[ she finds a shirt in the time it takes him to get there. because he could just do that thing- where he winks in and out. hayley knows he can be and not be, wherever he wants. but she also knows that she's made it very clear that she has rules.
tate'll be here. and he'll use the door. knock politely and wait.
hayley pushes her arms through the sleeves, and kicks her blanket off. rummages around in her drawer for a pair of pajama pants. she doesn't know what will come out of this, but it's her move. ]
[everything was all wrong, ever since he'd woken up after that dream. this month had passed by in a haze, he'd made mistakes, and the only time something had made sense was in the elevator. when the lights were out and he had a gun in his hand.
go away, she'd said. we'd tried to get her out like she was on his fucking side.
he wasn't ever going back there. he had nobody. regardless of what happened up here, he wouldn't leave. not so long as Hayley was here. if Hayden was following her around it wasn't anything good.
he waits at the door after knocking, but he's barely able to stand in one spot. he bites at his fingernails, shifting his weight from foot to foot]
[ she waits just long enough to satisfy herself. to keep him in one place while her chin lifts, gaze moving itself through the room, it's silence and emptiness- before she answers. tate's nails are bitten to the quick, and his dark eyes are bruised. his features marred with shadow.
hayley places only a few inches between them, and her shoulders soften. attention moving over his face.
she doesn't speak, not right away, not so close to the halls, but she takes a step to the side. a silent invitation. this much is a ritual, if nothing else. ]
[he almost rushes into the room, like it's the only safe place on the ship. he has a moment of loss, because even though it's familiar, he realizes he hasn't been in here for a while. his gaze combs the room, but it's only when he's turned around to look at Hayley again, letting her shut the door, that he finally lowers his raw fingers from his mouth.
they'll heal anyway.
there's something hollow and wide in his eyes as he watches her. like he's waiting.]
[ he looks like shit. hayley's seen him beaten half to hell. has seen his ribs cave in and his head split open. has seen his stomach burned apart and blood running out of his mouth. this is something different.
part of it's the mask, and that she knows. because she knows she's changing too, in a different way. knows that he must see things, the way everyone else does. maybe he's being haunted. maybe he's too far gone to find it poetic. it isn't reflex that moves her, when the door hisses shut and tate's eyes find her face while he watches and watches and watches- but it probably looks that way. she's banking on it.
her fingers find the side of his palm, and close around it with a squeeze.
behind her, two of her drawers are still open, and a glass of water sits on the counter. next to the wolf's face. ]
[it should sound more flippant than it does, but he doesn't wrench away from her grip. it's the most solid thing he's probably felt in weeks. most of the time he isn't sure what's real or not anymore, because nothing works for long.
he remembers these feelings, distantly. he remembers the cocaine, waiting in his room.]
[ she lets him go only to move closer, to step into the crescent of his space, block out the light at her back. he comes back down, a little bit. she can see it like a procession, something she can calculate in inches. hayley's fingers move from his palm to his wrist, a firm- unflinching circle. ]
[she steps in closer and Tate thinks, wildly, that maybe Hayden was right. she wasn't his girlfriend, of course not, because he'd had Violet at home. Violet, who he loved, or he thought he loved. but she wanted him to go away, and he figures that's about right.
after what he'd done. things he was meant to feel bad about, but the only thing he felt bad about was her finding out. of being afraid of him. of getting rid of him.
Tate takes a breath, feels her fingers close around his wrist like a handcuff. it grounds him.]
She told me about California. She's from my future. Both of them are.
[there's no expression in his face, in his tone, but he looks away from her eyes, lowers his gaze completely.
no, he can't tell her these things. Hayley is something different, but he's learned his lesson now. even if he wasn't there to see it.]
[ there's a look they get. when things like tate think about their secrets. hayley knows it because she commits it to memory. that flicker, that chase when their gazes move, flicker over something twisted and dark and horrible- when they get deep inside themselves and make sure it's still there. make sure it's still buried. still safe. out of sight.
he's young. but he isn't different from the others she's found. not where it matters.
when she lets go, her fingernails graze his pulse point before curling into her palm- but hayley's gaze- that never leaves his face. ]
You won't get back there you know. We aren't going home.
[he says it, finally, outloud, and when she lets him go he squashes the reflex to grab her and hang on. wrap his hands around her wrists (or her throat) and keep her with him.
he steps away, turns around and reaches up to tug at his hair at his temple. you don't hurt the people you love. he doesn't know what they are. what this is.]
[ he flutters. it's a little bit like watching a butterfly die. she'd seen them a handful of times when she was young. when the boys on her street would spend the summer catching them and keep them in jars. take them out one by one to tear a wing off, and watch them try to get back into the air.
hayley isn't afraid of tate. and it isn't naivety, but control. he can't die, not really. but she doesn't need a gun, a knife, a rope- to convince him.
she pulls away and shows him her back- moves to the bed to pull the blankets aside and sink onto the mattress. her voice is quiet, but doesn't flicker. ]
[he turns around to face her because he's half convinced if he looks away for too long she'll stop seeing him. maybe he'll reach out and go right through her. she'll change her mind about him. tell him go away.
he stares for a long moment, because he's been in here plenty of times, but this isn't something that happens. Hayley sleeps, yeah, and he's watched her sleep, but they don't do that sort of thing together.
his hand drops to his side and he looks at her, then to the bed, sheets pulled back and bared. he hesitates for only a moment, knows he could say plenty of things. i didn't know we were at this level or shouldn't we go on a date first or is your boyfriend going to care. things he knows could upset, could twist things.
tate isn't sure the last time he slept. everything is a haze.
