semifreakingnormal | ( 024 ) Ω ( SPAM FOR CLEMENTINE )

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( 024 ) Ω ( SPAM FOR CLEMENTINE )

[He is terrified of this assignment.

Okay, maybe not terrified - he's not afraid of Clementine, really. It's not like this is the one he has memories of. The Clementine he knows was kind of cool when he was on the verge of freaking out about being a girl. But he has those memories, and they're kind of hard to forget. He's never bitten anyone before. He's never made a beta before, and that thought does kind of terrify him. How could he put anyone else through what he went through?

...Admittedly, it's not like he'd try to give anyone creepy sleepwalking nightmares and try to force them to kill someone with him. He's pretty sure he's better than Peter in that light. But Derek had made his share of mistakes, too, and - mostly, Scott just never wants to think about what the other him had done to other her on the other Barge.

And now they're paired. He'd flipped through her file, briefly, but when he caught sight of her gruesome death, he closed it pretty firmly and headed for her cabin instead.

He remembers, from the other ship, but along the way he catches her scent, too. It's that he winds up following, opening himself up to all the things he can smell for the first time since they got back.

At her door, he hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally he knocks, running a hand through recently cut hair. He's about to knock again when he remembers that she was one of the ones who had been out of commission for a while, and that jars him. Had anyone even checked on her? Scott tries the knob, easing the door open to let himself in.]

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[He nearly smiles, and she nearly frowns. Not because she's disappointed, exactly, but because an animal would be afraid. That he isn't proves what she already knew, that he has reason.]

[He's so clever. She can see it in her eyes, and it makes her sorrow for him. He doesn't deserve this. He does, but he doesn't. He should have met Peter. They should have fought together. She shouldn't have to kill either of them.]

[She bows her head.]

Do you pity me?

I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want me to.

[He looks down at his hands, laces his fingers together and stares at his palms.]

I don't think I do. No.

[She exhales, smiling now. She shouldn't have to kill him.]

No. I wouldn't want you to. I don't want anyone to pity me. I made my choices.

[Looking sideways at him, she shakes her head, her fingers slipping under the waistband of her pants, catching on the piece of spring, warmed by her skin and her fear and her fury.]

Thank you for being so honest with me.

[She half-twists, the wire a half-moon shape mostly concealed in her palm. His t-shirt is loose, thin cloth. Almost tenderly, almost gently, she presses the tip of the wire to the cloth covering his ribs, which puckers before giving, and then suddenly there's blood.]

[She is so distant from this now that she isn't surprised by it. She wonders, compassionately, whether he will be.]

Oh--

[He feels it. She twists, and he just - knows, something's wrong. Something's wrong. A voice in the back of his head is yelling get out, get out, get out, but he doesn't move. It's like his hands won't unlace, like he's watching everything happen in real time, but he's stuck in slow motion. The metal pierces his shirt, then his skin, and it hurts.

It hurts.

For a second it's like claws, it's like being torn apart again. But he's not depowered. He's not helpless.

All of a sudden, time syncs up again, and he wraps his hand around her wrist, pulling back.]

Don't.

[He's strong. Of course he's strong, impossibly strong, because that's what they're like. These ones. She remembers. She remembers being one. She remembers giving up any strength she had for herself and taking on the strength he wanted for her to have.]

[She remembers the pain of turning. She remembers the pain of dying and turning again. She remembers, and she twists the half-coil up under his ribs as she remembers, and she looks sorry, she really does. Sorry but stone-faced.]

Come to my assistance in this great need, [she says, quiet and steady, pushing up,] that I may receive the consolation and succor of heaven in all my tribulations, necessities, and sufferings.

Clementi--

[He chokes on the rest of her name as she twists the coil, embedding it a little further into his skin, his chest, it hurts--

He lifts his other hand, grabs her elbow. He has to be careful, he doesn't want to hurt her, it's so hard - he just wants to hurl her away, just wants to yank and shove her back. But he can't. He doesn't want to hurt her. So he doesn't try and untwist the coil, even though he knows that would be easier on him. He pushes her hand back, trying to keep her at bay without hurting her.]

Clementine, stop.

[He is so careful with her, like she's made of glass. But she's stronger than he thinks. Not strong enough to move forward, but strong enough not to be pushed away. She won't move away. Not until he pushes her off. Not until he forces her.]

[It's like the old Salem conundrum, she realizes with a twist of giddy irony: if you drown, if you die, you're safe. But if you float, if you hurt me - you're a witch. You monster. You die.]

And sufferings. Particularly to end the suffering of this creature. And that I may bless God with you.

