Who: Iris and Ian What: A rescue mission, of sorts Where: Iris' apartment When: Backdated. A few days after her first meeting with Ian. Warnings/Rating: Creepiness on Ian's part, meekness and instability on Iris'. We should probably just set up a blanket warning for these two...
Days. It had been days since Iris had hurried out of Ian’s house, hoping to appease Sam, and she’d been hiding away ever since. Hearing nothing from her sister. But she’d still kept herself hidden away, locked away, keeping herself from returning to the welcoming warmth and security of the house out in Summerlin. She’d barely slept, fighting both desires and old nightmares of fire and blood. By the third (or was it fourth? Fifth?) day, she was back to wondering what was real and what was a twisted hallucination. Her kitchen counter was scattered with the few mugs she owned, the remnants of tea-making scattered about. She wandered the space wearing loose knit pants, cut to end just past her knee and that showed the bruises that were her inheritance of Death’s ongoing problems on the other side of the door. Her top was too-many sizes too large, and the neckline slipped off one slim shoulder.
She knew she was falling apart, but she didn’t know how to derail the speeding train of her impending breakdown. She didn’t want to worry her family, didn’t want anyone to get hurt. But she didn’t know how to balance that. She still hadn’t figured it out when she ran out of tea, and a glance in the mirror had told her that she couldn’t leave to get more looking like she did. So she’d started the shower, the first step in venturing out her front door, but all she could bring herself to do was stare at the water falling down into the drain. Stand and stare. She tested the temperature once, but never climbed in, the drops falling from her fingers onto the tiled floor.
Somehow, he had expected her to return, even taking the harried note she had left behind upon her departure. And initially, Ian had been content to simply wait, to not press the matter or make demands, because he wanted it to be a case of Iris coming to him, returning to him without being asked, and perhaps that would be proof enough to her hard-headed siblings that the decision was wholly hers. But when three days had passed without a single word, Ian knew that it was time to take matters into his own hands. The car was called to carry him to where he knew Iris to live, and before long, knuckles were rapping on her front door.
"Iris," he called out, his voice pleasant, nothing to be frightened of. "Iris. If you're there, I need to have a moment of your time. Please." Please wasn't a word that Ian used very often, saved for special occasions, of which there were few and far in between. But he used it now, a sign of the way he felt given the situation. Another knock, another pause before he spoke. "Iris."
The knock traveled through the vacant space of her apartment, echoing strangely in the empty rooms, and she startled when she heard it. No, he wasn’t supposed to be here. She wouldn’t be able to say no. She needed to stay strong, to be the person that could take care of herself, and so she couldn’t see him. If he was there, if he was really there, she couldn’t see him. So as much as she wanted to answer the door and throw herself into his arms, she rushed out of the bathroom (shower still running) on as silent of bare feet as she could manage, and forced herself away from the front door and back toward her own room. She pressed her back into an empty corner and shook her head as she clenched her eyes shut tightly.
Another knock came moments later, echoing through the apartment and somehow more insistent in nature. "Iris!" Ian called out once more before he stepped away from the door, head tilted to the side as he went still, listening for any signs of life behind that locked door. The sound of the shower running came quietly, a static in the background, but it was enough to push him forward as he pulled out the single key on a bit of braided leather, the key he had acquired by means that were less than legal. Ian had promised himself that he would not use it unless he felt it were an emergency, and her lack of answer after over three days certainly qualified as an emergency in his book.
The key slid into the lock, tumblers turning as he opened the door, stepping in with careful steps before closing the door behind him. "Iris?" Ian called out, his voice carrying much more depth to it when it wasn't trapped behind a heavy door, but there was a new note of concern resting in it as he got his first look at the young woman's apartment. Or what would be an apartment if there were any signs of life beyond the smattering of mugs on the breakfast bar. No furniture to speak of, no pictures or other personal bits, and the sight of it pulled at something inside of him. This was broken, this place, nothing to make it a home.
"Iris," he called out again, and bit by bit, he made a search of the other rooms in the apartment, the empty bedroom, the bathroom (taking a moment to turn the shower off), the guest room with its bed and dresser, and then finally the last room, what he assumed would be the master bedroom. The door was pushed open quietly as Ian peered in. "Iris?" he called out once more, taking in the bed, the boxes of clothing pushed against the walls, the blue scarf hanging by the window. And then, almost disappearing in the corner, he saw her.
"Iris."
The word carried a lot of weight in it, worry and concern, and there was no hesitation as he moved over towards where she had pressed herself against the corner, dropping down into a crouch in front of her. Nothing more was said, but a tender hand reached out to tuck some errant blond away from her face, his touch gentle and kind.
She had thought that her hiding spot would be enough, that he would leave when she didn’t answer the door, but then the key had been slid into the lock and the door had been opened without her permission. It had earned a muffled whimper from her, and she’d slid down to curl even more in on herself, pressing her hands to her mouth to keep any other sounds from escaping. She’d listened to his progress through her apartment, the silence when the shower was shut off.
And then he was there. Framed in the doorway of her bedroom and then in front of her before she could track his movement. She couldn’t drop her hands away and simply shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes as she shook her head.