[ he's easy to guide, and though hayley isn't sure how much of that is because of a flaw in his design, or a perfection in her own, it doesn't matter. she knows when to bend, and where. for how long. she knows when to flash the right look and when to open her hands, because they always (always) come to her.
tate sinks down, and though hayley doesn't lay, not really, she rests her back against the headboard, and her chin lifts- the faintest knock as her head finds the wall. the ghost she brings down into her lap, half cradles his head as he settles into the bedding.
she'll need to change the sheets tomorrow, after he leaves, if she ever wants to sleep in them again. her hand finds his face- stretches to cover his eyes, blot out the light. ]
How can you tell the difference? How do you know when you're dreaming, and when you aren't?
[Tate's familiar with the darkness, but for the most part, he puts himself there. she lays her palm over his eyes and her hand is a weight over the bridge of his nose, her fingers at his temple like an iron shackle. he takes a breath, and when he exhales it's like his chest is sinking.]
[ he goes still. not quite soft, but that'll come after. when his breathing goes slack and he surrenders. he hollows himself out, or hayley carve him. it doesn't really matter, either way. hayley watches his face- mostly obscured by her palm, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
her opposite hand lifts, and one fingernail pushes into his shoulder. drags down his collar and leaves a raised, red welt in it's wake. ]
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tate'll be here. and he'll use the door.
knock politely and wait.
hayley pushes her arms through the sleeves, and kicks her blanket off. rummages around in her drawer for a pair of pajama pants. she doesn't know what will come out of this, but it's her move. ]
no subject
go away, she'd said. we'd tried to get her out
like she was on his fucking side.
he wasn't ever going back there. he had nobody. regardless of what happened up here, he wouldn't leave. not so long as Hayley was here. if Hayden was following her around it wasn't anything good.
he waits at the door after knocking, but he's barely able to stand in one spot. he bites at his fingernails, shifting his weight from foot to foot]
no subject
hayley places only a few inches between them, and her shoulders soften. attention moving over his face.
she doesn't speak, not right away, not so close to the halls, but she takes a step to the side. a silent invitation. this much is a ritual, if nothing else. ]
no subject
they'll heal anyway.
there's something hollow and wide in his eyes as he watches her. like he's waiting.]
no subject
part of it's the mask, and that she knows. because she knows she's changing too, in a different way. knows that he must see things, the way everyone else does. maybe he's being haunted. maybe he's too far gone to find it poetic. it isn't reflex that moves her, when the door hisses shut and tate's eyes find her face while he watches and watches and watches- but it probably looks that way. she's banking on it.
her fingers find the side of his palm, and close around it with a squeeze.
behind her, two of her drawers are still open, and a glass of water sits on the counter. next to the wolf's face. ]
You look like you've seen a ghost.
no subject
[it should sound more flippant than it does, but he doesn't wrench away from her grip. it's the most solid thing he's probably felt in weeks. most of the time he isn't sure what's real or not anymore, because nothing works for long.
he remembers these feelings, distantly. he remembers the cocaine, waiting in his room.]
no subject
[ she lets him go only to move closer, to step into the crescent of his space, block out the light at her back. he comes back down, a little bit. she can see it like a procession, something she can calculate in inches. hayley's fingers move from his palm to his wrist, a firm- unflinching circle. ]
no subject
after what he'd done. things he was meant to feel bad about, but the only thing he felt bad about was her finding out. of being afraid of him. of getting rid of him.
Tate takes a breath, feels her fingers close around his wrist like a handcuff. it grounds him.]
She told me about California. She's from my future. Both of them are.
[there's no expression in his face, in his tone, but he looks away from her eyes, lowers his gaze completely.
no, he can't tell her these things. Hayley is something different, but he's learned his lesson now. even if he wasn't there to see it.]
no subject
he's young.
but he isn't different from the others she's found. not where it matters.
when she lets go, her fingernails graze his pulse point before curling into her palm- but hayley's gaze- that never leaves his face. ]
You won't get back there you know.
We aren't going home.
no subject
[he says it, finally, outloud, and when she lets him go he squashes the reflex to grab her and hang on. wrap his hands around her wrists (or her throat) and keep her with him.
he steps away, turns around and reaches up to tug at his hair at his temple. you don't hurt the people you love. he doesn't know what they are. what this is.]
I don't want to go back, anyway.
no subject
hayley isn't afraid of tate.
and it isn't naivety, but control. he can't die, not really. but she doesn't need a gun, a knife, a rope- to convince him.
she pulls away and shows him her back- moves to the bed to pull the blankets aside and sink onto the mattress. her voice is quiet, but doesn't flicker. ]
Tate. C'mon.
no subject
he stares for a long moment, because he's been in here plenty of times, but this isn't something that happens. Hayley sleeps, yeah, and he's watched her sleep, but they don't do that sort of thing together.
his hand drops to his side and he looks at her, then to the bed, sheets pulled back and bared. he hesitates for only a moment, knows he could say plenty of things. i didn't know we were at this level or shouldn't we go on a date first or is your boyfriend going to care. things he knows could upset, could twist things.
tate isn't sure the last time he slept. everything is a haze.
he falters, then crosses to the bed.]
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tate sinks down, and though hayley doesn't lay, not really, she rests her back against the headboard, and her chin lifts- the faintest knock as her head finds the wall. the ghost she brings down into her lap, half cradles his head as he settles into the bedding.
she'll need to change the sheets tomorrow, after he leaves, if she ever wants to sleep in them again. her hand finds his face- stretches to cover his eyes, blot out the light. ]
How can you tell the difference?
How do you know when you're dreaming, and when you aren't?
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When it hurts.
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her opposite hand lifts, and one fingernail pushes into his shoulder. drags down his collar and leaves a raised, red welt in it's wake. ]
Then I guess you aren't dreaming.