Who: Daryl and Adam What: A run in Where: Bathos lobby When: Midday Friday Warnings: Adam and Daryl come packaged with extreme mood whiplash. And really bizarre emotions.
He left work early on Friday, unable to find the motivation to accomplish anything on his desk. He had informed his boss of his arrest, and, much to his surprise, still had a job. That, he supposed, said something. He just wasn’t sure what. Because he didn’t care. It was a funny thing. His apathy, so long a weapon and shield, was becoming less and less useful. It was rusting and withering under the weight of uncertainty.
Adam, who had never spent a moment of his life uncertain, found it disquieting.
Of course he wouldn’t be stealing pieces of fine art in the foreseeable future, that was simply idiotic. Theft of any kind would likely see him an in uncomfortable situation. Which meant he had to lay low and find another way to occupy himself. But with what. Certainly not Daryl. She was likely gloating over her victory and wouldn’t give him a second glance. That thought brought up a whole different set of conflicting emotions. Regret, disgust, shame. Embarrassment, frustration, irritation.
He checked his mail. Nothing was there, but he wasn’t surprised. The DA had promised a very quiet consideration of his crimes, and the evidence would be reviewed by a grand jury. His lawyer didn’t believe the police had enough to land him with a conviction, and Adam was inclined to agree. The grand jury would send the actual thieves along to court; his case would be dismissed.
In the world of his own thoughts, he made his way across the lobby, not paying attention to anything around him, and not caring if he might cross someone’s path. It just didn’t matter. The last week had been a blur. Frankly, the most enjoyable thing she had done was giving Detective Warda her gift. When giving something away was the most fun a person had in any set amount of time, something was wrong. She knew it. But she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Occupying herself with puzzles and conversations with Mr. Pecker was like putting a band-aid over a knife wound - adequate in a pinch, but worthless in the long term.
She was restless and bored, but it wasn’t an instantaneous boredom. Daryl knew bored. She often spent entire months bored, even when there was something to do. She was thoroughly unstimulated, left in a haze where there was nothing to do. Nothing at all. Nobody could even come close to keeping her head above water, and even Jane - as fond of her as Daryl was - dragged her further down.
Watching her feet descend the stairs of the Bathos, Daryl pulled her left glove over her hand, wiggling her fingers slightly as months of familiar memories seeped into her mind. Pushing them aside enough to focus on her steps, she rounded a corner and stepped into the lobby, looking up just enough to see that another person was in her way. She didn’t bother to change course, expecting him to do so. When their shoulders collided, she spun quickly, mouth dropping open to say something about courtesy when she caught sight of his face.
Her open mouth remained open - gaping, really. Eyes wide, she took a slight step back, feeling her heart clench in her chest. “Adam,” she whispered without thinking, staring at him in shock. “Watch it, la--” Adam broke off and regarded the woman standing before him with cool disdain. Four days in prison had turned sorrow - over what, he wasn’t sure - into anger, and she was the last person he wanted to see.
As he looked at her, millions of responses poured into his head, from the gently brutal to the viciously harmful. Most of them would destroy any relationship they had. If there even remained a relationship between them. His lips pulled back in something that could have been a smile had there been any warmth or affection behind the gesture. “Yes, poppet, I did manage to get myself out of jail. Perhaps you’ll find another reason to return me.” Years of watching people instead of interacting with them had given Daryl a keen ability in reading faces. The “smile” he gave her was painfully false, a grotesque mask that undermined the expression it mimicked. His eyes were dead in his face, set back in sockets that swallowed them whole. She gulped, finding that more saliva than usual was being produced in her mouth. Touching gloved fingertips to her chin briefly, she shook her head.
“I’m...pleased to see that you were released,” she said awkwardly. “How thoughtful,” he said, the smile transforming into a sneer. He could see her trepidation and heard the awkward tone in her voice. She was vulnerable, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care. Everything he had done, the way he had acted, was part of a meticulously crafted facade (wasn’t it?). There no longer remained a reason for that behavior.
