Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-21 04:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom |
"Tell Doctor Wisdom where it hurts."
Who: Domino, Pete
What: Slight mishap involving paint and reasons why white rooms are bad, mmkay? Then cracks begin to show. :(
When: Umm...recently!
Where: Domino's apartment
Rating: PG13 for language, some cuts and bleedy thanks to broken windows, and guns to heads.
Status: Complete!
All of the windows were open and the furniture - minus the couch - was shoved into the middle of Domino's living room. She'd been cleaning since 6 in the morning, and painting since 9, but the entire room and nearby kitchen was finally covered in a nice, desaturated blue green with cream trim.
She got another cup of coffee as she looked it over, then got ready to head to her bedroom and paint that one, too.
Romany had dropped Pete off before she took the car - probably flipping it again - and drove off to look for a shop for her occult depraved whatever it was she was going to sell. He honestly didn't want to know. What he was certain of, was that he wouldn't be stepping foot into it, if it was one giant smut shop, even if it was lit on fire, and he was Romany's only chance of survival. He'd probably take off his tie and wag it toward the open door, yelling 'Grab hold! Grab hold!' or something, while choking on the smoke coming off a massive stockpile of dildos.
But that's a story, perhaps, for another time and place.
Pete was outside of Domino's apartment door, looking like something the cat dragged in. He had tried to sleep, and no amount of alcohol, pizza gorging, or staring at the walls had managed to make a dent in his mind replaying things over again. At best, he'd nodded off for several catnaps and twitched when he abruptly woke up, never managing more than an hour at a time. At this rate, he was pretty sure it was going to get all Nightmare on Elm Street in Southern California. It had to be a government conspiracy to test sleep deprivation, was what he was thinking.
He raised one hand and knocked slowly upon the door, with his knuckled. Then he gave up, leaned in, and knocked slowly upon the door, with his forehead.
The sound of the knocking made her twitch. She hadn't slept either, despite the conversation she'd had with Clarice over the fact that she wouldn't last more than a week like that. Or perhaps because of it. Maybe she was trying to prove her wrong.
In any case, the paint cans were set down on the floor, and she went to get a pistol as the knocking got louder. She crept over to her kitchen window, crawled up on her counter, and peeked out it a bit, like she was trying to decide if it was someone she needed to shoot.
She was still trying to decide that when she noticed it was Pete.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. That was the sound of Pete's forehead on her door. Being knocky. Then he simply closed his eyes, resting his forehead against it, and groaned like some dying thing.
Because, really, that just about summarized how he felt.
In case, though, it was vague and she thought she was being attacked by zombies, Pete made certain to groan out, "Thurmaaaan, it's meee, let me iiiiiin, or I'll rot on your front step."
Not that the way he was speaking would have made it any clearer about the issue of if she was being attacked by Zombies or not. He was certainly acting like one, and sounded like one, too. All he needed to add in was something about brains.
From the window, she watched a bit, then sighed, climbed down, and headed for the door. Which she opened, with the pistol still in her other hand. Though helpfully not pointed at him.
"I told you not to come over. I'm busy. You look like hell."
"Cheers. You looked like reheated arse, yourself. Let me in," he grumbled, staring at her with the sort of unyielding look of someone who wasn't going to go away. "I want inside, so I can huff your paint fumes."
And make sure she was all right. She didn't look all right, not to him. She looked tired, and like she was hogging all the paint fumes to herself. But if he had to sweeten the deal, he would do so. So he reached into the pockets inside his coat, and held out one bottle of whiskey and one entire carton of cigarettes. Pete was really the gift that kept on giving, where vices were concerned. He used to have more vices, but that was in the past. He was currently left with just the two major ones, these days, and with no signs of stopping either.
"I told you that I'd be stopping in," he explained, like that was that and she should've taken it seriously. "Now let me see wot you've done with the place."
"And I told you not to come, when you said that." Dom sighed, then walked further inside the apartment. It was like she was letting him walk inside if he was going to keep being so stubborn about it, but not with her permission. She just abandoned the door, with him standing there.
She didn't even take the whiskey or cigarettes.
She stowed her pistol away somewhere, and recovered the paint buckets she'd left in the hallway, muttering to herself about men who look like arse and are stubborn about things.
The door was open so Pete took the opportunity to enter, kicking it closed behind him. He did take a steadying drink from his scotch and lit a cigarette, before following her, doggedly. He was going to make sure she was alright, at least...and hopefully that she hadn't gone entirely nutters and painted things pink.
