Who: Cerise & Ian What: Reunions; all things creepy, tearful, and fuzzy Where: Cerise's motel room When: After this Warnings: na
The motel phone's pale handpiece fell into its iron cradle with finality. The guillotine -- or maybe a guilt-o-tine -- drop. The movement echoed the deadweight of bile in her empty stomach as it flopped around inside of her like a fish that found the sand. If she wasn't so nauseated (a twisted combination of nerves, fear, and a smidge too much dope) she might have been reminded of the fact that she hadn't eaten in two days. She hadn't showered either, and that was only realized by the greasy twist of hair between her fingers when she hung her head in her shivering hands.
"Oh God.." She whimpered, winced, and tried to scream through grit teeth. The sound that came out was frustration born from her own weakness. What was she going to do? Maybe she should leave, maybe she should just run away. Maybe he was bluffing, maybe he had no idea where she was. That thought was a lighthouse beacon to the drowning mermaids, and Cerise sniffed while sitting up a little bit straighter in the rumpled and stained sheets that accompanied the motel of the day.
The panic couldn't stay forever. That much adrenaline would only wane as the blood churned so much opiate through her circulatory constellation. This damaged solar system, she wilted and sniffed against the back of her hand. Grubby fingers broke down into the bends, and she swiped bruised knuckles beneath each eye, recovering old flakes of mascara and fresh tears gone black in the mottled mash-up. She tried to forget why she was worried, she tried and tried with both eyes screwed shut and nailed shut and shut, shut, shut. If she wasn't so high, she could sleep.. and if she woke up in the morning (if she didn't die in that Hendrix choke, that is) she could laugh everything off. How ridiculous she was, hahaha..
In khaki shorts with razor kiss hems, she staggered toward the sink and ran some water. A palmful went in her mouth, and some was splashed on her face as the more animal part of her brain screamed for her to think. It was difficult, but not impossible. She pushed her lashes down and sank against the counter with her elbows, arms up like steeples, palms cradling her face. Just.. think..
In the years that had passed since Seattle, Ian had managed to keep track of those that had always mattered to him, and in particular, Cerise. He had a vested interest in her, after all, and it would hardly do to let her slip completely from the radar. Her and the Wallace boys had gotten lazy after the fire, after their misguided belief in his demise, but it had been worthwhile to let them believe what they wanted. Let the guard drop, let them become relaxed in their ways. The time would come for all of them to reunite, and when it came to Cerise, that time was now.
It hadn't been difficult to find her motel, a rough little place that was less tourist destination and more a place to hide. He pulled up in front of the building, killed the engine, and sat staring at her door for a long while. Things were falling into place neatly here in Vegas, better than he could have ever anticipated, but with the ease came a wariness that pricked at the edge of his perception. Ian knew better than to step foolishly; the world was a precarious thing, the edges crumbling and weak, and one misstep would have him falling as easily as any of the people he had known throughout the years. Ian pulled the keys from the ignition, slid them into his pocket, and stepped from the now-still Caddy, closing the door quietly with a press of his fingers.
The door to her room was unlocked, as though in invitation, and he opened it as quietly as he could, eyes adjusting to the splay of light that filled the room, gaze sweeping this way and that as he sought out a form that would be as familiar to him as anything. Cerise had changed little throughout the years, a little older, but weren't they all? And seeing her pressed against the counter, holding herself up with the palms of her hands, his heart went out to her. She was as much of a child to him as anyone had ever been, a little thing he had all but raised, molded into this perfect, broken thing who would always trust him, always turn to him. "Cerise," Ian said softly, his voice a quiet croon, and then he was crossing the room towards the sink, crouching, gathering her up into his arms and holding her close to his chest. "It's okay, little one. You don't have to be frightened anymore." His hand smoothed through her hair, skimming down the greasy strands, pressing to her back, the touch of a father to a beloved child.
His voice burned. It burned like the fires of so many cover-ups, and like the funeral pyres of so many dead. He sounded real, and she couldn't will herself to glance up in the mirror to register him, even if it would only take a moment. He was a ghost, he couldn't hurt her if she didn't look at him. It seemed logical somehow, and Cerise had her eyes squeezed shut, denying his approach. Denying the pliant softness of his shoes on the scratchy carpet. He was still talking in that gentle promise that he'd always had -- whether he was promising the world or a slow pain it always sounded just the same, just as beautiful. The room was not completely invested in his presence, however. In the distance, somewhere behind them, was the faint sound of the television with its volume on low. And under that, treading in waters of misery, was Cerise's voice. Soft and barely there, reciting the same thing over and over.