"Why are you crying?" He didn't try to pull her hands away from her mouth, but he did reach out to sweep some of the tears from her eyes, thumbing them away, drying her damp cheeks. "What happened, Iris? Talk to me." The crouch shifted to him kneeling there on one knee, all of his attention poured upon her.
She didn’t move her hands, and the hitching words were muffled by the fingers pressed there. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” She tipped forward more, hiding herself against her legs, forehead to her knees so that she wouldn’t have to look at his worried face. “I’m sorry,” she murmured again, her whole body shaking.
He didn't say anything for a long while, watching as she pressed her forehead against her bent knees, just watching, worrying. His forehead creased slightly, and then he reached out, gently urging her to lift her chin, to meet his gaze. "You don't need to apologise to me," Ian said softly, just above a whisper, "but you have to understand that I'm concerned. Might you come with me? Being alone doesn't seem to be the best thing you could do at the moment."
She managed to follow his urging to lift her face, her eyes red from the escaping tears, but the dark smudges under them betraying her lack of sleep over the past few days. The sound that tore from her throat when she saw his expression was something broken and wounded, and she tried to move away, to keep herself from throwing herself into his arms, but all she could do was press back harder against the unyielding corner. “I can’t.” Her fingers were still pressed to her mouth, the words having to get around them to escape.
"Why can't you?" Baby steps, small questions, step by step to the root of what was going on. He didn't like the look in her eyes, bloodshot and rimmed in shadows, especially when compared to how relaxed and at peace she had been when he had put her to bed only days prior. "Tell me why you can't come with me," Ian pressed gently, soft fingers against her cheek, sweeping away another deluge of tears, drying her face.
“I have to stay. I’m home, I have to stay.” It didn’t stop her from tipping her face toward his hand, eyes closing over an expression that looked like pain before she hid it away. One of her hands finally fell away from her mouth, the fingers damp with her own tears, and she touched those fingers to the back of his wrist, a trembling butterfly kiss of contact. “I have to be here.”
At her touch, Ian's eyes closed for a moment, an ache in his own chest when he opened his eyes yet again. "Who says you have to be here, Iris? Who says you have to be here, in this place which is hardly a home and more a place to sleep?" Ian may not have been the most domestic of people, but he knew a home when he stepped into it, and this place had nothing in it that made it a home for anyone. There was no life here, just empty space which swallowed and drained, and it concerned him that she stayed here, felt she had to be here.
“It’s my home. If I’m not here, if I’m somewhere else...” her voice dropped, a whisper that barely passed from her to him, even as close as they were. “They’ll worry. They don’t understand. They worry even when I tell them not to. I can’t worry them...” Her hand had gone from touching him to wrapping trembling fingers around the back of his hand, though. Anchoring her to him even as she told him that she couldn’t go with him.
"Iris." The name came with a soft breath, watching as she held onto his hand, the touch a contrast to her words that seemed so honest. "So you would rather worry me? Upset me by staying in this place that's hardly a home? Why should you live to make them happy? Where is it that you want to be, Iris?" His words were a plea, carefully crafted to pull the response he wished from her. "Here? Alone? Only to keep them from worrying? Or somewhere you would feel safe, where you would be taken care of, given free reign to do as you please with nothing asked of you other than you making your own decisions?" Ian leaned in close, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear. "Do you remember Seattle, Iris? They wanted to put you in a home. A hospital. Because they were worried. Will they do that here because they worry?"
She remembered his home, even though she’d only spent a night there, and the thought of it called to her. The warmth of it, the comfort. The way that sitting on the soft sofa with him had seemed so right. But... her family. No matter what she had written to Sam, that she had never felt a part of either her blood or her adopted family, it didn’t change the fact that they were family. And that there was the chance, she remembered, of people being hurt. Because of her. And she couldn’t have that. But she couldn’t have Ian worrying either. She was caught, twisting on a line between two points, and she couldn’t see a solution.
His whisper, his touch, made her shiver, made her body lean toward him, listing like grass in wind. She turned her face toward him, his words, her own lips brushing his neck when she spoke. Not for any sort of seduction, but more an attempt to hide against him again. “I had to. I went. Not there, but in the south. I was sick - so sick. I still am...”
As she leaned in towards him, responsive and warm where she leaned against him, Ian let his lips close, a kiss against her ear, a soft nuzzle with the tip of his nose. He could almost feel the indecision raging within her, the way she was pulled this way and that between a family that claimed to care but did little in showing it other than yelling, shouting, throwing words about, and him, and Ian felt strongly that there was much more he could offer the woman than her family could. "You're not sick, Iris. You're a flower who has grown up in shadows and shade, never allowed to flourish properly." He brought his free hand up to skim along the line of her jaw, fingers curling beneath her chin, touching the soft skin there. "You need someone who understands what you need, who knows what you need in order to flourish, to live, to be happy. Who knows how to take care of your every need." And there was a heaviness in his voice on the word, carrying with it far more meaning than should have been possible. "Come with me, Iris. Let me take care of you. Keep you safe. You're not sick, you've never been sick. But I know what it is you need."