"Oi, Neena...don't be hacked off about it, eh? I just want t'make certain you're not goin' to go off the ruddy deep end or summat."
If anything, he was blunt.
The place was, thankfully, nothing at all close to pink. It was a nice calming color that Dom had decided was soothing and wouldn't also inadvertently kill anyone's eyeballs while looking at it.
She'd chosen a similar color for her bedroom, and had disappeared into it, where the sound of furniture being moved around could be heard. Over the ruckus, she shouted, "I'm not going off the deep end, I'm just painting! Why does everyone think that I'm somehow unhinged because of that?"
There was a pause, and she added, "... If you're going to be in here you can help me move furniture around."
"Wot do I look like, a bloody domestic drudge?" Even as he said it, he was shrugging off his coat and suit jacket, leaving them in the middle of the floor where they landed. He still wasn't sure why she was painting like this, but he meant to find out.
Hopefully without having to push for answers.
The colors at least looked nice enough, he thought, in a soothing sort of way. But he wasn't about to go saying that, because it might make him sound prissy. So, instead, he leaned a shoulder against the bedroom doorway and helpfully watched for a moment, in a way that seemed as though he was looking through her and not really at her.
That didn't last for too long before he got off his butt and went into the room, rolling up his shirt sleeves and muttering around the cigarette in his mouth, "Wot do you want moved, first."
"Yes. You look like my beautifully bloody domestic drudge, who has come here as my night in shining armor to help me paint my apartment. I made a wish over my coffee cup and there you were."
The bed was askew, and it looked like Domino had been trying to push it around on her own. She looked up at him and grunted, "I need the bed in the middle of the room, so that I can paint behind it. It's pretty heavy with this headboard on it."
She could move it on her own, but it was going to take forever. She didn't really want it to take forever, because the longer the walls were white like that, the more she found herself twitching repeatedly. Especially in a smaller room like the bedroom naturally was.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," he grumbled, and moved to the headboard to try to get it to budge. He wasn't sure if he could do it, because he was still having those bouts where he felt like he could shoot things, but if worse came to worse, he might not even be able to push over a newborn kitten.
Both hands were firmly grasping the thing, and he gave her a nod like he was ready, as well as the ash from his cigarette was ready to fall on the bed as soon as he started shoving.
"Count of three then? You count it off. I think I've drank meself past the ability t'count anymore."
She reached a hand over with a cup for the ash to fall into, before picking up her side of the bed. She was thankfully not as weak as a kitten anymore, probably because of the volley of shots Moira had given her, but the both of them had been up long enough that it was a miracle either of them were even standing.
And painting, and moving around furniture, which Dom was ready to do in, "Three ... two ... One."
Pete made a not so attractive hurking sound as he began pushing, thus proving that, indeed, it was a miracle he was even standing. In fact, he might lay down on the bed after it was moved, and that would be the extent of his household drudgery.
Did the bed scoot? He hoped it was scooting. If it didn't, he was going to shoot it. Because he still had his guns in their holsters, and shooting things might make him feel better. Before he passed out, that is.
"...this...proves...Ikea...made of...evil," he was saying, trying to dig his heels in and lean his entire body to push the monstrosity into the middle of the room. "Hate you....Ikea..."
The bed was, in fact, scooting! Miraculously, somehow, it was getting where it needed to go. Perhaps it sensed that Pete was going to shoot it otherwise, being the evil demon bad that it was, from Ikea. It obviously needed to prove him right, with its demon-ness.
"... Ikea... not... evil... bed... just... heavy... damn it," Dom grunted, as she helped push it to its final destination. Which was the middle of the room!
She almost cheered when she looked up and noticed it had gotten there safely.
Pete did not cheer. Pete gave her a look, like he still wanted to shoot her demon Ikea bed. It was, after all, the giver of bad dreams. When he decided the look was over and done with, he looked around for something to put his cigarette out on. Paint can lid? Go. He smushed it, loosened his tie, turned, an sat his butt down before falling back onto the bed with a groan.
"I hate your bed, it needs to die," he said, finally, folding both hands over his stomach and staring up at the ceiling. "Now, Dommy. Tell Doctor Wisdom where it hurts, so he can look at it, and make you feel all better."
Dom was honestly just glad that the paint can lid wasn't paint-side up when he did that. The ash would have somehow gotten into her paint!