So why the hell did he feel like shit for wanting to smear her victory on the floor? There was something wrong about him, and she wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t symmetrical, he was operating in pieces instead of wholes. The way the sneer surfaced, the way he spoke, it was all disjointed. Once again, staring at him distracted her, and she barely realized that it was her turn to speak until they had been quiet for several long seconds.
“Thoughtful would be sending flowers,” she said, hedging. “I am merely wishing you well.” With a derisive snort, he drew away from her, standing at an angle to present a smaller target. “I don’t need your well-wishes, poppet. They put a man in jail.”
He couldn’t understand why he was being so outrageously cruel to her. He liked her, liked the games they played, the wars they waged. Ah, but there were no more games. The war was won, she was the victory, and in her victory, he was left with nothing. And even worse was the clawing desire to hold her, because the instrument of his destruction could very well be the instrument of his salvation. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He wanted her to hurt like he did. The way he positioned himself made it clear to her that he was on the defensive. He was backed into a corner in some portion of his mind, and he was lashing out. Pulling her arms around herself slightly, as if trying to offer some form of comfort to herself, she watched him with wary eyes.
“No,” she said simply, voice as hard as she could muster. He was clawing at her, and she wasn’t going to let him shatter the protective layer she had formed. “My intelligence did that. My well-wishes put a man out of his mind.” “You are the instrument of your own intelligence,” he spat. “Don’t insult me by playing at synecdoche.” He moved toward her, crowding her. “You who insist the body is nothing. You who insist the only thing that matters is your mind.” He laughed, the sound devoid of humor.
He bit his lip and swallowed hard. This wasn’t how he had planned to meet her after leaving prison. He’d worked it out in his head. He would work off the anger, and work out the anger, because he had wanted this. And then they would meet. And he’d thank her for freeing him from the world he’d trapped himself in. That was how this meeting was supposed to go.
Swaying, he turned away from her and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I don’t have the energy for this, Daryl.” It wasn’t what he said - though his words were packed with poison - but the way he said it that made her falter. Her steps were scattered in contrast to his, a mark of someone just trying to find her ground. As he pushed forward, she drew back, pressing her lips together thinly as he laughed without mirth.
For years, Daryl never feared a thing. She was brilliant - what could possibly intimidate or frighten her? Since coming to Humanity, she had Jane, an excellent soldier and doctor, at her side. Now she had Detective Warda, another warrior. She had padded herself with brilliance and brawny additions, creating a fortress around herself that allowed her to never once worry. Even after being shot, her biggest fear was the pain she felt - not any damage she could sustain. But standing before Mr. Morgenstern, her smaller body easily cowed by his, she found herself feeling that fear for survival that she hadn’t for so long.
As he turned away, she looked down, pressing a hand over her heart though she didn’t need the gesture to feel its pulse. She turned as well, shoulders at an angle to his as she looked down at her feet. “Very well,” she whispered, voice thinner than usual. “I didn’t mean to disrupt you. Please carry on.” There was no sarcasm in her voice, no cruelty. It was just a fragile voice, delicate and breakable. That was all she had to say? Very well, carry on like she hadn’t taken his whole life away from him? Idiot woman. She probably didn’t realize she had. He glanced back at her, seeing the fear in her face, in her posture. The fact that she was afraid of him made him furious.
Hell, this was why he avoided thinking about things. All the emotions coursing through him were each their own reason not to feel anything. He was Adam Morgenstern, aloof and cold, untouchable and unobtainable. He wasn’t like the other base human lifeforms scavenging around the planet, desperate for sustenance and reason. But that was what she had reduced him to. She had made him just the same as everyone else on the damned planet.
He moved without thinking, his motions mechanical and stiff. He didn’t realize what he was doing or where he was going until he had pulled her into his arms, holding her tight to his body. Face pressed to her neck, he held her as though the warmth of her body could make everything right. Seeing his face turn, she looked away, unsure of meeting his gaze. What would be in his face? Loathing? Resentment? Anger? She imagined it was some combination of them, and for the first time, she found herself not wanting to observe. Observing, in this case, was too painful. The way he moved, the way he spoke, were so unlike him that it was as if he had transformed into something else entirely.