When he touched her, the expression crumbled with the brief urge to cry. The firm line of her frown quivered, and it felt like there was so much glass in her throat, it was impossible to swallow down the ache that surged to the back of her tongue. A knot of horrors that wouldn't go away. Her eyes were closed, practically sewn tight, refusing to look, refusing to acknowledge that he was truly here.. or that he was not. Because there was still a conditioned part of her that felt relieved when he gathered her close. The well-oiled machine of some textbook stockholm syndrome.
Under her breath, over and over and over again, she whispered. This close, he might be able to hear it. "Not real.. not real.. not.."
Ian understood her feelings, the denial that she was experiencing, and he didn't fault the shock that she must have been feeling as well. "No, Cerise," Ian murmured softly, pulling away to hold her slightly at a distance, one hand on her arm, the other curling, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze. "Open your eyes, Cerise, and see that I am most definitely real. I'm not a figment of your imagination, and you are not hallucinating." His smile was warm, his expression inviting, and to see her again after so many years, he felt an ache in his heart. Still so broken, so fragile; he had done well with her, perhaps too well.
There was a deep breath, the shiver that threatened an onslaught of new tears. Although her cheeks seemed dry, when Cerise complied and opened her eyes, all of that green was rimmed in fresh red. Seeing him for the first time since Seattle, it felt like her heart must have exploded, and she went weak and wilting in his hands for a moment. She was suddenly overwhelmed by everything she'd always felt when she looked at him; that bittersweet blend of adoration, all-eclipsing hope, abysmal fear, and so much hatred that it threatened to consume her. The hatred was split equally between him, what he'd done to her, and what she'd done for him. When he'd died, Cerise had only herself to hate on.. and it had been a long roll down the bunny slope into self-made hell. But she'd KNOWN that he wouldn't die so easily.. oh god, she'd known.. and she'd been right.
It all came rushing back to her now, if it had ever really left, and she felt very much like she was a young girl once again. Ian had been the monster under her bed, and simultaneously, he'd been the father protectively tucking her in at night.
"What are you.." There was a deep, racking gasp for air as the words crumbled on a sob. ".. doing here? What do you want?"
When she faltered, when she nearly wilted like so many dying flowers, Ian was there to hold her up, strong hands and strong arms, gently leading her towards the bed to sit. He was never far from her side, an arm around her shoulders with every sob that shook her. "You don't need to concern yourself with the answers to that, Cerise," Ian crooned, urging her head to rest upon his shoulder, creator and destroyer with every touch and breath. "Just know that I am here, and everything that has been causing you pain, I can still take that away. I can still make you feel good." Soft words, whisper soft, and he leaned over to press his lips against her clammy forehead. "I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you, Cerise. You know this."
Cerise was not entirely sure why she was crying. She was only aware of the fact that the tears had become sometime after Ian had messaged her, and they had yet to cease or slow since. There was a nauseating apprehension that sang like grease and bile in her very veins, and she could not shake the feeling that something awful was going to happen. That it had already begun. It was a runaway train with splintered tracks up ahead.. but the worst part was the stunning, fresh-eye awareness that had clobbered her shortly after Ian's message. She'd thought that everything was over, but it was never over. This was like coming to from a dream, only to realize one lived in a waking nightmare. It was dumbfounding and agonizing, and oh, she felt like she was going to be sick when he lifted her onto the bed. Deja vu from too many incidents too many years ago.
She closed her eyes when he kissed her forehead with doting affection, and some fresh tears moved in a spill of vowed silence. "But you did," she whispered. Then, a little stronger, "You did hurt me.." Cerise drew away from him, and her eyes were noxious green and narrow with accusation built from years of betrayal. "You're a liar," she hissed.
With every sob, every tremor that wracked a too-thin body, Ian simply held her, letting her get whatever it was out of her system, quiet until she spoke, until she hissed with an anger that was suddenly filling up the room. He didn't flinch away from it, instead pulling away in turn, meeting those angry green eyes, the face that was suddenly twisted in emotion. "A liar?" he echoed in soft words, reaching out to brush some of the tears away with the pad of his thumb, his touch undemanding. "How did I lie to you, little one? How did I hurt you? Explain to me so I might apologise." It was surprising it took this long to get to this point, to the anger that bit and burn, and Ian found himself relishing the moment as it was offered to him. Emotions were something he could get drunk on, seeping out of every pore, pure and freely given, and oh, he enjoyed the way those tears slid down her cheeks. "Tell me, Cerise, how I have wronged you. Me, the man who raised you and gave you everything you needed."
The touch of his hand was soft, but there had been other times when he had not been so delicate with her, and it was a vivid enough memory that Cerise couldn't resist flinching away. Cowardice was something that she would have assuredly been punished for once, but she wasn't his anymore. His being alive wasn't going to change that, it wasn't going to take away the last six years when she'd lived under the guise of a fresh start. Maybe she hadn't done a whole hell of alot with her second chance, but she wasn't going to let him take it away from her. Cerise was her own mess now, and she wasn't going to belong to or work for anybody ever again. "You know what you did," the words sang shallow through grit teeth. Her glower was a gas chamber, green and nearly hateful. There was the bitter taste of betrayal still there, still palpable in her dry mouth.. as if it still hurt to believe. While she'd never wanted to believe it while it was happening all those years ago, in time she'd had to accept it. "I looked up to you, and you used me."
