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Entry tags:
☞ she wears me down to bones in bed.
who jack + isaac
what 8) she's baaaaaa~aaack.
rating r
warnings isaac gets crazy, nicole is gross, jack isa whalejack
[ Jack tends to know when Isaac does not feel well. He knows when Nicole comes back. That is what he rides on, the idea that someone understands, that someone knows. Love me, love my dog. That song and dance. Except instead of a dog, he muses in the dark, I've got a dead girlfriend.
It's dark and cold and the stars are cruel tonight. Isaac doesn't have to turn his head to look out the window. It's as if they are a signal, a calling. She's coming, she's coming, and he closes his eyes to try and sleep again, his fingers winding through Jack's hair. He feels a puff of breath against his throat, a slight nuzzle. Good, yes, just focus on...
Isaac.
His eyes open.
He doesn't jump. The sight is normal. He can will her back away.
She bleeds over him with a smile and he can smell it. Wet and fetid and coppery. She wants him up.
Not tonight.
He is careful, he is always careful as he shifts Jack just slightly, tucks the blanket in close around his arms and kisses his jaw slowly. I'll be back, it's a quiet promise as he moves from the bed, feels the cold floor under his feet, hears his heartbeat and her voice like a prayer. His hands pass over walls, the cat's eyes glow in the dark, faint and green and he swallows. Don't look at me like that, Cat. Nothing's wrong.
Everything is wrong. Nicole hisses. I don't like to be ignored.
Isaac thinks that a shower will do. Sometimes it does. Sometimes she goes down the drain like dirt and blood from his lip. He strips easily, turns on the water. ]
I'm done.
[ This isn't the Ishimura. It's not the Titan Station. It's a goddamn house and he repeats this over and over with cold water sluicing over his face, down his shoulders and back. The temperature changes slowly and he breathes out. Warm. Warmer. Warmer... Until it's hot and it burns, but it's okay. It'll wake him up. The pain will wake him up and he can turn it off, but as he pushes himself, lets the water flow hotter and hotter, he feels it, the sting of her wrapped around his conscious like a hot coil and it's a sound out of his mouth that is most pitiful.
Pitiful, Clarke--get. A. Grip.
You can't get rid of me, Isaac. We have unfinished business. You still haven't done it. There's so much work. So much to do.
He shakes his head. Just a little more. Just a little hotter, but the water burns too much and he presses against cold tile and digs fingers into it uselessly. Go away, go away, get away from me, I don't want this--
And you think I did? You think I wanted this? ]
Don't do this to me.
[ No, Isaac. No, don't you do this to me. He steps out of the shower and tries to ignore her. Moves to grab a towel and wipe himself down with determination. His head pounds, but it's easy to slide on underwear and--and he lifts his hand. It's only sensible, wipe away the fog from the mirror, just to run fingers through his hair, to see that he is alone and that she is not here... except his fingers stretch out and it's slow and deliberate, no wiping, but drawing.
He remembers his cell, small and tight, housing before stasis. They hadn't bound his hands so he'd bitten his fingers, felt the flesh give and bleed as he wrote. The Marker wanted him to work. And work he did in writing.
A line now. A circle. A curved swath over the mirror. Another line. The wetness against his fingertips is close to what it used to be like. It could be like blood, dark and red and thick. He licks his lips slowly and--he lifts a finger to his mouth with care, bites down hard, slow, feels the slight snap of broken skin, the taste of hot blood. He repeats it on his middle finger. His ring finger. That'll do. That'll do just fine.
He reaches up and traces over each and every line and circle. Perfect. Color. The only color you need, sweetheart.
Isaac Clarke cries, at the spot of blood on his lips growing and the way his hand shakes as it bleeds and how the language drips over the mirror and how he is steadily losing it all. Losing his control. The only thing he's ever wanted. Give it back to me, he thinks. Give me back my head. It starts off with the little things, he gets sleepy-eyed, heavy-limbed, cold inside to his guts. He whispers: ]
I don't want to.
[ It always is, she says into his ear and that is when he knows. Her fingers are cold, they're so cold and he closes his eyes as they trail down his pulse. The barest scrape of nail. Sharp. Her scent is of a waking nightmare, dead and dry. ]
You're not Nicole. Nicole is dead.
[ All your fault, she says. Now... look at what a great job you did. It's too sweet. Like calling a dog stupid in the sickliest voice. He makes the mistake of looking up, eyes blue and wet: ]
[ Say it with me, Nicole murmurs and he shakes his head, feels a slowly winding bead of moisture make its way past the crown of his head, over the line of his brow bone. Her nails dig in deeper.
He wants to wipe it away (it's too red) but doesn't. No. Not this. Don't you remember? she asks him. I told you we weren't finished, Isaac. We'll never be finished. Not now, not ever. You can't run. Just because you think you can forget now that you have him. It's not that easy, Isaac.
Isaac shakes his head, but the words come out as she brings him down to the cold tile of the floor, holds his head so he isn't even staring at the mirror--only her eyes that glow white hot now, their kindness very much a distant memory. ]
The nightmare is over...
[ He says this, but soon after tells her in a soft voice that no. No, he doesn't want to. He's done. Fuck this. She urges him forwards, lips against his ear as he collapses inwards, feels small and tight and cold. For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Go away, go away, go away.
He needs to feel something, a twinge, a pain, so he takes his hand, sinks teeth into the meat of his thumb and forefinger, bites down hard and feels it break, blood flowing free. Good. Pain--she is still there, still holding his head in soft, cold hands and he cries freely, jaggedly.
You need so much more than just that... you've gone soft.
Please leave...
The nightmare is over... go on... ]
... But--but it will not end...
[ She smiles, he can see her, a soft curve of sweet lips with her hair falling into her eyes. There is a pain that winds its way through him, something soft and nostalgic as her laughter caresses him with the pleasure of needles and dark. He mutters something like "please" and "stop" and his hands are shaking and maybe she thinks that her job is over and done with and maybe... no more... she's gone and he's left laughing, and it's cold and quiet here and the lights in the bathroom are dim and the mirror is smeared with blood and he's laying there wondering if there's any way to pick himself up after something like that. The worst it's been in a long time. ]
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Better than a drawer, part of him thinks, but he shakes his head, tugging Jack as he walks over and sits himself down on the edge of the bed. He doesn't want to let go of Jack, not for a second. ]
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He's here. They're both here. Safe. Home.]
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But this is good.
His free hand lifts and his body turns just a bit to rest against Jack's shoulder, thumb grazing the base of his neck. ]
... You alright? Didn't hurt yourself, did you?
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It's not like he was using that throat for much anyway, right? Haha.]
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He tugs a bit with his hand holding Jack's and glances at the pillows.
Lying down is good.
It's preferable. His head feels too heavy to keep up like this. ]
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... I love you.
[ They're always the words that are there. Consistent. They're never not on his tongue. They're slow and soft in Jack's ear as he holds fast to him.
He remembers that roar, will remember it. Sharp and jarring but determined and he'll hold Jack closer. ]
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