And she had done it to him.
She had taken the only other person that could hold his own against her properly and keep her dancing, and smashed his mind into pieces. She had put him in jail, twisted him out of shape and left him on the floor. How could she have been so stupid? He was a great mind. One of the best. And she had tainted him.
As she prepared to leave, he moved towards her. Instead of running, she froze, watching him as if he were the headlights of an oncoming car. Looking up, craning her neck, she almost asked him what he was doing. But she was silenced by the last thing she had expected - a hug. Feeling his nose pressed against the crook of her neck, she closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his back and held him just as tightly as he did her. Her fingers stood on their nails within her gloves, raised and tense, as she clung to him. If she let go, he might float away. She was soft, and she smelled like strawberries. The combination was enough to soothe him, if only a little. The warmth of her body warmed his, and he sighed against her skin, his breath stirring strands of her hair that tickled his cheek. “I still hate you,” he said, but there was an amused, ironic tone in his voice. He didn’t hate her. It was impossible to hate a woman who could stand up to him, verbally at least, and who wasn’t afraid to take him in a verbal sparring match.
One of his hands slid to her hip, the other shifting up her neck to slip into her hair. Drawing back, he looked at her face and wondered if their expressions were mirrored. She looked delicate and fragile, just like he felt. “And I’m not sure I’m alright with the fact that you took quite a bit from me.” His life, mostly, but she didn’t need to know that.
With a self-disparaging chuckle, he dropped his head to her shoulder and drew her close once more. Feeling his breath on her neck, his arms around her, was Heaven in a way she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sexual, really, of that she was certain. It was just intimate. Though they were standing in the lobby of the Bathos - where anyone could wander in - she could envision that they were elsewhere, somewhere secluded where they were the only two living creatures present. This was their world, within his embrace, and it was all she needed to know. Hearing that he still hated her made her sigh, but it wasn’t exactly sad. “You should,” she replied softly, turning her nose to his shoulder.
As his grip shifted, she looked up, catching sight of his face in a way she hadn’t before. What she had tried to turn away from, the pain she wanted to insulate herself from, was hovering before her now and it wouldn’t be stifled. He was so close, and she could see every crack and chip that might have been hidden if only he’d taken two steps back. Hearing his words made a weight sink in her chest.
Feeling his weight fall on her shoulder, she swayed, knees buckling. Gripping his shoulders, she held him to stay standing. Breathing was difficult, and though she took deep breaths, she couldn’t feel the air get to her lungs. It was just some thing she was doing, not actually breathing. Letting out a wheeze, she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his face to her shoulder as she leaned her cheek against the side of his head, looking up vacantly at the ceiling. “Don’t ever be,” she whispered, the words tight and coiled in her chest. “Don’t you ever accept what I’ve done.” She was driving a railroad spike into her gut, and she knew it. But she couldn’t stop. “Because it was unacceptable.” If someone walked by them, he wouldn’t know. The extent of his world was limited to the circle of his arms, and the woman in them. The building could fall down around them - he dared it to - and he wouldn’t notice. Because she understood. On some fundamental level, she knew what she had done, she knew why he was so angry, and she understood. That was all that mattered, and that was what set him on his new course. As far as Adam was concerned, the sun rose and set with Daryl Hockney.
He wanted to laugh. That he would ever find himself in such a situation had been unimaginable until that moment. “I won’t,” he promised her, and the sound of something good crept into his voice. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you pay for it.” In spite of the words, there was nothing mean in his voice. He was teasing her.
