takecourage | (no subject)

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darlington,
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She avoids him for as long as she can because, honestly, she's in no hurry to see that cold disdain in his eyes when he looks at her. She knows that he disapproves of her choices, that he wants her to better herself, and she can't help that her reaction to that is the same as it's ever been: to throw herself as far and as hard as she can in exactly the opposite direction. Her tattoos coming back on stage the other day is a whole different issue. She's wearing a hoodie zipped up to the neck, pulled down over her hands because that's just another coveration that she doesn't want to have with Darlington today.

But there's stuff at his apartment, a drawer in his dresser with a few t-shirts and her favourite panties and a pair of heels that she really wants to for a scene. She might have more money these days, but that doesn't mean that she wants to waste it. When she gets to Dimera, she knocks the door instead of just using her key.

Maybe she'll get lucky. Maybe he won't be hoe.

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He's shouting, but they've still got the counter between them, so Alex can ignore the impulse she feels to cringe away from him the moment he raises his voice. She lets her anger fuel her, lets herself stay angry because, in that moment, it's better than feeling like she wants to curl up and die. What he says hits her like a blow to her solar plexus, her hands physically tightening on the edge of the counter so that she doesn't reel back a step. She doesn't smash his shit. She just feels every part of her body go cold. She ignores the mention of Spain for now, because that is a yawning chasm, a pit that she doesn't want to fall into. That's a trap, and she's not falling for it.

"You didn't want it to be anything," she snaps. "It could have been, and you didn't want it enough, so you manufactured fucking excuses and here we are."

Her eyes go cold and her knuckles go white, and this deep in his own hurt, Darlington assumes it's motivated by her own sharp-toothed anger instead of seeing the pain there. "Here we are," he spits. "No going back now, is there?"

"Well, nobody bought us here but you, Darlington," she says. "You can look at me like you blame me all you like, but if this is nothing, it's your fault, not mine."

"You don't think I know that?" He can feel the way his chest gets tight, the settling weight of his own regrets and something that feels a little too much like grief for him to look at too directly, at least right now. Not while she's in front of him, feral and vulgar and every inch the handcuffed delinquent he'd seen on the recording from the hospital--and even now, he finds her beautiful.

What a fool he's been.

"But, of course, you've already moved on rather neatly, haven't you?" The sneering question slips out before he can stop himself--though in the moment he's not sure he would have, if he'd even thought to. "Was he enamored with you before you took your clothing off, or did that all come after?"

Alex's dark eyes wider slightly, like he's physically hit her instead of just spitting the words at her. She does manage to get her face under control quickly though.

"You've seen me naked, Darlington," she says. "You tell me."

The look in her eyes, that cringing shock, shouldn't give him any satisfaction at all. He's better than this, or has always striven to be, and the fact that he isn't now is a betrayal of all the work he's put in his entire life; the citizen in the world, the gentleman of Lethe, crumbled to nothing in the face of his own jealousy.

"The first time I found you beautiful had nothing to do with what you were or weren't wearing, Alex," he says. "Maybe that's difficult for you to believe, but it's true."

"You were off your face on merity gas," she says, rolling her eyes at him. "I don't think you get to use that as fucking proof, do you?"

Darlington's eyes flash, that wounded shock back in his expression before he can get his face under control. He almost corrects her, gives up another vital piece of his heart to a girl who'd never deserved any at all. It's a stupid, futile impulse, something that wouldn't do any good; wouldn't repair any of the rift that's formed between them--and maybe, just for a moment, he doesn't want to fix it anyway.

Let her believe Halloween had been the start, that it had been a manufactured revelation thrust upon him by the society he'd always loathed the most. What did it matter now?

"Guess not," he says flatly. "Should've remembered that I always make the worst choices when I'm not entirely sober."

He looks hurt and Alex, weirdly, feels better for a moment. She knows that she ought to leave, that if she stays they're going to keep doing this, keep tearing strips off each other until there's nothing left but bloody smears.

"Sober enough to get it up," she points out. "Can't have been that wasted, can you?" She shoves her hands through her hair and turns her back on him for a moment. "You don't even care, do you? You've built this story up in your head that my tattoos came back because some fucking...john drooled all over my tits because I'm a fucking slut and now that's all the narrative that you're interested in. Fuck you, Darlington."