[She pushes. Against the force of his strength, it does nothing. But she isn't doing nothing. That's the difference.]

[There's blood on her hands. They're shaking.]

[Sufferings. Scott braces, and the coil doesn't twist in further. It still hurts. He can feel her shaking under his hands. Almost reluctantly, his eyes turn red. He doesn't growl. He's not a monster. And he's not here to be her sacrifice.

He's here to be her warden. To stop her from doing things like this to other people.

He pushes. Doesn't throw her across the room, but he pushes, and the coil gauges his skin. He grits his teeth, feels it pulling out of his chest.]

You're the only one making me suffer.

[It's not . . . exactly. Not exactly that she's afraid. Because she isn't. He's nothing like rabid, he isn't as dangerous as some of the creatures she's faced. He's no vargulf. He's no Olivia Godfrey.]

[But the red in his eyes is the first clear-cut sign of what she already knew, that her warden isn't human. That he is not Stephen. That he is a monster. That he's the same as what turned her, that made her ugly, evil, impossible. A curse in God's eyes.]

[It isn't enough to make her freeze, but it's enough to make her hesitate, just for a moment, so that his strong hands can push her away. So that he can look at her like that, with his animal eyes, and push her away.]

[Making me suffer. As if he doesn't suffer just by existing.]

[She misses . . . everything, back when the world made sense. She is panting, like a panicking animal. No more words. Blood on her hands.]

[God, it hurts, and he swallows a groan as the blood pours from his chest. His hands tighten on hers, then release so he can wrestle the coil from her hand. He stumbles to his feet, wanting to put distance between them, wanting to hold her hands to keep her from doing something else crazy.

When he gets the coil out of his hand, he throws it away, across the room, doesn't even watch to see where it lands. He holds onto her arm. She has his blood on his hands.

This isn't how he wanted a first meeting to go.]

I'm not going to hurt you. I'll never hurt you. Okay? I'm not him.

[And the red fades, leaving his eyes warm and brown and sad.]

[There's a ting noise as the coil hits the opposite wall and falls to the floor. She looks past him at it, her last weapon, her last desperate try, utterly out of her reach.]

[Then she looks back at him, eyes wide, lip trembling. She isn't fragile, but she is so goddamn desperate because she is so goddamn deserted. She could do anything in this moment, fall in any way. Except towards him. She won't do that again. She can't trust him. She isn't that fool.]

[She'll die a hundred times before she lets him turn her again.]

You turned me. [Spat, not said; no matter how much he hurts, she can hurt more. No matter how sad he is, she can cry out louder. He is not going to win this time.]

[She is the last person on Earth he would call fragile. She is intense, and so determined it's scary. She's done things he doesn't know how to wrap his head around.

And he's done things to her that he can't possibly accept. Except it wasn't him, and it wasn't her, and he doesn't want to own those actions, even though he knows he needs to.

He's been doing it anyway, since the very first time he experienced the other ship. He hasn't forgotten. He never will.

When she spits out those words, they twist into the hole in his skin, reopening it and digging straight to his heart. He feels sick. He lets go of her arm, and shakes his head.]

I've never turned anyone. And I never will.

[Peter didn't give him a choice. He doesn't even one to make an offer to anyone, not ever.]

[She stares at him. She could argue semantics. That it was him, really it was, just twisted slightly and seen from a different angle; that it was her, same way. Only she knows what his arguments will be against her, and she can see their merit even if she doesn't agree with them.]

[And all of a sudden she's so breathless with exhaustion she can't imagine playing this all out between the two of them, the remonstrances, the reassurances. She can't imagine having the energy to panic.]

[As adrenaline slips out of her system, she shakes her head and speaks with the certainty of the dead and the dying, both of whom she knows too much about and always will, no matter how he tries to redeem her.]

You might as well get rid of me now. Because I'll never believe you. You'll have to keep telling and telling me. And I won't stop. You understand that? I won't stop, and I won't understand, and I won't believe anything but what I was taught to believe.

This is what I am. So you might as well get rid of me now, Scott McCall, and save yourself a lot of grief.

[She will hurt him more and in ways that he can't even imagine. This is his last chance.]

[Maybe it's hers, too.]

[He tries to imagine it: an eternity of this, of her trying to kill him, of him stopping her. Of him not stopping her. Of him promising her not to hurt her, swearing that he'll never become like the other Scott. He's not a monster. He's a werewolf. He doesn't have to be a monster.

He imagines asking the Admiral for another inmate. Telling him he can't do this. It won't work. There's no way.

He knows immediately which one is more unbearable.]

I'll keep telling you.