The gentle little nuzzle, the touches to her skin, each one was enough to pull a shiver from her and send it skittering down her spine. Uncertain of everything, the heat of his body was the steadiest thing in her awareness, and she swayed toward it again. Face hidden against his neck, she shuddered against him as she tried to find words to explain what she was feeling without angering him. “I am. Years...” she stuttered to a stop, not knowing how to explain to him the past years of her life. “You don’t know...” The slow leak of tears hadn’t stopped from her eyes, and she was certain that her words would be the thing to chase him away.
As the tears fell, Ian reached up to whisk them away, quietly pressing his damp fingers to his lips, tasting the salt that clung to his fingertips, and then his attention was upon her once again. "You're not," he assured her quietly, and then the decision was made. A shift of his body, from kneeling to crouching, and he was scooping her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest. "You're not ill, and you're not going to live in an empty apartment because your family would prefer that you do so. You will come home with me, Iris. And I will not accept any argument from you. I am worried, and I cannot allow you to stay here." There was a firmness in his words, unyielding in their intensity.
The tears were too thick for her to watch him, to realize what he was doing or what he was planning, and she opened her mouth again to reply with more reasons, more evidence of her instability and illness. But all her words were skillfully stolen by the gasp that slipped out when he lifted her up into his arms. There was a moment of vertigo before she realized what was happening, and she clung to his shirt, the nearest thing that wasn’t twisting and turning in space. She couldn’t remember ever being lifted like that before, and her fingertips, though they clung, also pushed at his chest. “Please... I’m too heavy to carry like this.” She was worried about him hurting himself, and shook her head. “And I can’t.” Her voice slipped into a softer whisper, the fight being drained out her by the exhaustion, the safety of having him there, and the seduction of returning to the warmth of his home. “It’s where I belong,” she finished, though even she couldn’t tell if she was talking about her apartment, or the thought of the expansive desert house.
The soft pleas, the protests, even as her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, were left ignored, and it wasn't so much that Ian was disregarding her feelings and desires as he was doing what was best for her. And best was not leaving her huddled in the corner of her room, in an apartment that hardly showed signs of life. "Iris," Ian said softly, his hold upon her secure despite her words to the opposite. His voice was serious, even stern, his gaze intense upon her with every word that fell from her lips. Salt still clung to his, the fresh taste of newly fallen tears, but he didn't let that deter him. "If I put you down," he started, his voice just above a whisper, but there was no missing the words that were said. "I will leave, and I will not come back for you. Do you really want that to happen? When I can give you everything you want? Do you remember how it felt to rest at my home? The sleep? You would want for nothing, but I will not force you." It was a contrast to his earlier words when it seemed he would not listen to any protests, but the slope was slippery, and he would push her down it if she did not go on her own.
Her entire body gave a little shiver of fear, one gasp followed quickly by another as the breath slipped out of her and she couldn’t catch it right away. The thought of losing him, not once, but twice, and having that second time be her own fault... she couldn’t. She needed him there, needed the bedrock center he gave her. “Don’t go. ...please.” She finally managed to find the words, few and shakily breathed out as they were, and her fingers twined themselves in the expensive fabric of his clothing, not loosening or giving way at all. The memory of sleep, of rest itself, was just as tempting as everything else, the little snatches of uneasy rest she’d gotten over the past days not hardly enough. “Don’t leave me...” she finally whispered, more breath than voice, and that with the hint of a wobble that might have almost started its life as a whimper. “...please.” The whisper-soft edge of her voice had taken on a desperation, something that turned it from asking to pleading. To begging. Desperate for him to not leave her alone, because she knew if he did, she would crumble - more swiftly and more completely than she had the last time. She knew, was certain, that she wouldn’t survive without him. And in her moment of desperate self-preservation, she would do anything (anything) to stay with him.
Who was he to deny her a request worded and lovely as she had made it? With his hands holding her against his chest, he could not brush the hair from her face or run the edge of one finger over a too-pale cheek, so he simply bowed his head to press his lips against her forehead. "I will never leave you, my little one," Ian promised, and that kiss was a brand upon her, ownership in the simple gesture. It wasn't a job of simply binding a person to him, no, but making that person desire him, want to be with him, to beg to be with him, and then who could blame him if he agreed?
"Let us go home, Iris. I believe we both need our sleep." And Ian turned from where he had picked her up, carrying her through the apartment with little attention paid to anything she might need with her. It would be a simple task to give her all that she needed at his Summerlin home, and there was simply no time to linger here much longer. Her family were stubborn ones, and the last thing he needed was running into one of them on their way out.
The kiss, the words, did their work in settling her. The fear in her belly eased, and she turned her face into his shoulder, exhaling in a slow, relieved shudder. The worries about her family had faded for the moment, chased away by the sudden fear and the warm wash of relief. She didn’t ask questions, she didn’t fight the thought of going to his house, the home where she’d felt so safe days earlier. She simply nodded, brush of messy hair against his shoulder, the side of his neck, and closed her eyes. “Yes.” It was whisper and give, a soft promise and present just for him.