She tolerated the long look he gave her by not sticking out her tongue at him, then watched him get comfy on her bed. She'd been hurt by his leaving last night and into the early morning, but after the talk with Clarice she'd ended up somewhere between 'meh' and the mental state of honey badger. Now she was the tiniest bit worried.
But in response to his comment, she turned her ass in his direction and bent a bit so he had full access to it, "My ass hurts. Kiss it and make it better."
This was entirely her way of expressing worry.
"Get o'er here an' sit on me face then, so I can do that," was his unhesitant reply, while raising two fingers, index and middle, of one hand. It's Pete's way of being smushy. To be even more smushy, he puckered up his lips and made kissing noises.
It's his way of dealing with worry, too. So it was a mutual exchange. Like alchemy. Only with sarcasm.
"Why don't you take a break," he suggested, moving his hand to pat the bed, right next to him. "Lay down here next t'me. Let's 'ave a little discussion, why don't we."
"How are we going to have a discussion while I'm sitting on your face?" Domino asked, cheekily, while pulling her pants down. She was really doing to do it. Her pants slid down her legs, and bare buttcheeks were presented to him, along with an odd birthmark he's probably seen before, only now it was a lot closer.
She crawled up onto the bed and inched her backside even closer to his face. Closer. Almost right next to his lips now.
Pete's head started to turn. But he was eyeing that birthmark on her bum, and it was heading closer and closer and closer, enough that he snerked and then snorted and started to laugh.
"If you fart on me, I'll be so hacked off right now. Miss Ladylike." He poked a finger at her birthmark, then gave it a pinch...followed by a grawrr bite that made it seem like he wasn't going to let go.
Because, hey, that's what friends are for. Biting asses.
Her response to that was to bite back a very loud moan, because that birthmark was not where she thought he'd head for, and it was probably the third most erogonous spot on her body. Which she really didn't need him knowing at all. She thought he'd just laugh at her and push her away, in fact.
She bounced up off the bed to get away from him after that, and if some of her skin was still pinched between his teeth, well, it was just going to have to stay there, because she wasn't going to let this get to the place that the neck-sucking had gotten to, previously.
"I am completely a Lady. If you want to bite my ass like that again, you'll just have to take me to dinner first."
"But Dommy, we're just friends. Wot's a little arse biting, between friends," he said in that way that Brits say things, that sounds so matter of fact, yet rather sly and insidiously good at the same time. He had also let his teeth slip right off her birthmark too, the minute she started to move.
He gazed up at her, folding both hands on his chest, blue eyes pinpoint focused on her, totally relaxed. That was because he felt like his fever had come back and it had burned the life right out of him, but she didn't need to know that either. Someone was feeling lazy. And a little naughty like a total envelope pusher.
"I ain't getting you lobster, unless you're in a dress and I get a handjob out o' it. Champagne's for a blow," he said, in full snark joking mode, smirking ear to ear, sloppily, and winking to let her know he wasn't serious.
"It's a good think I don't like Lobster OR Champagne," Dom snerked, and pulled her pants back on. She chalked his laziness up to whatever it was that was making him look like utter hell, which might even be a fever, since he was still very much a space heater. She'd definitely been close enough with her naked skin to feel the heat coming off of him.
For one tiny, microscopic moment, she almost felt bad about making him move her demon bed. But that moment very quickly passed by, and she went back to pushing furniture around the bedroom. Putting some distance between them seemed like an excellent idea. He was in one of those playful moods, and she wasn't sure where they'd end up.
"What would I have to do to you if I got a big porterhouse steak and a bottle of special reserve Jack? Reverse cowgirl?" She kept up the friendly snark while lugging a tv around.
"I quite like reverse cowgirl. I think that's brilliant," so proclaimed Sir Lazy Arse, with the raise and twirl of one hand, like it was his will and it should be done. He was, naturally, still smirking and looking like a self-satisfied prick, laying there like that while she moved things around and he wasn't budging at all.
Of course, in his mind, they were only fooling about, and it wasn't anything serious. Sort of like dirty, crass jokes with his mates, down at the pub, on a saturday night. So that probably wasnt' helping matters.
Neither was the fact that his fever felt like it had bumped up again from space heater to internal combustion engine. Enough so that he let his arm flop down, off to one side, and laid there breathing deeply for a moment, staring feverishly up at the ceiling.
It was probably better to cut to the chase. He was already feeling blurry around the edges, and he felt he needed to explain to her, why yesterday happened the way that yesterday had happened.
