victormakesart | (no subject)

(no subject)

She can't go anywhere else. It's too late at night and the kids are sleeping and she can't go to Cole like this and she wanted to go to James with this because she knows he'd let her go off the deep end. He'd let her break. He's been waiting for her to break for years. And maybe that's why she presses Clark's number and not James'. Or maybe it's because her finger slips off of James' speed dial. Either way, there she is, outside the door.

She tries to make a fist to knock, but her knuckles are bruised and her swollen fingers won't close. So she whispers, "Clark," knowing that he'll hear her.

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Clark is awake at once, and quickly looks around the room. April is sleeping at his side, and the children slumber in their own shared bedroom. Shelby doesn't move, but Ree looks up at him as she hears him stir, wagging her tail tentatively.

"Shh, go back to sleep, girl," Clark whispers, getting out of bed. He's already working on trying to pinpoint what he heard. It clearly wasn't from inside the apartment...

There. Breathing at the door. And a quick check through the wall confirms her identity. He heads to the door and opens it. "Victor..." She doesn't look the greatest.

She has sweat through her undershirt, her pants are sticking to her legs... the rest of her patrol clothes including her mask and bulletproof vest are in a pile at her feet. She took them off during her anxiety attack when she felt like she was charring from the inside. Before she went berserk on a few workout dummies and screwed up her hands. Her face is swollen and puffy, but from crying not from confrontation. Her eyes are pink rimmed and they hurt, but she can't rub them. "I'm sorry it's so late," she whispers numbly, going through the motions of being polite. "April's probably back now, too."

"It's fine, don't worry about it," Clark says, taking a step backward in a subtle invitation for her to come inside. "Uh... can I get you anything?"

((Did I goof re: April?))

"I could use a drink," she mumbles, hoarsely. She picks up her gear, with difficulty. Her fingers are stiff. It feels like she's wearing padded gloves.

((I don't think so! Vic probs spent a lot of time punching stuff.))

"Let me help you with that," Clark offers. He can see she's having difficulty, and there's a lot of gear to carry.

"I can make coffee if you want." She's not well known for liking alcohol, so he doesn't assume that's what she means.

"She tell you about today?" she asks. She doesn't correct him about the drink, but there is a pause there. She really wants to get wasted. She wants to drink until she's not angry anymore.

"A bit." He doesn't miss her hesitation. But really, he doesn't think she should be drinking like that. So once he's sure she's seated on the couch, he puts on a pot of coffee.

She paces the floor, though she's bone tired and it hurts to move. "I'm so angry, Clark," she says, softly, not wanting to wake the kids, but there's this vast rage brewing under the surface, a purpose to her pacing.

It's hard to watch her like this, but he knows all he can do is listen and talk to her. "From what I've heard, you have a right to be."

"I want to drink until I can't see," she says, an edge of desperation in her voice. "I want to lose control. I don't even care if I'll regret it later."

"You might not care, but I do," he replies. He's really worried about her.

"Please."

"It won't fix anything," he tells her, hoping to get through to her. "I know what it's like. I've been there before. But all it does is put it off. It won't make it any easier to deal with."

"I know it won't. I just...." She clenches her fist loosely even though it hurts like she stuck her hand in a jellyfish tank. Maybe because it hurts. "I can't do anything. What can I do against sickness? What can I do against cheats? I hate... I hate... I don't know what I hate."

"You hate being helpless." He understands this, too.

"Exactly. And I already am. So what does it matter if I get shitfaced?" Another sign of her loss of control; she's usually all 'gosh' and 'golly' and while she thinks in profanities sometimes, she restrains herself.

She doesn't want to listen to reason, to why it would benefit her not to get drunk. So he appeals to her sense of caring about others. It might be a little bit of a low blow, but he doesn't know what else to do. "Because it'll hurt me to see you like that."

Her expression turns off in the scary way it does sometimes. "Emotional manipulation," she says, flatly. "That's acceptable."

He didn't really expect that she wouldn't call him out on it. But it's kind of frightening to see her just... shut off. "It's still true." One last point, maybe. "Besides... we don't keep alcohol in the house. I can't get drunk and neither can April."

"It's true, and that's why it was okay to use that tactic. If it was a falsehood I'd've gotten cross. I was worried about that, yeah," Victor says. "It wouldn't make sense for you to keep any here."

Well that's... at least slightly reassuring. "We do, however, have coffee," Clark says. The coffeemaker is likely done percolating by now, so he fetches two mugs.

The wind is out of her sails, and her expression stays that blank flat. She feels herself pulling away... knows that it's her defense mechanism, and doesn't like it. "I let myself get false hope today," she says, softly. "As mad as I am at the Three, I'm just as angry with myself for trusting them."

"You did nothing wrong," Clark insists. He doesn't force her to take one of the mugs, just sets it down in easy reach. "They didn't give you a chance to even ask."

Edited 2014-09-23 01:26 (UTC)

"I-isn't it reasonable if someone says that they're gonna do you a favor, to figure that they're gonna give you an option? Especially if they're magical?" She's thawing, she takes the coffee mug in her hands and just breathes it in.

"Absolutely. That's what a favor is. Otherwise it's just a gift... or payment, I guess, if you did something for them." Clark holds his own mug and takes a sip.