patheticvillain | fifty-three ➢ video

Entry tags:

fifty-three ➢ video

[Cassel's in his room, rearranging his drawer of scraps in some order discernible only to him. Ilia is perched on a high shelf, his eyes narrowed and tail twitching, disturbed by the commotion and looking ready to jump down onto Cassel's shoulders at any moment. As he rummages, Cassel addresses the camera; the moment he turns towards it, a bruise slides into view on his left temple, light and mottled black. He seems not to notice it.]

A few things. First of all, if anybody who's not all Admiral-ed up has a problem with the power outages, I think - I think I can make flashlights and lamps that don't need to be powered. [He's speaking specifically to Morgana here, but he doesn't know everybody's hangups, either, so he's leaving it open to the Barge as a whole.]

Second of all, has anybody actually gotten anywhere with the ship? Steering it or anything? Because this seems like it's getting kind of. Critical. [As Dean so astutely pointed out.]

Last thing - I know nobody cares right now, but we still need staff for the gym. At least one more person. If you feel like going slightly less stir-crazy while we're marooned in the middle of nowhere, apply now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He blinks, a little taken aback. Does he really need to say it after all this time?]

Fuck you.

[A moment's pause; then he pulls his claws back in, settles himself. Not what he meant. Not what he was going for.]

I just mean it's fine. Nothing bad happened. You don't have to worry about him.

[Nobody should be worrying about Cassel right now.]

[Too late: it registers with Mickey that it was just another deflection, but he's hurting now anyway, and he's not in any place to be able to swallow it down. Now someone else needs to hurt, too.]

Him who?

[Something occurs to him suddenly -- why is Cassel protesting this much? -- and his expression goes cloudy and troubled.]

Was it Chris?

[Horror draws over Cassel's face - he goes thin-lipped and angry and, of all things, scared, because why would Mickey think that.]

No, fuck you, it wasn't Chris! He wouldn't do that shit!

[A little twinge of guilt there, not meant for either of his friends. He's done that shit. It's probably the moment he's least proud of in his entire fucking life, but he has. He'd almost done it again just to make sure Ian got to a doctor one way or the other. He rubs at his mouth and folds his arms stiffly, eyes darting away and back.]

Well-- who the fuck was it, then? I don't get why the fuck you're trying so hard, Christ.

Maybe I just don't want you to get into any shit when you don't need to, did you ever consider that, Mickey? Jesus.

[He reaches out absently to run gloved fingers over Ilia's back; the cat twitches, moves away, brushing his tail against Cassel's arm. It serves to ground him enough that he doesn't feel like yelling anymore.]

It's not like I got beat up or something.

Why don't you let me decide what I do or don't need to be doing, huh?

[Because maybe I don't think you're that good at regulating yourself, he want to say, and only doesn't because of all the hypocritical things he could say, that would be the worst. Instead he sighs, rubs gingerly at the edge of the bruise, shakes his head.]

I'm not gonna tell you if you're gonna hurt him.

Jesus fuck, Sharpe.

[He almost hangs up in sheer frustration. Hell, he almost throws the phone at the couch behind him. There's still a part of him that's afraid -- increasingly so -- that Cassel is covering for Chris. It's hard for him to imagine, but it's hard to imagine why else Cassel would be pushing back so hard, too, over something so minor as a bruise and the requisite punch in the face that should follow it. Someone else he's close to? Someone Mickey is close to?

He grits his teeth, trying mostly to fight against the rising surge of anger. He really tries. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides, takes a deep breath, all that shit. He rubs a hand over his face, sounding strained.]

Christ. Fine. I'm not gonna do anything, okay? Just tell me what happened.

[He believes that. He honestly does. Because isn't that what he's supposed to be doing here, believing in people? Even when it's hard. He wonders if he would've trusted Zane to keep his hands to himself after someone struck him, remembers what everybody said to him after the first time, years ago in the infirmary bed, that it hurts other people when he lets this happen.]

[There's a twinge of guilt there, but not much.]

It was Pietro.

Who?

[Then it clicks, and it's such a blank surprise that it actually shocks him out of being pissed for a second.]

The new guy? That little asshole?

[Cassel can't help it; he laughs, bright and pleased.]

Yeah. That little asshole.

[He doesn't get it.]

What the fuck are you sticking up for him for?

[Then he does get it, he thinks: Anya. Anya is friends with Cassel. Mickey scowls, eyes darkening. Family is one thing, but that's not fair, he thinks. Pietro doesn't get to do whatever the fuck he wants just because Anya's declared him off-limits, severed heads or no. He wouldn't stop someone from going after Mandy if she'd done something to earn it.

It doesn't occur to him that Cassel might have been the one to earn it.]

Fuck no. Asshead needs to learn that ain't the way shit goes up here.

[Cassel rolls his eyes, flopping down on the bed and rubbing the bridge of his nose.]

Yeah, man, but he didn't do anything. That's what I'm trying to tell you.

[He didn't do anything Cassel didn't ask for, he means. It barely rates as pain to pay attention to, in Cassel's opinion. A few scratches and scrapes - when he was an inmate, he got worse than this all the time. Even then, he fucking asked for it.]