"I don't know wot you dreamed of, Neena," he began saying, in a much more serious sort of way, "but I needed some space, meself. I had a dream, about me mum. Which...I know I don't like t'talk about personal stuff, but...she was shot, some time ago. Murdered. Only, when I dreamed about it, last night, she was shot more than once. And I was there that time, after it happened."
A brief pause and he added, because it was a fact as well, "Mum always said she hated me, so...you know...no love lost, there. Even so. That's wot happened. And why I packed up Romany, thinking maybe you needed some time to just...breathe...yourself."
With that revelation, Dom looked like she'd suddenly been kicked in the face, and all the joking stopped. She set the TV down on its stand, before she dropped it, and just stared at him for a bit. Inwardly glad that he was staring at the ceiling and couldn't see her expression, because for a moment it was filled with sadness for him that could be mistaken for pity, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Pete. That's... one fucking horrible dream. The reality isn't much better."
She didn't believe for one second that everything was okay simply because he'd mentioned there was no love lost, there. From what she was lead to believe, parent/child relationships were really fucking complicated. She had no practical experience to draw from, since the only time she remembered seeing her mother, she'd shot her.
After a moment, she picked the TV back up, and carried it over to the middle of the room, then set it down next to the bed, "Why didn't you SAY something? No, never mind. Probably for the same reason I didn't say anything, too. But still. You could have ... I mean I was obviously rattled and you didn't even mention you'd had one hell of a mindfuck of a dream, too."
Not one to stand around, she waited for his response while laying down a tarp over most of the stuff in the bedroom, and then got to work applying painter's tape to things.
"I was more worried about you, t'be honest. I thought maybe you'd had it with us being here, especially after I'd walked in and interrupted your work. So I thought...we're both feelin' rattled, space would do us some good...me sis is doing shite she shouldn't be doing on your sofa...best t'vacate an' let you do wot you needed to do."
He turned his head finally, to watch her with half-opened eyes, while she was taping around edges. This still left what she had dreamed about, and he wanted to know, but was trying to wait to see if she volunteered the information, herself.
"There's nothing t'be sorry over. It seemed real enough. Kitty thinks they're memories, sort of like things we'd forgotten about. I'm beginning t'think she's right, but I bloody well wish that I didn't have t'see anything else. I don't think I want t'know."
The unspoken 'what about you?' was hanging in the air, in that sort of way that wasn't too pushy, but was definitely like an elephant quietly standing in the room, waiting to be noticed and pointed at.
The elephant could go die in a fire, as far as Dom was concerned. She did pause for about 3 seconds when he mentioned that the dreams were memories instead of just dreams. She remembered admitting to Clarice earlier that them being memories was one of her worst fears about them. If they were memories, she didn't want to remember any more. She just wasn't going to sleep. Not sleeping would work, somehow. Maybe - and she couldn't believe she was thinking this - she could talk that doctor woman into giving her some stims. Pull the CIA card.
She kept right on taping, though, and addressed the other things he was speaking about, instead, "You'd agreed to get a 3 bedroom so I could watch over Romany. I was pretty sure that was the plan, and I hate it when the plan suddenly isn't the plan anymore. But I understand why you needed some space, yourself. I don't react to changes very well, but I'm pretty much over it now. And you've got your work stuff to deal with, so..."
She turned in his direction and shrugged, "I understand. I'm not mad at you anymore. And I'm sorry I took off without you. I just really needed to get out, but it wasn't because you and Romany were here."
"I thought it was, in part, b'cos of that," he explained, sounding like he was putting it very simply and factually. He was still staring right at her, eyes half opened, one arm flopped out toward her, and he showed no signs of budging.
For all extensive purposes, he could've been the elephant in the room. Because the way he was watching her was groggily but expectant, at the same time.
"Do you want that, still? Or do you want and need your own space, to do your own work," he asked, suddenly, with all the hesitation of someone asking if the firing line was ready to fire and get it over with. "I wasn't angry at you, t'begin nor end with. But if our work's going t'get in the way, if we're both going to be waking up, with guns in our hands, and bullets flying...it's a good question to ask. Isn't it?"
"Well I was," Dom muttered at the wall, still making her way around things with her tape. And she wasn't sure she did want that anymore, for a list of reasons that began with the fact that she didn't want to have to repaint everything and ended with the very one he'd mentioned.
She kept on taping things until she got to the other side of the room, and started stirring some paint, "It's a bad idea. We won't stop keeping guns under our pillows and if we ever sleep again we're probably going to wake up firing again. If I'd actually killed you I would have been pissed and Romany would have probably shot ME."