"Used you." He echoed the words, whisper soft, reaching out to cup her cheek in the palm of his hand, commanding her attention, not letting it waver far from him. "Yes. I used you. I will admit that much, but parents often use their children, but they never ask of them more than they believe them capable." There was a soothing nature to his words, a gentleness that threaded through them, let them rest easy on her ears. "But did I not give you so much in return? It's not so much to ask, is it? A little help from the girl I raised practically as my own." He could still remember that little slip of a girl who had ridden in the back of his truck to El Paso, the youngest he had found, the little one lost.
She didn't know what to say to that. Surely there was an argument to be found against the brutal violence she'd endured and the sadism that others had wrought into her brittle bones, but Cerise was silent as a churchyard full of weeping angels. Because he was right, wasn't he? In some twisted way, he was always right. She'd survived everything, every facet of diamond hard abuse.. and now nobody fucked or fucked with her. Human interaction was difficult to stomach on even the good days unless she was spread thin through a heroin glaze. Nobody took advantage of her anymore, she took advantage of them. She cut first and asked questions later because she was never going back to becoming the little shadow girl living under the stairs. Even if she had to destroy every warm hand that got close to her, she wasn't going back. Cerise stared at him in dulling silence for a long moment, and the tears finally stopped falling at some point when her breathing steadied. He was alive, and she was forced to accept that now. Crying wasn't going to change anything. Crying had never earned her a reprieve or a lighter sentence in her childhood. "Is this where you tell me that I owe you for having raised me?" She took a deep breath, and the only inclination of fear was the way it shuddered on the way back out.
The last of the tears were swept away with his thumb, and he could see the way she accepted his words as the truth, because for Ian, they were. It was how he believed, how he behaved, and no one would be able to tell him differently. "No," he answered her a moment after she had spoken, reaching his hand up to sweep some of the dirty strands of hair away from her face. "This isn't that moment at all." No, he had come to Las Vegas on the search for people, but he hadn't come here to harm, to rub all that they owed him in their faces. No favours were being called in, no prices were being paid. No, Ian was simply helping people, generous and giving as he had always been, even if his motivations were not necessarily pure in nature.
"This is the point where I tell you that I can still help you," he said softly, trailing his fingers through her hair. "How long has it been, Cerise?" The subject was left unspoken, but he could tell that she was strung out, ready for another hit, another moment of escape. There were days when he regretted using such tools on her, but it had been an easy way to tie her to him, to ensure her continued dependence.
It was difficult to believe him because Cerise could not imagine a reason he would have unearthed himself from the shadows of hiding unless he intended to call upon some favor from her. She knew that there had been a point in time when she'd been of some benefit to him, and maybe he wanted her to be that again.. but the things that he had entrusted her to do had rarely been pretty. She didn't do that kind of stuff anymore, and she felt the need to explain that even if he denied that was his intention. "I don't hurt people anymore," she whispered as he brushed some fingers through the sweat-sticky tangles of her dark hair.
His question about how long brought a clench of need in the blackened pit of her cramping stomach. Seeing as how he'd been the first one to introduce her to the bliss and forgiveness that came with a needle, she assumed that he would supply it again. Even if she didn't want anything from him ever again, not ever.. she did want that, and it felt like a fleeting war inside of her when she hesitated in answering. But she did ultimately answer, "Two days.."
"If you don't do that anymore," Ian responded in quiet words, continuing the soft fingers through her tangled hair, "then I won't ask that of you. I approached you only because I wanted to see how you were, Cerise. Nothing more than that." His words were almost believable, something that could nearly be trusted, but his words often sounded like that. It wasn't until you grabbed hold of them, pulled them in against you and put your trust in them that you tasted the poison woven through them. A breath escaped him, fingers stilling against the back of her head, and when he spoke again, his lips were pressed against her temple. "Do you want more, Cerise? Or do you want that to stop?" A dry kiss against her damp skin, eyes falling closed as he felt her pulse against his lips.
