spit_it_out | OOM: Cell

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OOM: Cell

It's been a couple of days. He's glad of it, though the boredom that's setting in is starting to worry him a little. Truth is though, sitting here reading has made him lethargic, to the point where he's not sure even the Other Guy could fight his way through.

Though that's ridiculous. So far, there hasn't been anything the Other Guy couldn't fight his way through. Still. He's supposed to be making an effort to live normally, isn't he? If only to prove to himself that he can. So he probably can't hide himself away in here forever.

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"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."

He looks over at her finally, and attempts a smile.

'It's not your fault. You don't even really know me. I don't expect any of it to make sense.'

Everything about this is awkward.

'I'm sorry,' he says again, because he can't help it. 'I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I appreciate you listening.'

Molly has now decided that Bruce says 'sorry' like she says 'dude'. It's practically a verbal tic, except his says a lot more about him than hers does about her.

"I'm not uncomfortable, exactly. Expecting to screw up again any minute, yeah, but I'll live." She gives him a smile in return for his own. "Do you want a drink? I always wondered how Baby does the catering."

He snorts quietly, and lets his head rest back against the wall.

'If I'm not green, you haven't screwed up.'

His indicators are not exactly subtle. If there are other types of screw up, he doesn't want to acknowledge them.

He tilts his head at the offer, and says, 'Sure. It just sort of appears. I'll have a Diet Coke.'

And he's right. There it is. Like the bar, only not.

Molly laughs.

(She'd actually rather deal with the Other Guy. At least then she'd know what to do, and being smacked around holds no fear for her whatsoever.)

"I'll get a mocha, I guess, with cream - oh, and mallows. I kinda need the caffeine." And there it is - size large. Very large.

Laughing a little: "Do you play Monopoly as well, Baby? Or is that a Bar thing?"

'The bar plays monopoly?'

He can't find it in him to be surprised. And nods at her drink, along with her comment.

'Tired?'

"And chess. And a mean Connect 4."

Writing appears on the cell wall: Also Thud. And Parcheesi. And Jumanji, if you get her drunk. She draws the line at Quidditch, however.

The writing disappears, to be replaced by I prefer Ravenous, Ravenous Rhinos, but I play cards, too. On occasion.

Molly laughs, patting the wall. "Thanks for the info, Baby."

She picks up the mocha and sips. (There is a dash of cream on her nose, but she won't mention it if he doesn't.)

"I'm always tired," she says, lightly. "It's okay, though."

He's a smart guy. He doesn't need help to figure out why. So he sips his drink quietly, watching her over the rim.

He'd comment on the impromptu graffiti, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Eventually, he says - slightly awkwardly, because when is he not? - 'You have cream on your nose.'

"Like I said, I don't like the rooms here."

Her eyes dance as she sips her drink, both hands curled around her mug as if to warm them.

"Oh, well - more for later, I guess."

He looks a bit taken aback at that comment, but who is he to say someone shouldn't wear cream as an accessory?

So instead, he asks, 'what's your issue with them?'

She'll rub it off, later. But hey, it suits her -- and she doesn't exactly worry about or mind looking silly.

"I dunno, they're just -- empty. Lonely, I guess." She looks down at her mug instead of at him. "I haven't exactly had a room to myself since I was about twelve. It's childish, but they're just... silent. I can't get used to it."

'Oh.'

He tries to imagine sharing a room, and can't. Not in the way she must be talking about.

'You don't like privacy?'

"Depends on how you define it, I guess. At first it was just like a sleepover, 'cause when you're the age we were then treating it that way was less freaky, and then you just... get used to it."

She rubs her nose, unexpectedly self-conscious and only somewhat aware that she's getting rid of the cream. "It's like ... I dunno, like sleeping in the day for ten years 'cause you work nights. It might not be the best thing ever, but that doesn't make the habit easy to break."

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