It's very obviously not, and he's not fooling her, and he's obviously not fooling himself either.

Wrath tilts her head to rest against his shoulder, something a bit like a hug. "It's okay."

Admittedly, yes, he's being incredibly dumb, and that's putting it lightly. It could be argued that most of his life decisions could be classified as 'dumb'. Military life didn't quite make for the ability to rationalize emotional difficulties in healthy ways, after all. This is all fairly new, difficult, and exhausting, if he was being honest. Really, he'd rather be under live fire any day than have to sort through the demons in his head (thankfully unrelated to the demons in the holo display).

There's a quiet noise of amusement at the thought, and a very minute squeeze back. "Never claimed to be smart."

And then there's another flip of her hair with his free hand, and surprisingly no tension when she rests against him. Hugging is still something he's not quite there with, yet, but this is alright.

(Maine, you only wish your demons were like the ones in the movie. At least those, you could kill by shooting them and then they'd be gone.)

Wrath snorts and rolls her eyes at him. "Not smart and dumb are two different things." Dumb involves a wholly willful component of dumbness. Geeze.

But this really isn't the time to back the guy into a corner and try to make him talk. Wrath's never been a fan of that method anyway. She doesn't like being mean, and has never really bought into the notion that sometimes you have to be mean to someone for their own good. And sometimes it's just really difficult to talk about things, for a lot of reasons. She knows that well. So she just snuggles back against him a little more and is simply there.

Of course there’s a difference, but that’s completely beside the point, at least as far as he’s concerned. He’s never claimed to be good at any of this, has never needed to be in the past, and he’s certainly not going to be making those claims any time soon. Fine, he’ll admit to being dumb, emotionally vulnerable, and completely unable to deal with anything that doesn’t require brute force to fix it.

But she doesn’t push, and that’s the best thing she could do; for that he’s thankful. Anyone else wouldn’t leave well enough alone, but she’s a soldier, she knows the difficulties. She gets it, understands, and that means more than he’d ever be able to put into words.

Perhaps it would behoove him to let go of her hand, but he doesn’t. This is okay, he has to remind himself. She helps. This helps. Maybe at some point, he’ll be able to admit that there’s a problem, that he’s not as put together as he’d like people to believe, but this helps for the time being. He can’t force the words out, but there’s a very, very quiet noise in the back of his throat, nearly a purr; thank you

SANCTUM INBOX

Re: 170 - evening -

170 - evening -

Re: 170 - evening -

170 - evening -

Re: 170 - evening -

170 - evening -

Re: 170 - evening -

170 - evening -

Re: 170 - evening -

170 - evening -

Re: 170 - evening -