"If you think it's a bad idea, that's fair enough," he said, with a nod of his head, like he could respect her reasoning. It did make sense, and he knew he'd have to be just as cautious around her, what with her being CIA, and when it came to the fact that he had arrangements with Shepard to be rid of Harper.
Pete sat up just enough to prop his elbows underneath him, but even that was done sluggishly, and he didn't move any further than that. Instead, he simply watched what she was doing, and continued talking. She could continue to evade if she wanted, but at some point or other, he was going to get blunt or abrupt about it.
"Romany said she found a three bedroom, so there's an extra room. we both tend t'come an' go as we please. Nature of the business. I told Romany t'come find you if anything happens to me. So she knows. And I still intend on stopping in, regularly. I'd like t'say that I wouldn't mind if you stopped by as well, and maybe put your arse on me face again." He gave her a sly smile. "Nice birthmark, by the way. I quite fancy it."
Dom scrunched her face up, like someone had just farted in the room and she was smelling it, only it was his mouth that was doing the farting. Then she gave him the look that told him that THAT joke wasn't funny at all, while tossing the fluffy white roller part of a paint roller at his head.
It wasn't that heavy at all, so it was completely harmless. Just fluffy and white.
"If your place is going to become home to the world's largest collection of rats, pizza boxes, and cockroaches, then I think I'll cross it off of my tourist destinations. But you know I'd take care of Romany if she was in trouble. I'll just have to put on a biohazard suit, first."
"That birthmark is why I'm named Domino, actually," she added after pouring paint into a tray, "Milo thought it was hysterical, one of the guys heard it, and it clicked. But YOU aren't going to get your teeth on it ever again, the way you're behaving."
"Biohazard suit, check. Endearing reason for nickname, check. And the fact that you realized wot an arse I am, finally? Check." He had tried to bat at the thrown fuzzy paint roller thing but it hit his forehead anyway. He flopped back down onto his back and simply laid there. The bum. "Tell me 'ow bad I'm being."
To him, it was as though she was preaching to the choir about it, more or less. Everything else was simply, or frustratingly, accepted. As well as he noted the fact she was being so agreeable to the plans changing, because he figured she was using it as a means to strike back and not have to say anything about that dream she had.
That wasn't going to last too much longer though. Because he gathered up enough energy to get up off the bed, onto his own two feet, and walk over until he was behind her, practically breathing down the back of her neck. The heat of his body was probably radiating against her, and one very warm finger went jab poking at that spot on her bum.
"Let's talk about the way you're behaving, shall we?" he said, lightly, aloofly, like it didn't matter to him either. Even if, deep down, it did. He did care, after all, what happened to his friend. And her painting her apartment...beach glass blue-green with whatever color trim...was a pretty drastic change, already. "Wot's with the paint. Really. Because I'm not buying that you woke up, with a compulsion t'go to the paint store."
"I've always known you were an ass, Pete. You've pretty much made it into your life calling way before you met me, and I've never really been all that upset with it," Domino snorted, before he got up off the bed and came at her like that.
Because that's how she viewed it as, the way he was behind her like that. The proximity raised the hackles on her neck and made all of the nerve endings back there light up like a christmas tree. She felt incredibly jumpy all of a sudden, so much so that she dashed sideways out of the way of the poking, and nearly kicked a paint bucket over in the process.
"What do YOU know about it!?" she finally said, half-shouting. She was obviously unnerved by him very suddenly, "Why do you need to be that fucking close to me to talk to me about my behaviour. My behaviour is just fine. I got up, I got out, I got some paint. I told you my walls were too white. They were. So I got some paint. Now they won't be white anymore. Alright!? Good."
Pete stood there for a moment with a bewildered expression, but that was quickly replaced by the sort of look that someone would get, when they noticed something in their surroundings was completely and entirely off.
After all, they'd certainly been very chummy up until he woke up and she had a gun pointed at him, and deductive reasoning as well as his little test to see what she'd do during close proximity, was sounding the 'you're onto something here' alarms in his head.
"Wot's wrong, Thurman? Bug up your bum all o' a sudden? Feeling edgy? Suddenly things are a little too bright an' shiny, an' you're not wanting anyone invading your comfort zone?"
He drew out a pack of cigarettes from a trouser pocket, lighting one up, and tossing them aside onto the bed, so she could grab one if she wanted or needed it.
