bakerstreet | (no subject)

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The Other-Wordly Meme

Words are magical things; they can have so many lovely connotations and varied histories.
Words have family trees just like people. They are linked to each other.
Some words are full of flavor and color and describe things you never suspected there were words for.
Words are why we're here.

The meme is simple: post a comment with your muse's name and canon in the subject line.
List any preferences you may have ("No Shipping," "No Smut," etc.), if you decide to leave the next step up to responders.
Responders (or original posters, if they so decide), go to the Other-Wordly blog and hit 'Random' until you get a word. Use the word as a prompt to write up an RP scenario. Do this several times, if you like. Mix and match. Have fun with it!
Don't stop with a word, though! Words can often have etymologies that are at odds with their current meanings. Words can shift connotations over time. Let your imagination carry you with the words as its wind.

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[Legs drape over the side of the bathtub, heels tapping lazily against the side, a soft tap tap tap against laminate that is starting the drive Lila herself crazy. A few more taps and the noise stops, leaving just the rush of the water from the faucet.

The water pooling by the drain before being washed away is streaked pink like a watercolor sunset from the blood still dripping from Lila's arm. It isn't deep or dangerous, she knows better, but it is taking longer to stop bleeding because of the alcohol and because she is so currently averse to being touched.

Her voice sounds cheerful though, still tipsy, a giggle stuck in her throat still.] Have you ever been in love? Do you remember that?

[sylar stands leaning against the door frame, arms crossed mostly because there's not a better place to put them. he'd come closer if she wanted him to, but she obviously doesn't. so he watches. his expression is more analytical than concerned — if she wanted to be worried about, she would have made that clear, too. and it wasn't like he was good at stuff like that, anyway.]

I don't remember. Probably not. I'm not really — [capable of it? deserving of it? i'm a monster.] I'm not good at it.

But I love you. [he does, as much as he can. it's a teenager's half-formed, idealized version of love. the pedestal kind. because he's not a sociopath, just extremely emotionally stunted.]

I know. [She doesn't say it like she is brushing it off, she knows he loves her, he doesn't have to tell her. But he does, at the same time, because of her pitiful need for affection and proof of that affection, perpetually starved of it.]

I was. Before. [Her heels hit against the tub again as she struggles to kick them off, letting them drop one by one to the floor. She leans over to turn the tap lower, so the steady rush isn't so loud in her ears and it turns cold startlingly fast.] I didn't have a choice.

And not in some romantic way, I had no choice. [Is it any wonder she has such control issues? She laughs a little bitterly.] He was so proud of himself.

Edited 2013-07-31 06:41 (UTC)

[his brow furrows at that. he hates all the stories about her past because they're usually horrible and nothing she deserves. it's almost like he possesses empathy ... ] What do you mean, you didn't have a choice? What happened?

His mom is an emotion worker. She made me love him, like a present. [She looks up and very quickly looks down. Its shame there on her expression.]

Have you ever met someone that makes you feel guilty for... existing? That's what Cassel does. He doesn't mean to, he's too self-absorbed and not that self-aware, but he spends so much time trying to make himself feel better about his fuck ups that he doesn't realize he is making the proof of those fuck ups feel like shit. And it's funny, because he always tried to make me feel better. But it wasn't really to make me feel better, but to make himself feel less guilty. And he did it in such a condescending manner, like he was taking pity on me, and I was too far gone in love with him to realize he only kept me around to make him feel good. Like, look at all the good I am doing with this broken child.

[She swirls her fingers through the cold pink water. She doesn't talk like this, monologuing, but she doesn't talk about this period so it was bound to burst out eventually. Sylar is just the unlucky recipient.] He was so impressed with himself for not screwing me. Which I guess is something to be proud of. Congrats on not fucking your girlfriend after your mom roofied her.

But the worst part, is that when it finally wore off... he acted like, like he was the victim. Like his mom hurt him.