When he was close and kissing her feverish forehead with cool solace, her eyelids fluttered. Cerise tried to find a point of focus, some tone that signaled a snakeskin lie. There was one somewhere, there always was with him, but she couldn't find it. His voice was just as smooth as ever, promising her everything just in that magician subtext that surged desire and hope. She hated thinking that he could help her, that he wanted to. Although Cerise had to admit that if anybody could help her, it was him. He might have ulterior motives, but he also had resources. Even if Ian was only a shadow of the man he'd been in Seattle, just a splinter, Cerise knew that was enough. He would have access to doctors.. and drugs. It was true that there was a very big part of herself that wanted to get well. She'd promised Jack she would get clean, after all. She could remember how much easier life had been when she hadn't been plagued with this rerunning ache. Nothing was ever simple, but she did not need to keep making everything more difficult than it needed to be. Drugs were a salve over deep seeded rot, and she could ignore the infection forever if she wanted, but nothing was going to get better. "I do want to stop," she whispered in a moment's urge for honesty. There was fear interlaced with the purity of her candor because she knew that death would be relief in comparison to the sickness that came with withdrawal.
With the whisper, the soft admission that filled the room, Ian had what he needed. He didn't say anything for a long while, shifting their positions slightly, tucking her against him as best he could, chin resting atop her head as his arms circled around her. "Then you'll stop," he murmured, a coo of a lullaby against the world that threatened to crack everyone apart. "And I'll give you all the help that you need, so long as you want this." A whisper of help here, something to tie her to him again. It was ironic, the one who delivered the poison opening the door to escape it, but there were different roles to play at different times in a person's life, and right now, she needed a healer, not a poisoner. "Do you have a place to stay, Cerise?" Ian asked softly, rocking slightly back and forth. "Because I can't have my favourite child staying in a place like this. It's too dangerous."
It felt wrong, and with deep intimacy, she knew this was all wrong, all of it. This was not a man to do things out of the kindness of his heart, and she wasn't sure why she was clinging to the desperate illusion that he offered with gentle, smoothing hands. Things could be different, he certainly seemed different. On some level, she had to accept that he cared, in his own way. In a twisted, ass backwards, hidden behind a trick mirror kind of way, he cared about her. He'd always taken her back, he'd always come looking for her.. and weakness claimed her again with momentary weeping when she was forced to accept that he was the only one. He was the only one who knew all of the bad things she'd done, and he still cared for her, just like it was day one, maybe more so. She grew quiet with his rocking, and she didn't understand how his voice and his hands could be the source of nightmares and yet so comforting. "You.. want me to come with you?" The question was hesitant, because she didn't sound convinced.
Ian had never imagined a world where he had a wife, two kids, a house with a picket fence and a dog in the yard. There was Iris, yes, but she existed on another level that was far from the ordinary. Cerise, on the other hand, was as close to a child as he would ever get, and as such, the fatherly affection he expressed wasn't entirely feigned. She was his, all of her faults and imperfections, his child in everything but blood. He had made her, forged her with his own two hands, and as such, he would always take a responsibility for her and the things that she got herself into. The path she walked he had started her down. "If you want to come with me," Ian said lightly, continuing with the gentle rocking, urged on by the way she quieted, calmed. "I won't force you, though. This decision is yours to make, Cerise. But you know that my home will forever be open to you. Always."
Cerise knew herself well enough that getting sober while staying on her own, in this motel room, simply wasn't an option. And she did want to get clean. Because even if it was a futile effort, she had to try. The potential for sobriety was quietly weighed against the very real possibility that Ian was lying to her. She didn't know what he would have been lying about, or why, but she was reluctant to buy into the whole, promising package. Maybe she could go and stay for a couple of days and -- oh fuck, maybe she should just use. It was a difficult decision, and while she hadn't expected Vegas to be easy, she certainly hadn't expected this. "And I.. can leave whenever I want?"
"You aren't my prisoner, Cerise," Ian murmured, turning his head slightly so he could drop a kiss to the crown of her head, pulling back slightly a moment later so that their gazes might meet. There was nothing outwardly devious in his gaze, not that Ian's eyes had ever read much into what was going on in his head. "You will be free to come and go as you please. But under one stipulation." He skimmed a hand up her arm, coming to rest upon her shoulder, and then her cheek, cupping her face in the palm of his hand, demanding her attention. "While you are staying with me, you are not to use. My door is open to you so long as you are clean, but if I get any indication that you have slipped, the price will be steep. You understand this, yes?"
She looked up at him with green eyes gone clear like seaglass, purified by her tears. There was a brief, pinned butterfly panic when Ian said that the price of relapse would be steep. She did not even want to imagine what that meant, so she didn't ask. Strangely enough, even the fear was comforting. It had been constantly there in her youth, the daily dose of trauma. And maybe a person started to crave that kind of thing after awhile because it was the only way to feel normal. The worst kind of adrenaline junkie. She nodded, cheek still caught in the palm of his head, signing her name on the dotted line without even caring about the fine print. "Okay, I promise."
The smile that came on the heels of her promise was darkly promising, a glitter in his eyes as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her heated forehead for a brief moment before he pulled back, releasing her, freeing her. "Get your things. And then we'll go home." Coming to Las Vegas, settling here for as long as he needed to, it had turned into one of the best decisions that Ian had made in the longest time.