"Don't make me have t'make you answer, b'cos I know now wotever you bloody well saw behind your lovely closed eyes, wasn't a pretty place. Same as mine wasn't. So out with it, or we're goin' t'have a row like the one we had overseas. Where everyone ended up wearin' canned beans an' you had t'whip out your tidy wipes an' cursed at me a whole lot afterward, while I got pissed blind in the corner of the bunker."
"I never once in the entire time you've been here FORCED you to talk about ANYTHING that made you uncomfortable. And you know what? You don't get to just ... You don't get to do this. You don't get to come in here and be cuddly and nice to me and then suddenly decide to be the world's biggest asshole because I'm not telling you something. It's MY shit to tell, and I don't want to tell it, or I would have told you it already."
She frowned, because the bean mess was horrible and he hadn't cared at all about the fact that there were beans everywhere. The only thing in the room in a can for him to splash everywhere was paint, and she wasn't getting that out of the rug with handi wipes.
So she marched over to the lid and picked it up, then slammed it down on top of the paint can before that became an issue, just in case.
"I'm not telling you. You have enough to deal with. You had a fucking terrible dream and I feel bad for even reacting to the ones I had, when I compare them to yours. So... just stop. We're FRIENDS. So Stop."
"Oh no, you don't get t'do that shite t'me either. We are friends, Thurman, and that happened SINCE the bean fiasco, as well." He pointed at her, with the cigarette, and by the way he was looking and sounding, it really was a damn good thing that she put the lid on that paint, before he kicked it. He was already sorely tempted to....
...nevermind, there went his foot, kicking spitefully against the paint can. Hope she got that lid on tight. With a fierce scowl on his face, Pete leaned toward her while he was talking, even if he hadn't moved into arm's reach of her.
"You're going to have t'tell me at some point. We were on good terms after we worked together. It was arms around the shoulders an' pats on the back. You don't have the bloody right t'start acting like it's a travesty if I get in close t'you. So out with it, you arse! I'm not stopping, b'cos this shite you're doing isn't how I knew you t'be! Wot're you goin' t'do, to stop me? Shoot me? GO AHEAD, REALLY! I'D ENJOY THAT!"
He clamped his lips onto the cigarette, puffing on it wildly, while holding both arms out to his sides and his eyebrows raised like the challenge would be accepted. Bring it.
"It has nothing to do with you being CLOSE to me and ... REALLY? I'M SURE YOU WOULD. I ONLY GOT THAT IMPRESSION THE SECOND YOU SHOWED UP. Spill the paint all over my floor if that's going to make you feel better, but I CAN'T TALK TO YOU ABOUT THIS, and..."
She reached down under her pillow and got her gun out again, then pointed it at her own head, "Fuck you. You can't make me talk. I can't stop you from standing there being an ass, but you can't make me talk. No one can make me do anything I don't want to do. But I'm not giving you the satisfaction of your brains exploding all over my walls, so instead I'll just shoot MYSELF."
"You want t'play that game, Dommy? Really?" He drew out his gun and aimed it at HIS head, for all extensive purposes looking like he was ready to yawn, that's how much it effected him at the thought of doing it to himself. "You pull first, I pull second. We could do a count of three, but I'm goin' t'bet, you have things you want t'get done too. And let me tell you, this rate, you aren't going t'get a FUCKING THING DONE, understand?! Freaking out at the color of your FUCKING WALLS! And if I have t'drag it out of MY FRIEND b'cos I don't want t'see her suffering? I reserve the bloody right t'do so."
Safety? Off. He didn't even take a drag off the cigarette. For a moment, he simply let the smoke rise in a steady unbroken swirling stream, in front of his very intently watchful eyes.
"So wot's it goin' t'be then, luv? Either you're out with it, or your room's got red on it. Neither one of us finishes the shite we were s'posed t'do, that probably doesn't matter anymore. I feel like shite anyway, so this isn't goin' t'make one squirt of piss o' a difference, where I'm concerned. C'mon then. Let's do this. Maybe if it's easier, we can aim at one another. Would you like that?"
He still wasn't taking the gun from his head, and he had it at a fine angle, to really blast the back of said head open and make a fine mess. He also looked as concerned about the mess as he would on a daily basis, while he was making messes and building 'furniture' out of his take-away containers.
Her jaw quivered, just slightly. She felt like an animal who's back had been pressed up against the wall in its own den, and she hated that feeling, and she almost hated him for making her feel that way.
