goneawaycomms

She ties the wraps off tight and rolls her shoulders. She doesn't immediately look at him, but after a deep inhale and exhale she does, and the expression in her eyes is... a little raw. She doesn't look like she's been crying, but it's hard to know for sure.

"Hey." Her voice cracks slightly and she groans, drags her hand through her hair. Grumbles at its length and ties it into a stupid little ponytail. "I'll... I'll get into it all in a minute. I just..."

She gestures vaguely at the bag.

York just nods, crossing to the bag to hold it for her. His curiosity can wait, obviously. There's something she needs to work through, or up to.

She exhales again, a little shaky, and she gives him a nod in return as a silent 'thanks'. She flexes her hands, then settles into her spot in front of the bag and starts hitting it with all the force that comes with a kind of rage that's usually much more visible on South than it is, right now.

She'd probably hit even harder, if she didn't want to hit York or knock him on his ass right now.

Whoa. York braces himself a little more firmly when she starts punching -- she's hitting it like she's pissed off or hurting far more than her current demeanor implied. His brow furrows a little, worried, but he doesn't say anything about it. Just holds the bag, pressing his weight into it with each punch, hoping that this is helping somehow.

Despite the latent rage clearly behind the strikes, she doesn't get sloppy, she doesn't falter; there's a rhythm to her punches, it's not uncontrolled, but it's intense. It's the release of a building pressure, built over days worth of distress and fear and rage, exacerbated by the flood of memories she was forced to endure and having come to a head in that entirely necessary but oh so difficult talk with her brother.

The first time she does falter, she stalls entirely, holding the sides of the bag and dropping her head forward against it as she just tries to breathe, every inhale and exhale ragged with exertion.

"Fuck," comes out as a hiss between teeth. "Sorry. Didn't hit it into you too hard—?"

Edited (wording) 2021-04-21 16:15 (UTC)

"Nah, I'm good. Hazard of the job." He rolls his shoulder as if shrugging off the impact and reaches out, setting his hand on her wrist just above the wrappings. "You okay?"

She's been punching the bag for awhile -- if the goal here is to exhaust herself she's well on her way.

She tenses slightly at the contact, but that tension dissipates after a couple of seconds. She focuses on slowing and evening out her breathing until it's a little less strained, before lifting her head.

"Bit of a complicated question," she says, with a weak little laugh. "I've pushed myself harder than that before, it's... I'm fine. In that way, anyway."

Better to exhaust herself and take all of this out on a bag than break her hand again, or turn on someone instead of something.

But even she needs a break, and she can't put this all off forever. She steps away to grab a bottle of water and beckons York over to a bench off to the side where she sits down, chugging half the bottle.

He was, in fact, asking emotionally. But they're apparently getting to that. York follows her to the bench, sitting beside her curiously but not prompting her again. She'll talk when she's ready.

She sets the bottle down, wipes her mouth, then leans her head back against the wall with her eyes closed. Her breathing has evened out entirely, now, though tension has settled back into the line of her shoulders.

It takes her a good couple of minutes to steel herself for what she does next, the shift from silence to action only broadcast by the particularly deep inhale she takes before opening her eyes.

She lifts the puck from around her neck, grunting as the chain briefly gets caught on her hair.

"Here." She pushes it into York's hands, with her own not quite shaking, but not quite steady either. "You were right. I always knew he wasn't mine. I wouldn't give him up because you wanted him, because I wanted an AI for so long that I couldn't let it go. And— and because I refused to face the fact that nothing I did to get one was worth it, or meant a damn thing, whether or not I kept him."

She isn't looking at him. She can't.

"But none of it was. Nothing was worth losing my brother."

She let the damn AI ruin everything. She let the damn Project ruin everything. She has to let go, she has give up this stupid fight, or it stands a chance of consuming her all over again.

"So... there. He's back where he wants to be. Where he should be."

It's not a decision she's only just made, no, it's a decision she came to days ago, maybe longer. She could have waited another hour, another day, another week, prioritised the things she needs from York in this moment. She could have, but she doesn't.

It's not exactly all out of the goodness of her heart, that she chooses now. In a way, it's a test. If he takes Delta and just leaves, now, then she knows that it was all about Delta, that all of this was just another manipulation from someone who only cared so long as it got him what he wanted.

But if she waited, if she only gave him back after they talked and York left then, cut her off like a part of her still expects him to...

She'd rather get to say nothing than to end up saying everything and regretting it, than have the rug pulled out from under her again. She'd rather stay alone than think someone might even care a little, only to have him leave the second he got what he actually wanted from her.

It's extremely clear from the moment Delta's puck is in his hands that this is the last thing York expected, and not the reason he came. His eyes widen in surprise and he brings the device to his chest, just holding it for a moment before he's able to say or do anything else.

"Thank you. We really appreciate this." He doesn't know exactly when she decided this or why she's choosing now to give D back, though he might figure it out later. It doesn't matter right now. York pulls the chain over his head and clears his throat softly.