He hit you? You hit him first?

I didn't hit him first. I told him to hit me.

...what?

Why?

Because I thought it'd make him feel better.

[That's only about half of the reason. The other half, Cassel doesn't want Mickey to know, even if, at this point, he might be able to guess.]

Are you fucking...

[Kidding? But he does, then, see the shape of it, and he trails off into silence. Not the good, comfortable kind.]

You're not.

[Why do you care? Cassel had snarled, deflecting for himself, not for Pietro. It's not the first time this has happened.]

What the fuck is wrong with you?

[No, he's not kidding. And no, he can't answer that question, what the fuck is wrong with you, like it's simple or it's straightforward or it's even something he can wrap his mind around. Some days it feels like everything is wrong with him.]

[This is why, or part of why, he wants to be so close to people like Mickey. Because compared to him, they're normal. He wants to ask, Did I ever tell you how Zane and I met?, but he doesn't, just laughs, hollow and low, shrugging.]

You tell me.

[Mean though he knows Cassel can be sometimes, that laugh sounds more like Ian to him. Ha ha, okay, calm down, psycho. Like it's crazy that Mickey is upset. He is upset, it's fucking upsetting, but he doesn't know any words to explain how or why. Don't? Stop? Hasn't he said them before? Has he?]

Grow the fuck up, Cassel.

[He knows simultaneously that lashing out is probably the wrong move and that he has no idea what the fuck else to do. He can't take care of this. You can't even take care of yourself, Zane whispers in his head, as right now as he was then.]

[It's possibly the worst thing he could have heard right now, especially because he knows that Mickey is right. He does need to grow up. He's always needed to and he's never been able to, not now, not ever, not for anybody. Not even for Chris. He's not good enough, he's not going to be good enough, and he should just fucking stop trying.]

[The look on his face is - not even angry. Not sad. Just frozen for a long moment, a silent beat that he wants to fill with something but has no idea what even to start with.]

[Then he throws something - a thick piece of wire - at the communicator, knocking it off his desk and onto the floor. There's a curse in the background, past the gloomy underside of his desk, and then the slam of the cabin door. He's gone.]

Fuck.

[Big surprise: he fucked up. Mickey is no genius, but he doesn't need to be to have seen that that would go badly. He should go after him, he thinks -- but something, some fear or indecision, paralyzes him where he sits. He's not going to do any better in person. In person, he might wind up hitting Cassel himself.

When he does eventually pull up roots, that's what it winds up being for. He can't take care of Cassel, or his family, or himself. He runs again and again into problems he can't solve, can't help, makes fucking worse just by opening his mouth. The only thing he can think to pull out of himself, maybe the only good in him at all right now, is that he can find something better to hit.

Or at least something else. By the next time Cassel sees him, he'll be sporting some fresh bruises of his own.]

[What Cassel does after he leaves the room is he copes. Poorly. He spends most of the night in Anya's room, curled up with her, drinking. He doesn't talk much, or if he does, he tries to forget about it the next day. Sometimes talking doesn't help anything at all. Sometimes talking just makes it worse.]

[Drinking shouldn't help as much as it does. But when he wakes up the next morning with a headache and a dry mouth, it's at least something else to focus on. He uncurls from his nest of blankets and stretches and prods his bruises to make them hurt, because he can, because he wants to. It's supposed to hurt.]

[He almost doesn't go to work. Mickey's gonna be there, unless he's a bigger douche than Cassel thinks he is. But in the end it's a matter of responsibility. If he can't be responsible for himself, he can at least be responsible for this thing that's bigger than himself.]

[When he enters the gym, the first thing he sees is a big black-and-blue bruise. It tugs his eye, makes his stomach roil, and it takes a minute for him to realize who it belongs to. When he lifts his gaze to meet Mickey's, his eyes are wet, his expression pinched and hurt. What is this, some kind of I told you so?]

[It's not the same for Mickey as it is for Cassel. He doesn't relish his war wounds; he takes no pleasure from the pain once it's been inflicted. For him, it's all about the adrenaline, and now that it's past all he can do is feel hollow and achy.

He's trying to get it back at the punching bag when Cassel comes in. His knuckles are bandaged under their wraps, but he's still hitting hard and fast as a runaway train. He doesn't like the pain, but there's a certain grim satisfaction in the way it lances through his hands with every smack of his fists against the bag. It's real. It's solid. Maybe that's what really drives him into all these fights: with all the problems chasing each other endlessly in his head, there's something about being able to hit something heavy with his hands and hear it crack.

The sound of the door comes to him only distantly, but he stops anyway, fighting to catch his breath, wiping the sting of sweat away from his eyes and the cuts on his face. He turns, spots Cassel, and goes still, expression hunted and guilty.]

What?

[It doesn't connect for him just yet what the look of betrayal is for.]</small

Edited 2015-05-18 03:04 (UTC)

private

private

private

private

private; cw: domestic violence

private

private

private

private

private

private

private

Re: private

private

Re: private

private

Re: private

private

Re: private

private

Re: private

private

private

spam; cw self-harm

spam