She wanted to call his bluff, and a part of her really wanted to blow her fucking head off rather than deal with this for another moment, but he looked so casual about it that she wasn't sure if he'd just sunk so far that he really didn't give a damn about her or himself or anything else, or if he just didn't think she'd do it.
There were plenty of times in her life where she'd been pressed into a situation where the person at the other end didn't think she'd really do it, and she'd always proved them wrong.
This was Pete, and he really would pull the trigger if she did. She realised that, and it made her jaw quiver even more. In the battle between her and him, if it had ever come to that, if it ever was going to come to that, she knew what she had to do, but this wasn't that moment, or it wasn't supposed to be that moment, it was just something stupid.
So instead, she chose option X.
She looked for a moment like she was going to shoot him, since her hand moved away from her head. But she didn't. She kept on moving it, until it pointed at the window. Safety off, she fired it in three different places, then dove through the glass.
She was right. He would've. But, as Pete always claimed, it was do or die, and the proof was in the pudding. His pudding might be a coagulated nasty mess, but that was pretty much all the proof he needed to sling about, so people took him seriously. As far as playbooks went, chess wasn't his game. He wasn't that great at poker either. He preferred blackjack. It was risky if it was pushed too far to a point of no return, but it got faster and more immediate results.
"Dammit, that's not how you play chicken!" he thunderously yelled, coughed once, and went for the window, gun held in one hand.
Her landlord was going to be pissed. Thank god she lived in a neighboorhood where no one bothered to call the police when gunshots rang out. He also didn't have her grace when exiting through the windows, so he knocked at the rest of the glass with an elbow and cut himself up a little bit getting out. But out the window he went and he almost fell over, when he hit the ground. A quick stagger until he righted himself and he went after her, like a hunter after an escaped exotic animal.
"Thurman! Get your arse back here, right now! Or I swear t'bloody god, you and I aren't on speaking terms b'fore I bite the fucking bullet! Literally, not even figuratively!"
The glass hadn't fully shattered when she went through it, and though she'd hit the ground with a roll, she managed to cut herself up and scratch herself in the process. The pain stung at her here and there, but that wasn't going to stop her from running.
She ran away from that place and ran away from his voice, not even really hearing it straight around the ringing in her ears from the shots. Or maybe she just didn't want to. She didn't need him to hate her, she didn't WANT him to hate her, but she didn't know how to tell him that the reason she couldn't tell him was because of how close they were. Both of them knew what being that close meant.
She kept running, past a few other apartment buildings, until she hit the wall that wrapped around the apartment community, and had nowhere else to go.
At which point, she started beating her fists against it in frustration. The big bricks of cement stood there, invulnerable and uncaring.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Pete was glad he kept spare packs of cigarettes and lighters in his pockets, for emergency situations such as this. He lit one, getting some blood from his fingertips on the filter. It didn't seem to phase him much. He was used to it.
He was also used to conducting searches, and thanks to his father being such a good profiler, he was already doing a rundown of which route would've been the best route in an area, that someone with caged critter set free syndrome would go running off in. He didn't rush but rather took his time, looking to and fro, idly smoking, and stopped when he heard the sounds of someone beating the hell out of inanimate objects.
Target acquired.
Pete rounded the corner, leaning a shoulder against the corner of the building and watching her, like she was a curiosity under glass, meant to be inspected.
It wasn't just some removed situation though, because he was also very worried. And he knew that things had been complicated recently. He'd uncomplicate them if he could, but he wasn't about to have his friend...coworker...both of those things, go crazy without getting some of it out of her system. Not on his watch.
He also figured that he didn't need to announce he was there. She'd figure it out soon enough, after she got done pummeling the building with her fists.
She hated that wall. It was in her way. It wouldn't move. It just stood there, unbudgingly, completely unflappable and unable to comment or feel any pain over the beating that she was giving it.
Caged critter set free syndrome was a very good word for it, too, because she was certainly acting like one that had been set free and then run into a wall.
A fucking jerk wall that wouldn't move.
And it didn't occur to her to try running in another direction. She was certain the thing she was running from would catch her before she could try that. It was going to be there, any minute, which she realised was probably soon.
She ran out of steam after a minute or so, and then after another few punches she realised that she'd been crying the entire time. After a few more the pain in her hands kicked in, and she realised the wall was bloody.
It was at that point that maybe she also noticed he was nearby, smoking and watching her like she was an entertaining cartoon show, and she slid to her knees.
She curled up into a ball, and just waited for him to say something, while crying like a 2 year old girl.