Delta appears at his shoulder, right where he belongs. It's not the same as having him implanted but it's as close as they can get right now -- maybe they'll find a way -- and it's a huge step up from chasing South around just to talk to his AI. "Thank you, South." His voice is as even as ever, but if South has learned to read his nuances at all she'll be able to hear the gratitude.

"Give us some privacy, D?"

The hologram nods and vanishes, and York places a hand over the puck affectionately before looking back up at South. He understands her position now, why she so stubbornly clung to him, and acknowledges that it's a huge development for her to hand him over despite all that. But that's not what they're here to talk about.

"I'm guessing this isn't why you needed a punching session, though." Or why 'are you okay' is an extremely complicated question. York's free hand reaches for one of hers. "What happened?"

For a second, she's staring at him with a genuine note of surprise in her eyes. He doesn't get up, he doesn't leave, he thanks her and he reaches for her hand and she's too stunned by the fact he really didn't leave to even think about putting up token protest to the gesture. She just lets him take it.

And then she pulls her eyes away from him, casting them to the ground as they start to shine with tears. "I— I was right. He hasn't actually forgiven me."

Her other hand tries to curl into a fist, wrapped around the edge of the bench, knuckles going white. She swallows a lump in her throat.

"A-And— and it's not like I can blame him. What I did— you don't forgive a person for that. You saw it. I told you my stupid fucking plan. I tried to sacrifice someone he considers his son and then I let him fucking die. I don't expect forgiveness, I don't— I don't fucking deserve it. But he let me think..."

Her voice starts to thicken as she talks and she has to stop for a second to calm herself, so she doesn't crack.

"And y'know what? H-He never even said he forgave me. I just— fucking assumed, or hoped, I don't know. How fucking stupid am I? I shoulda fucking known better. I know him. I know him better than anyone and I know he does this, but I guess his stupid denial bullshit rubbed off on me because there I was, staring the truth in the face and refusing to see it."

She swallows. A tear rolls down her cheek. The hand he reached for is shaking.

"H-He still couldn't even say it. He couldn't hurt me outright by fucking saying it." She chokes on a sad laugh, squeezing her eyes shut. "Fuck."

Edited (dialogue wasn't quite south-y enough) 2021-04-26 22:38 (UTC)

Oh. Oh, South. He honestly didn't expect this to be her response over it, at least not in front of him. Though he'd suspected she was right -- that North had just let her believe what was easiest, what would make her happiest. It's lying by omission and he's not happy about it, but one issue at a time. Right now South is crying over it right next to him, her hand shaking, talking about North's denial bullshit (and it is bullshit) like she does it too and she doesn't.

"Wishful thinking isn't the same as denial, South."

He pulls his hand back from hers but only so he can wrap an arm around her -- she's taller but sitting like this and the way she's slumped he can get it around her shoulders to pull her into a half hug. She can turn it into a full hug if she wants it.

"I'm sorry. It's understandable he'd need more time but he shouldn't have led you on like that, it makes everything worse."

Despite herself, despite every instinct in her that should be screaming at her to pull away from the contact, she just lets her weight sag into it as she shakes her head.

"It was fucking denial. He kept— there were moments, moments I should've known. There's this look he gets, when he's hiding something, and... and I saw it, I saw it when I was talking to him about that fucking Wrath woman knowing what I did to him and I... I told myself it was nothing."

It wasn't nothing. She knows exactly what it was. He was pushing down the way he really felt about what she'd done to him, the irreparable ways she'd betrayed him.

More tears roll down her face and she tries to swipe them away.

"I-I really fucked up, York. I think— I think this is it. I told him he has to do the work this time, think about it, and if he needs to tell me to get the fuck out of his life, he has to do it. And I think—"

She barely bites back a sob, still unable to let herself be vulnerable without fighting it back.

Edited (wording) 2021-05-16 02:10 (UTC)

York takes her weight without trouble or comment, letting her get out whatever she needs to. She seems to get stuck, though, choking on the sobs that she won't just let out.

"You think what?" he prompts gently, then because he's incapable of not chattering even in moments like these, "I don't think he's going to tell you that, I think he's just got to work through this. Admit what he's feeling to himself for once."

The next sound out of her is a dismissive snort, though it loses some of its edge when her breath breaks for another choked sob. "Y-You didn't fucking hear him. See him. He wouldn't even hug me, he practically fucking pushed me away and he—"

She hisses a curse under her breath as her voice cracks again. God, she feels pathetic.

"We were in a fucking memory. One of— one from when we were kids, first time I ever heard someone tell me I should be more like him and— when he left, he went over to that little kid me and kissed her forehead and—"

She bites back the next sob so hard she bites her own tongue.

"I'm fucking bad for him, York. I always fucking have been. It's half my fucking fault he's even like this and— and I think he's finally gonna fucking realise it. Real— Realise he's only gonna get better about this shit if he cuts me out."