Pulling back, he wrapped his arms around her waist, picking her up and spinning her with a laugh. “You’re going to have to deal with me for the rest of your life, sweetheart,” he told her, his face alight with a smile. He was demented. He had to be. There was no other reason for it. But he wasn’t a man given to introspection, and he wasn’t a man given to dwelling. He shifted, he flowed. She had dropped a rock into the stream of his life, so he did what water did: he went around it. “Shit,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Thank you.” Thirty seconds ago, those words would have made her heart stop. They would have told her that she was doomed. They’d have started what she knew would be a lifetime of torture and agony, something she’d accept and yet fear with every bone in her body. But his tone didn’t match his words. They were damning words, but he was speaking as if he were gently mocking her, playing games at the dinner table.
As he pulled back, she looked at him with utter confusion written on her face that quickly melted into shock. Feeling herself hauled into the air, she let out a squeal, digging her fingers into his arms as she was spun around. She was dizzy, lightheaded, and she couldn’t think. As she was set down, she held onto him tightly for support, staring at him with wide eyes.
Rendering Daryl speechless was a monumental challenge. And yet there she was, staring at him without a clue of what to say. She would have to deal with him for the rest of her life? He was thanking her? She would pay for what she did? It was all muddled and confusing, and she couldn’t make sense of it. Lips parting, she let out a strangled noise from her throat that simulated the English language in pitch only. He couldn’t help it. He laughed. He knew he was saying things that seemed contradictory. For turning him into a neurotic mess for the span of four days, he would give her grief for the rest of her life. He would tease her, harass her, send her impossible puzzles just for the pleasure of watching her stymied. She didn’t understand that by crushing him, by beating him, she had freed him, and that deserved his thanks. He was only just starting to realize the service himself. He had allowed himself to dwell, getting caught up in his own anger and irritation while in jail, and it had blinded him to the simple fact that she had done him a great service.
Undoubtedly, it would take her longer to understand because he wouldn’t be able to explain it to her. But she would figure it out eventually. He had faith in her abilities. For the time being, he thought he might need to let her run off and process.
Brushing a kiss over her cheek, he stepped away. “I hope Toby and Jane are doing well,” he said congenially, slipping his hands into his pockets as he gave her more space. It hurt to do. Opening himself to the rest of the world made him feel smaller, more vulnerable. But he was still Adam Morgenstern, indomitable and, in a bizarre way, still undefeated. Christ, talking about normal things after all that felt surreal. “Are you going out for a bit?” Laughing. He was laughing. Daryl briefly wondered if she was being “punked,” set up for a trick. Her gaze flitted around the room, dazed, before she realized that this was her life. She was twenty-five years old, living with a woman nine years her senior, training a puppy that would soon outweigh her, listening to the memories of her bra, while the man she had put in jail just days ago crowed at her as if they were newlyweds embarking on a life journey together.
Feeling his lips brush her cheek, she let out a small sound of acceptance, reaching up for a moment. When her glove touched her skin, she wrinkled her nose, bringing the index finger of her hand to her lips. Biting down on the glove, she pulled her hand out of it, leaving the glove dangling from her teeth as she touched her cheek with bare fingertips. Convinced he hadn’t left a strange burn there, she took the glove from her mouth just in time to respond to his questions.
“They are,” she said dazedly. “And I am. It’s...my turn to fetch dinner and the restaurant doesn’t deliver.” Now that he wasn’t thinking so goddamn much, things were sliding back into place. It was funny, at least to him, how much good simply moving on could do. Daryl looked like a bomb had been dropped on her, but that wasn’t very surprising. His coping methods were singular at their best and had left people who knew him the dust more often than not.
Then she pulled her glove off. With her teeth. Oh, she had no idea what she was doing. From her expression to her gestures, she wasn’t trying to be erotic. But she was. He hated his life. He really did. In a good way.
“Have a safe trip, then,” he told her jovially. “Mind the ice, don’t slip and crack your head open on the pavement. It would be a travesty to lose that brain of yours.” He gave her an over-dramatized sigh, an attempt to edge them back onto familiar ground where he caused her hell and she bitched at him in return. “Oh, and poppet? A thought: How can a man with twelve toothpicks have nine in front of him if you take only one toothpick away?” With a cocky grin, he stepped by her and made his way into his apartment feeling much better about everything.