Re: [Quicklog: Jack/Dahlia]
[Hiro watches the newcomer for a moment, before he settles his attention back on his owner, leaning his head into her hand with a doggy sigh. Dahlia stares blankly at the painkillers, as Jack picks up her wrist and tersely explains, no, she's not gone off the fucking deep end.] Oh. [With mild disappointment. She accepts sharing headspace with the rest of town as easily as the weather. Cloudy skies, storms tonight, hundred-and-ten percent chance of weird bullshit. This fucking town, man.
Maybe she oughta be having some moment of existentialist terror or, more likely, bullheaded denial, but honestly? All she's thinking 'bout is the mess with her best friend is not—as she said, though maybe quietly hoped otherwise—weird shit. Just a breakdown. So, y'know, just her own damn fault. He starts tugging the wrap 'round hand, and Dahlia goes rigid, but does not give Jack the pleasure of even one swear. Just a quiet snarl of teeth, and a clipping in her voice like a skipping record as she continues:] Great. So. The—hhgh—the usual. Still—t-total vanilla asshole Dahlia an'—Repose still sucks massive ass. Cool. So—what. We juss—gotta deal? With the—can't I juss—getta raincheck on this shit— [Exhaling hard, as the intensity and the pain holding her together eases up a little with the much-needed compression.
She deflates, like a tent held up on bullshit. Shakes her head, rubbing an eye again with her free hand. Looks, briefly, like a child who is very done, and in need of a nap.] It's—over. Okay? It don't matter. I fucked shit up with Connie, 'cause I—fucked up shit with her bro. Like I fucked up the roadtrip, and fuckin' everythin' else I touch. [Dahlia speaks in absolutes and definitives, like she always does, 'cause it feels like ain't a phrase in her vocabulary. Once he's done, she takes back her wrapped hand, takes the ice, and retreats back inward on herself, knees still pulled up to her chin.]
I just wanna fuckin'—move on. [The sulky I-don't-care front she puts up is pretty transparent. Oh, she cares. She cares so deeply 'bout Connie that the guilt over this will probably eat her alive. That whatever toward it is her one defense, though, just steeling herself for the worst. Maybe Jack's edge is defined by dryness, the sharpness in his voice, and how he buttons it up rigid. For Dahlia? It's the sag of her brow, the ragdoll posture, the syrupy slowness of her thoughts and words. It's exhaustion. It's defeat. It's giving up. She doesn't fall off, nah, so much as she slides off and lets the wagon drag her ass through the gravel. Here, the bottoms of her feet are getting pretty thoroughly skinned.] M'just—tired.