"Or he could just get better about this shit," York counters, "and you could get better about your shit. You could improve together, even if you're partly responsible for the other being the way you are. It's just about how much work you both want to put in."

"I tried! I fucking tried! I spent months fucking trying and he promised me we were being honest with each other whilst letting me believe a fucking lie the whole time and now I don't even know if I can trust him if he says he wants me back in his life anyway because then— then how am I supposed to know anything's changed?!"

It comes out in a single breath and she slumps, shoulders shaking.

"A-At least if he disowns me I know he's doing something. I-I betrayed him, his own fucking twin, and he hasn't processed any of it. He's spent months not thinking about it because he knew it'd change things, he knew he wouldn't be able to fucking look at me the same and— and now he's hurting and it's all my fault, like it's always been my fault."

She swipes at her face, but trying to stop the tears is futile. She can try and fight the sobs, even hold some of them back, but the tears are out of her control.

"I-I was always a fucking problem. I've always been the fucking problem, the problem he's been trying to solve his whole fucking life. I caused him nothing but trouble while he tried to look out for me, mopped up after our fucking dad, ran the fucking house, and I resented him for it because everyone wanted me to be like him so I got. worse. Over and over again. And he kept looking out for me, because I was his baby fucking sister. But I'm not a fucking kid anymore, I'm a fucking monster who got him killed and I don't even think he fucking loves me anymore. Not the real me. Not—"

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. She bites her own fist to try and ground herself, because the more she says the more pitiful she feels, the more exposed she feels. It’s years of bullshit released all at once and maybe it needs to be, but she’s never talked about this kind of shit with anyone but North until now, until he’s the only one she can’t talk to.

Edited (bigger wording changes) 2021-06-24 04:36 (UTC)

York is quiet for a long moment, shifting the arm he has around her to rub her back while she cries. He can't argue any of it and has no real desire to soften it for her but he does see the changes. He sees the effort she's been putting in. So when he speaks again, it's with a gentle question.

"Who's the real you? And who do you want to be?"

"I'm—" the sound aborts in the back of her throat. Who even is she, anymore? Does she even know? Does she even know who she wants to be? "I— I don't know. I don't know who I am, I don't know— I don't know."

She knows who she isn't. She knows she's not the little girl North still loves, comparatively innocent and still wronged by the world more than she'd wronged it. She knows she's not the South that betrayed her brother and left him to die, who shot Washington in the back and bargained with a monster.

But she doesn't know who she is. She's changing too much too fast and she can't get a grasp on it.

"I always— I always thought I wanted to be— be free of him. So I could be me. But then I lose him and I don't even know who me is."

"How about you work on figuring that out, while he's sorting through the rest? That way when you get an answer, one way or another, you can know who you are. Who you're going to be."

He breathes out, and this is something he wouldn't have expected to be saying to her only a few months ago, but. Well.

"You don't have to be a monster, South. The things we've done aren't all we are."

She snorts again, but it's weak. In the abstract, she knows he's not wrong, knows he wouldn't be saying this to her of all people if he didn't mean it. Just— it's hard to believe it, right now, after the way North looked at her, after that goddamned forehead kiss, after he couldn't even call her by her actual name after he accepted the truth.

'South' is a monster, and Natasha is gone.

"S'easy for you to say," she mumbles, scrubbing a hand across her face and cringing feeling the tears. The words lack any sort of bite. "Fuck. Fuck. I-I don't even know where to start. It's always been... we've always been..."

She bites her lip and shakes her head. She's not saying he's wrong, or that she won't try, it's just... hard.

"You start with what you want out of life. Leave North out of it for now."

It seems to York that South's spent too much of her life wrapped up in her brother, and vice versa. That isn't their fault but it's a problem. It built resentment and dependency.

Another snort, but there's an edge of dark amusement to it now, despite the tears still dribbling down her face. "H-Hell of a fucking place to try and figure that out."

York's right, of course. A lifetime of resentment and dependency, a cycle neither of them have been able to break. Knowing each other so well and yet sometimes not at all.

North's all South's had for years. The only person who never turned his back on her, no matter what she did. The only person who never left. She resented him for it as much as she needed it, needed the stability, needed the assurance that she'd never truly be alone because no matter what, Andrew was always there, waiting.

And now she's driven him away, too.

York shrugs, then goes back to draping his arm over her shoulders.

"We have to be who we are no matter where we are, South. What do you want? Friends? Self worth? New skills? A cup of coffee? Just think about it."

"Ugh, you and your— philosophical shit." There's still no bite, the frustration doesn't even seem genuine, especially as she turns a little bit more into the arm around her. Hard to put up a convincing mask when you're as emotionally wrecked as she feels right now. "I want..."

(An identity. Self-worth. Friends. A life. To be loved for who she is.)

"...right now, I kinda wanna drink all that fuckin' booze I stole."

York

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