[Because she doesn't deserve to be let down, tossed around. She deserves better than him, but he's who she's got.]

I was taught that werewolves weren't real, and people don't come back from the dead. [He shrugs helplessly.] I was taught wrong.

I'm not going to give up on you.

[She laughs at him. She laughs in his face. He's a fool, and he deserves what's coming to him. That's what she'll tell herself, anyway. That she isn't moved. She was trained to be tougher than this. She was supposed to be stronger.]

[But even that first time in the cell she swayed to the beat of her own heart, the pain of a killing. The pull of the moon against the tide of her blood.]

[His blood still tacky, drying on her hands.]

[So she laughs, but it fades away quickly in the acoustics of the room, and then she just feels alone. She wants to ask if it's healing, already, but instead she just lets silence be, weighing on her heavy and painful.]

[It feels like her own gut that's bleeding out.]

[His chest, his whole torso hurts, and he wonders if he's healing, too. For a moment, just a second, he's scared he's not. But it's not a physical distress that throbs through his ribs. It's just a bone-wearying sadness. It's like loss. He knows what that feels like too well, now, to recognize it - even if it doesn't make sense.

Why did Jack have to go? He wonders. Jack never laughed at him for his faith. Jack didn't warn him away. Jack taught him a lot, probably more than Scott taught him in return, and maybe that was the problem to begin with. He swallows hard.]

I'm not gonna give up on you.

[It's quiet, just this side of too soft. Then he lets out a breath, and shakes his head, voice strengthening.]

I'm not putting you in zero, but you're staying here for the next few days. I'll bring you meals. But otherwise...[He shrugs, tries a feeble smile.] You're grounded.

[She cocks her head. He's not putting her in Zero. This . . . baffles her. She doesn't know what to do with it. So she looks down into her lap with an expression that might be confused with atonement. Really, it's just bullheadedness.]

All right.

And then what?

[What's your plan, she wants to demand of him; what are you going to do for the next forever, while I'm your responsibility? She doesn't go so far. Just sits on her own frustration. She feels untethered, drifting.]

[Scott shrugs. He's overwhelmed by exhaustion all of a sudden, and he just wants to sit down. But he doesn't want to crowd her, and making himself even a little comfortable in her room just feels....wrong. She needs some place to feel at least a little safe, and she's going to be stuck here a while.]

I'll get the Admiral to fix your bed. Then...I don't know.

I'd ask what you wanna do, but we kind of already covered that.

Yeah. We already did.

[She keeps staring at the floor, her eyes hollow and exhausted. Maybe if she looked at him she'd see something she'd recognize. But she won't. He isn't human. She has to keep believing that.]

I'm glad you're not afraid of me, Scott.

[She sounds a hundred years away from this room when she says it. Maybe she means it, maybe she doesn't. Even she would be hard-pressed to say.]

[He shifts his weight forward without taking a step, like he - he wants to comfort her. She just stabbed him, but he wants to make her feel - whole, or full, or just alive.

But he can't do any of that now. He's not sure he'll ever be able to.

So he shifts back again, turning to find the coil. For a second, he turns it in his hands, staring at his blood. His chest has already healed, he can feel that. It's so weird, staring at a weapon with his DNA on it, knowing the wound that produced it - it's dumb and cyclical and he shakes the thought free, turning to look at her instead.]

Please don't be scared of me.

[She stiffens, leans back away from him when he shifts his weight. He says don't be scared, but she is, she is, she loves him and hates him and is scared of him all at once. This isn't fair. She never used to think things like this isn't fair and she thinks maybe it's Peter's fault that she's thinking it now, but goddamnit, she shouldn't have to worry about him having bureaucratic power over her along with his physical strength, his inherent evil. She shouldn't be questioning that evil, either.]

[She shouldn't be distracted by fear. She loathes herself acidly in this moment, her heart feels like it simmering, her eyes ache from watching him too hard. She feels a strong animal instinct to crawl away and hide, but there's nowhere to go.]

I'm not scared of you, [she lies bitterly through clenched teeth, hair in her face, liquor on her breath. She is so scared of him.]

[Scott hears the truth in her heart beat. He smells the lie in the air. So he sags without physically drooping: his head lowers, his shoulders lose some of their strength. He holds too much of the world on them, and right now, knowing that he frightens the one person he's here to help, the weight is too much.

He nods, but it's in acknowledgement of her real answer. They can both pretend. He'll do a better job of it later.]

Okay.

[He can't bring himself to thank her for the lie, though. Turning the screw once more in his hand, he turns to go.]

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( 024 ) Ω ( SPAM FOR CLEMENTINE )

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