[what do you even say to that? he's basically the world champion in monologue-giving, but it's a weird feeling to be on the receiving end for once. he moves inside the bathroom and takes a seat on the edge of the tub, watching the water. his next words he chooses his words carefully, because he doesn't feel like pity is something she needs, but he doesn't want to sound callous, either.]

It doesn't seem like there's a point to it. What his mother did in the first place, I mean. Why would emotion that's a lie be worth anything?

Not everyone knows its a lie. [She shuts the tap off finally and pulls her arm into her lap.] If she didn't tell him, he wouldn't have known.

Doesn't matter. You know what I think? [he gently takes her arm by the wrist (or tries to, anyway) to get a look at the cuts. not to actually do anything, just out of curiosity.] I think you're better off here. Maybe that's why we're here. Whatever happened before, it doesn't matter. It's some philosophical thing — losing everything makes you free to do anything. [that's actually fight club, sylar, but nice try.] Rising up from ashes. Like phoenixes.

[She doesn't let him take her arm at first, entire body shying away of any tactile sensation that isn't the cool fake tile of the bathtub. After a second though she gives in, her arm is basically numb from the ice cold water anyway.]

Except only one of us can actually do that.

[and now he suddenly doesn't feel like touching her anymore. he lets go of her arm, hands placed on his knees instead. trying to say things to feel better only made him feel upset instead. losing everything isn't the same if you can't acknowledge what you lost to begin with.]

He's not here, is he? Or his mother. Neither of them are here. That's what I mean. That's what makes you free.

He's all I remember. My entire past. I don't even know-- [She stops, falling silent. She still remembered more of her past than he remembered of his. Tugging her legs into the tub, she curls an arm around her knees.] I'm sorry.

Don't be. You didn't do anything. [he means it when he says it. when it came down to it, neither of them came out the winners of their respective situations. he reaches out toward her again, like he might try to take her arm again, but before he can, he stops. stops and turns his forearm facing her.]

Cut me. [he realizes he should probably add that he means cut, not butcher since it's her, but he doesn't care. it's not like it matters either way, right?]

[She is too tired to take advantage of his request. Fumbling for the rough little piece of metal -- she hadn't used a razor blade or a knife, those were too easy -- she drags it across his arm. She never needs prompting, even if he is probably the last person she would wish to see in pain.

It isn't until after that she asks:] Why?

I just wanted to see. [he leaves it at that as he brings his arm back towards him. see if there was anything inside. how it felt, if it still hurt. (it did.) after watching the wound close up almost instantly, he runs his thumb over the red line, transforming it into a smear. it was like a reminder of who he was. what he was. (human. ish.)]

Why did you?

Sometimes I forget I'm allowed to hurt.

Why wouldn't you be?

'cause no one cares. [And when no one cares for so, so long, it has a way of convincing that you're not supposed to hurt, that you're doing it wrong.]

Trees still make noise when they fall in the forest and no one's there to hear. I care. I'm not saying that just to say it, either — like it's something I'm supposed to say to make you feel better.

[Shes quiet for a bit. She knows what he means.]

I'm working on it.

At least you can show it. [he runs his thumb over the smear of blood on his arm again.] What about ... them, anyway? Eric, your other friends.

[She shrugs, tired.] I give him enough to worry about.

If they worry, they care. That's a contradiction.

[She wants to disagree, there is a difference between worrying about her, as a person, and what she will do. She learned that from her dad. But she doesn't. Because she wants to think they care so she allows herself the delusion and pushes herself out of the tub to sit next to him.] So is jumbo shrimp and those exist.

I never liked jumbo shrimp that much. [not that it stopped him from eating them, for the record. he doesn't know what to do — whether to hold her or be delicate with her or make out or downplay the entire situation. how does empathy work??? he's only good at acting out the surface emotions. and then turning to physical intimacy to avoid the struggle when things are nearing difficult. his eyes move from her face back down to her arms.] Do you want bandages?

[She cracks a smile, but it disappears as he looks away.] I... think I'm okay.

[Which is both her answer and her moving on -- she is done having emotions at the moment. They're basically useless anyway.]

cicatrize {tw: self-harm}

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