It was utterly silent. In fact, he didn't say anything at all, merely holstered his gun, casually flicked the spent and bloodied cigarette back over his shoulder, and made his way toward her.
Whatever it was she had seen would’ve had to have been pretty bad to leave her - the competent but quirky woman she was - in such a state as this. That was why, after standing over her for a few token seconds, he crouched down and gathered her up into his arms, and simply let her cry. It was probably what she needed to do the whole time anyway, and - while it wouldn't make her feel better afterward (crying always made people feel like ass) - maybe it'd help wear her out so she wasn't quite so wound up.
Being the conscientious creature that Pete was, he made certain not to pet her hair with his bleeding hand. So kind of him. No one wants bloody clump hair. It's just something you don't give to your friends, when they have emotional breakdowns.
For some reason, the smell of his clothing, his cigarettes, and the general smell of alcohol that hung about Pete was like some sort of soothing balm for her. Maybe because he didn't smell clean, or sterile, or like a hospital or prison. Most likely because it was the smell of him.
They weren't lovers, that was very clear, but he was the closest thing she had at this point in time to a security blanket, and right now, Domino just let him be one. She curled up against him and pressed her face into his chest, and let herself cry all over him.
It was probably going to make a mess, what with the cuts and the blood and the tears and the snot, but that was okay, too. Pete didn't mind the mess, and right now she didn't care.
Eventually, she went silent. She'd worn herself out, just as he'd expected, though she didn't pull away.
Messes? Pete never minded those. He was used to messes. Life itself was one huge mess, that he mostly didn't want to even bother dealing with anymore. However, there was the fact that, friends or not, she was probably the closest thing to a lover, too. Only, you know, they weren't going to ruin their friendship by doing anything idiotic, like...compromising themselves even further.
His white shirt was pretty much stained pink in places, with damp spots and, if she snotted on him, that's fine. Snot happens when people cry, so he expected it. All he could do until she was utterly spent shedding tears, was pet her hair and her back, and not say a word or make a noise. It wouldn't do to tell her to 'shhh' or 'it'll be all right' when he didn't want to stop her or lie to her.
It was only after she'd been quiet for a long enough moment that he was gathering she was done crying, that he finally spoke in a hushed whisper, "Wote'er it was, Dommy? It's not now. It was some other time or place, had t'be. So no matter how terrible it was, how wretchedly awful...I'm not goin' t'let it happen to you again while I'm here. And I doubt you'll let that happen to yourself again, at all."
He tilted his head, one hand still gently cupped over the back of her head, so he could try to peek down at her.
"I think you'll be alright, luv. But I don't think painting's the answer. Or shooting yourself, for that matter."
There were so many things Domino wanted to say in response to that. She almost wanted to just tell him the whole story, so that he could promise it wouldn't happen after he knew what all it was.
But somehow she wanted to believe him, anyway. Despite the fact that one of the things had happened when she was so young that at this point in her life, it would have already happened, and she wasnt sure if it had. Maybe not being sure if it had was the worst part.
It felt like they were having a moment, and she didn't want to spoil it with words just yet. So she took a while to look into his eyes and let herself have it, before raising a bloodied hand to his face and putting it against his cheek.
"... All of the walls in that place were white," was what finally came out of her mouth. Which wasn't even what she'd been planning on saying, but it was an explanation for the painting at least. She meant the other place, and she hoped he understood her.
There was no pulling away and his gaze even softened, considerably, when she said that. One hand hand was raised so it could rest over hers against the side of his face, and he nodded ever so slightly, that it was felt more against her hand, than it was seen.
He understood. Whatever place it was, wherever it was, if he could find it, he'd burn the bloody thing down. Maybe even after killing everyone in it. In and out, as quietly as possible.
He wasn't even sure why he thought he could get away with something like that, but - in the back of his mind, like a shadow - something told him he could do it. It probably was a case of having incentive enough to do such a thing, and where there was a will, there was a way. If he died trying, it wasn't like he felt he had that much to lose. But he wasn't going to go telling that to his dearest friend, whom he didn't want to see shot up, or broken like she was. And only after one dream.
Things probably weren't going to get better, either, if she remembered more things. Or if he did, for that matter. That was why he tipped his face down and gave her a lingering kiss on the forehead, then one to the top of her head, into her hair. He never once let go of her hand.
"No more white walls then," he finally murmured, with a deep sigh. "Let's get you back t'your flat and patched up. A few plasters, you'll be right as rain."