spit_it_out | OOM: Cell

Molly had only really headed into the Office to see if there was someone she could ask about her Security status - if the bar's going to keep showing up, she wants to know if she still counts as a member. After all, she does still have the badge - it's spent ten years wrapped up with Gert Yorkes's glasses in the beret Linguini gave her when he took her to Paris, never leaving her side.

Since there's no-one about, she glances into the cell area before bothering to leave a note, and sees...

Oh.

Oh.

He can't have lost it in the bar; he just wouldn't. Right? He tries so hard, it wouldn't be fair.

(She knows it doesn't work like that, but for once she wants to be right about something. Someone. Please, this once, let her be right.)

Besides, surely she'd have seen the mess? It's hard to judge the passage of time between visits, but she's pretty sure even the Loompas couldn't have cleared up after the Hulk that quickly.

She isn't at all certain what she's doing; in fact, she's pretty certain she's going to get this wrong. But hey, that's never stopped her before, right? At least, that's what she tells herself as she reaches out to touch the glass of Bruce's cell.

Too late to run away now, even if she wanted to.

(She's in civvies today: battered biker boots, threadbare skinny jeans and purple sweater. It actually makes her look a little older than the spandex does, and she's certainly more comfortable in it.)

Edited 2012-11-26 13:36 (UTC)

He looks up. Meets her eyes for a second, then away.

Is this better? At least she knows who, and what, he is. He won't have to explain what he's doing here - or at least, some of it.

At the same time, it's not like he can pretend nothing happened. Though nothing did. Nothing like what could have.

'Hey.'

It's quiet, and he glances at her once before, before returning his gaze to the floor.

"Bruce." Her heart drops as his head does, and she's even less certain if she's doing the right thing - does he even want to see her? Is she going to do more harm than good?

"Hey." She offers him the most tentative smile she has - please don't be mad, please don't be upset, please don't let me screw up, over and over. "Can I come in?"

(Oh, God, don't let her screw up. This once, let her get something right.)

He folds the book in his lap quietly, but doesn't put it aside.

'Sure.'

There's a small rush of trepidation. He takes a breath to counter it. It's just a bar out there. It'll be fine.

"Baby?"

The glass slides open, smooth as Tony Stark, to let her step through -- and then recloses itself after her; after all, she didn't say anything about letting anyone back out.

She sits right next to Bruce on the bunk, near but not so close that they're touching, and looks him over, trying for clues.

"How are you?"

There's a long moment of silence. Then he sighs.

'Is 'fine' going to fly?'

"Probably not, no."

She offers another small smile, a little brighter than previously. At least right now he doesn't seem to want her gone.

"Sorry."

'Figured.'

He runs a hand around to the back of his neck, and massages it briefly.

'It's OK. I didn't change.'

So he probably is what qualifies as fine, for him, at the moment.

"Didn't really think you had."

Only partly from the lack of mess, but it's good to know her original instincts had been right.

"Wasn't really what I asked, though." After all, he probably didn't lock himself in here for the view. "What's wrong?"

He thinks. And in the end, can only tell the truth.

'I don't like my room.'

"Yeah? I don't like the Milliways ones much either, these days."

Which reminds her that she is tired; absolutely, completely tired. She never gets much sleep at home and she can't sleep at Milliways, she's tried: it's too quiet, too lonely. Doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered all month so there's no reason for it to start now; she just has to keep going.

"What don't you like about it?"

He shakes his head. He looks tired too, despite two days of being in here. And that's sort of the point.

'It doesn't matter. It's just a room.'

The truth of the matter is right there, but he hesitates. She has no reason to care, and he's only spoken to her a couple of times.

'You don't have to listen to this.'

"Kinda sounds to me like it does matter."

She frowns, uncertain, before she lightly touches his hand. It's so brief he might not even notice she does it, and if he asked her why she couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell him why she cares, either, only that it's obvious (was obvious even to her twelve-year-old self) that he's sad and lonely and she wants to help. She'd like to make up for all her screw-ups the last time they talked, too; she likes him even if he is an awkward pain-in-the-ass.

"I know I don't. But d'you notice me going anywhere?"

He offers half a smile, glancing at her just for a second. He's grateful for the thought, even if it makes him a little uncomfortable.

'Guess not.'