"Charmingly put as always, Stern."

She turns away, and Darlington hopes she'll pick up the things she'd come for and go--and, at the same time, that she'll stay. Even now, after all they've said that they can never take back, he's not going to show her to the door.

"Does it matter to you if I care or not? Because you've made it more than clear what my place ought to be."

He doesn't argue with what she calls herself. That hurts more than it ought to.

"You're acting like I'm the one that went cold on this, Darlington. And I'm not, okay? You're the one who got distant and then got all worked up at the thought of me fucking someone else."

"No, you didn't go cold," he says, each word catching a little at the back of his throat. "Lying to me was easier, wasn't it? And God forbid you ever make a choice that's hard."

His anger is ebbing out of him, bit by slow and painful bit, leaving only exhaustion behind. Looking down, he exhales a long, slow breath out his nose, his jaw tensing.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," she snaps. "You wonder why I lied to you, when you react like this? It's stripping, Darlington. It's taking my clothes off for money. It's not murder." Her eyes narrow. "Are you jealous?"

Alex doubles down, that vulgar mouth of hers almost biting off the end of each unpleasant word, and even as he knows he shouldn't give in to it, something about it reignites his own anger. "Oh, of course, it's just stripping," he says, looking up again, catching her dark and furious eyes with his cold blue ones. "Just taking your clothing off for money, just letting yourself be ogled like it's the only thing you think yourself capable of, just...what, going into the back room with whoever's got the money to ask you for a personal show?"

He hears himself say it, and it shocks him. He should take it back, and he should do it immediately--but he doesn't.

"There's nothing to be jealous about there."

Whore. He doesn't say it, but she hears it anyway, loud and clear as she had that day that Len had spat it at her in Ground Zero. She'd expected it from Len. She never, ever would have expected it from Daniel Arlington.

"Oh, I get it," she says, as bland and Van Nuys as she can possibly make it. "So it's okay when I'm a slut for you, Danny. Okay when it's your dick in my throat. But you don't like the idea of me being a slut for anyone. Check."

"Alex." He wants to refute it. He wants to undo every step in the path that led them from Kagura to that week of distance, the unpleasant shock of that late night not long at all ago and the ways in which he'd so easily thrown out his veneer of cordiality today. He wants to scream at her, or maybe just sob. He can't do any of it, and knows it wouldn't matter, even if he did.

"If that's what you believe, I don't think you get it at all. And maybe I'm all the more convinced now that what happened at Kagura never should have been allowed to pass."

"You're the one who basically implied I'm fucking guys for money," she says. "So if that offends your sensibilities, maybe you'd better examine that, asshole." She snatches up her shoes and her bag from the table. "It would have been okay, you know? If you did it once and decided you didn't want to it again. That would have been okay." She's suddenly absurdly close to tears, which just serves to make her even more furious. "So why don't you tell me what the fuck I don't get."

There is, maybe, a liquid brightness in her eyes. A hitch to her voice, just for a second. Darlington doesn't think he's imagining it. He's still so, so angry, the feeling of it roiling deep in the pit of his stomach, but the fact of those things--her fury, her sadness, all that they've entrusted each other with already--keeps it from spilling forth once more.

He's made so many mistakes. Failed her, again, and this time there's not even Lethe to share the blame.

"I wanted to do it again," he says, his own voice coming out faintly hoarse. He swallows once, hard. "And I knew I couldn't, because that's not...it wasn't going to happen again. There's no Lethe here, no need for Virgil or Dante, and I thought maybe in the absence of that? Maybe we could be friends. And we almost were. And now I don't know what to be to you."

Slowly, he goes past her, keeping far enough away that there's no possibility of either of them touching the other. He doesn't know, exactly, why he does it. Flipping the lock on the front door, he pulls it open. "But it seems now that the answer is nothing at all."

Alex lets out a breath that feels like she's deflating, and shakes her head. When he opens the door, her stomach gives a sick lurch; of course he's throwing her out of his apartment. Why wouldn't he be?

"I wanted it to happen again too, you fucking asshole," she says, and then she turns on her heel and leaves before he sees her cry.

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