Still, it takes a while longer before he tackles it.

'I could just get another room, I suppose. But that's...I'm just sick of it.'

He closes his eyes, and tamps down the flare that tells him how much he's sick of this. It's not anger. Just...resignation.

'I spend all my time thinking about what my surroundings are like, what I eat, how much I sleep, who I talk to. Just-'

The frustration may be coming through a little.

'-counting my heart beat so it doesn't go too high, or doing breathing exercises, or - shit, all of it.'

He wants to say, it's not life. But doesn't. He shrugs instead, and looks down.

'It was easier to just come down here, where it won't be a problem.'

Edited 2012-11-26 19:22 (UTC)

"I'm sorta tricky to get rid of. Just ask my brother."

And then he starts talking and compared to before it's almost like he can't stop, like a staccato landslide; she bites her lip, listens, tries to work out what to say. In the end she settles for just putting her hand on his - and leaves it there, this time.

"I'd say you could come try life in my 'verse, if you wanted, but it's not exactly... low-stress." To put it mildly. "Plus Chase's secret mutant power is being a total doofus, I swear."

Sometimes, it all wants to come out. And better this than the other. He so rarely talks about any of it, and there are times he just wants to scream it out from the nearest rooftop.

He can't, and won't. But God, silence can be hard. And he doesn't feel any better when he's said it, because there are no solutions, and now he feels bad for having dumped even that small amount on her.

So he shakes his head, but doesn't pull his hand away.

'Thanks. But you already have a me, there.'

No world deserves more than one of Him.

'And I can't complain. They haven't managed to lock me up yet, back home.'

"I don't think it would matter, actually - but I was never exactly up on the metaphysics or whatever. Bet it's happened before, though."

And it isn't exactly like her world could get all that much worse.

"...Bruce, you totally get to complain. That is the most epically rubbish sentence ever." She laughs a little, though it's not as if she finds the situation funny. "It's okay, though. I get what you mean."

She's had a lot of days which have counted as 'good' just because they're all still together.

It is okay, too. He can talk to her, and it's fine.

He takes his hand away now, unused to having someone he doesn't know well touch him like that.

'You don't get to complain if you did it to yourself,' he mutters, smoothing his palm over the surface of his text book. It's something that eats at him, and it's only the truth. So, no. He doesn't get to complain.

She raises her eyebrows a little.

(She's actually a little surprised it took him that long to move his hand. At least seventy-five-percent of her part in this conversation is her making it up as she goes along and hoping for the best.)

"Did you know you were doing it to yourself at the time?"

Call her crazy, but she suspects otherwise.

'No, of course not.'

That's something he has no trouble admitting.

"There you go, then."

She shakes her head at him. "Crap happens. Making a mistake doesn't make you a bad person, Bruce. You still get to admit it when it sucks."

He bites his bottom lip, and shuts his eyes, and looks away.

'You don't get it.'

If there's one thing he's picked up on in their conversations, it's that she seems to like to simplify things. His tone of voice, now - sharp, clipped - might convey the way he doesn't like it.

'It might be easy for someone else to say crap happens, but I can't. If I say that, it's like I'm taking no responsibility for what I did. It's not like I went out and left the garage door open. People have died. And yes, it sucks. And no, I can't just let go of it that easy.'

If he could, he'd hate himself more. The fact that he feels guilt helps him clear the line between himself and the Other Guy. But it doesn't make individual days any easier to cope with.

"That wasn't really what I meant," Molly says, carefully.

(Like she said, making it up as she goes along. Failing isn't exactly a surprise.)

"I'm just not very good at explaining, I guess. It always comes out sounding simpler than I mean. But I do get it, I think."

He's struggling now, but not with his anger. His fingers clench tight, and then spread over his book, as if grounding himself on it.

Conversations like this, few as they've been, tend to make him feel worse. Because if he can't even convey the problem, how can he ever hope to fix it?

'I'm sorry,' he says, eventually.

It feels like the Hulk has a fist in his chest, squeezing his lungs.

'It's just that none of this is ever going to go away. I can't make it better.'

"More talking at cross-purposes, I guess," Molly says. "You don't have to say sorry, it's okay."

She nods. "Yeah, I know. I wish I could help, but I keep on messing it up. I'll keep trying, though, if you'll let me."

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