[How someone like Sweets - so stupid, so lacking in self-preservation - has survived this long, Maketh cannot fathom. Clearly he's relied upon stronger, smarter allies to keep him breathing and fancies he can do the same for them. For a person like Doctor Brennan, who Maketh almost respects.
No one has taught him this lesson before. Or if they have, it never took.
That will have to be rectified.
She brings her bleeding hand up to the light, examining it. There's a jagged shard of glass stuck in her palm, bleeding slowly.
Then, without changing her expression, she moves. Grabs him by the hair and yanks his head down hard to the bar. She moves in to pin his arm and hold him there, even as the glass shard digs its way deeper into her palm. It's going to scar, Maketh thinks.
It still doesn't hurt.
Calmly, she takes her bleeding hand off his neck.]
You are weak.
[She removes the shard of glass with her teeth and then smears hot blood across his cheek. An abject lesson.]
cw for vague allusions to child abuse, fighting, etc etc just in case
[Lance is prepared for her to take a swing at him, or maybe pull one of her knives and make a threat or something, but he isn't expecting to be grabbed by the hair and pinned against the bar. The whole thing causes him to freeze immediately, but only while he gets a read on the situation; she isn't actually hurting him, at least not more than some pulled hair and the grip on his arm, so other than making sure his feet are on the floor instead of the rungs of the barstool he doesn't make any immediate move to resist.
It's not like this is the first time this has ever happened to him, because Maketh's right on one thing; the lesson never took.
He could fight back, but he chooses not to for the moment; he will if it seems necessary, but right now what she's doing is essentially just posturing. Although he's aware he should be afraid, and on some level he is, it's still buried under anger and defiance and exhaustion and the stress of the last several months. He just doesn't feel like being afraid right now.
Although he cringes a little when she wipes the blood on his face, his tone is just as venomous as it was before when he actually responds.]
And you're a coward.
[Because that's the only fitting word for people who look out for their own desires and wants above all else.]
[Maketh has to laugh at that, high and almost wild as she lets him go, stepping back with blood on her hands. She's getting that feeling again where the world goes sharp and very bright, the one that makes her wonder what's crazy; her or the people around her.
[As soon as she lets go he's on his feet, backing away to put distance between them, not interested in a physical fight; he's even less so at that laugh and response, and the gesturing. They all set off warning bells, cutting through the anger enough for other emotions to begin tempering it.
So he shakes his head, backing up further, one hand trailing on the bar although even he's not sure if it's to keep him steady or just to make sure it's the only thing behind him.]
I wish I could help you.
[It comes out before he thinks about it, almost surprising himself with it, but it's true. There's so much wrong, and the part of him that wants to help people--the part of him that's much stronger than the temporary flash of rage and hurt--feels for her and wants to do something. But it's just not possible, for so many reasons.]
[It's not an attack. It should be. She's given him an opening, given him motivation, given him everything he needs to strike and that includes an excuse. She struck first, he'd be within his rights to retaliate.
Only he doesn't.
That's worse, somehow.
Maketh twitches, lowering her hands. He's supposed to fight back. One of them will win - probably her - and then it'll be over.]
[It's the same simple response that started that fight, and it's only fitting that this time it's to refuse to continue it. It's just as important to be able to say it now as it was then; it's one of the most meaningful acts of defiance he can manage, toward anyone who's ever raised a hand to him, to say he won't participate in violence himself unless he has absolutely no other choice.
And right now, he has a choice. This isn't a fight for his life, or to protect people he loves; it's a clash between two damaged people, whose convictions are too different for them to be able to even hold a conversation. It doesn't need to come down to this.
So he continues to back up, bringing up an arm to scrub at the blood on his face with the sleeve of his hoodie; his anger is fading fast, and now it is being replaced with the shocked daze he's more familiar with as it settles in and drains everything else he feels too. His hands are still shaking, but now for a different reason than before.]
This is pointless.
[And underneath the numbness he's starting to feel guilt for letting it get to this place to begin with; he knew better, and should've walked away the moment things got heated. Although he firmly reminds himself nothing he did warranted things turning physical, he does bear responsibility for how the conversation turned. Even though he didn't say anything with the sole purpose of hurting her, except for calling her a coward and the comment about reading people, he knew things were deteriorating and didn't stop it.]
[He says it simply, exhaustion beginning to return under the haze.]
I already told you violence isn't as effective as you seem to think.
[Not in making him do something, and not as an option to use in return. Instead he's ready to retreat from this altercation entirely, and begins circling around sideways toward the exit without turning away from her.]
[It doesn't work like that, she wants to shout. It doesn't work like that at all and he's being foolish and weak, allowing her to strike him like that without even attempting to retaliate.
Her hand is starting to throb. She squeezes down on it to slow the bleeding.]
Fool.
[He makes no sense.
She turns abruptly and makes for the exit. Somewhere, she'll find the logic. She needs it now.]
[The insult doesn't hurt, and wouldn't have even if he weren't feeling so dim at the moment, but he's making a belated realization that seems significant even if he can't quite process it just yet; she's backing off too, and that's only confirmed when she makes her own go for the door. He stops where he is, still nowhere really near the exit himself just yet, waiting for her to leave first.
But she's leaving, not continuing the fight herself, and he wonders if she'll recognize the significance of her own actions later once everything has calmed. And it gives him question about just how much she actually believes in what she said, because he's known people who truly think violence is the answer and they usually don't stop. They would've taken the opportunity he'd given them.
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mismanagement) wrote2016-01-25 02:02 pm
no subject
No one has taught him this lesson before. Or if they have, it never took.
That will have to be rectified.
She brings her bleeding hand up to the light, examining it. There's a jagged shard of glass stuck in her palm, bleeding slowly.
Then, without changing her expression, she moves. Grabs him by the hair and yanks his head down hard to the bar. She moves in to pin his arm and hold him there, even as the glass shard digs its way deeper into her palm. It's going to scar, Maketh thinks.
It still doesn't hurt.
Calmly, she takes her bleeding hand off his neck.]
You are weak.
[She removes the shard of glass with her teeth and then smears hot blood across his cheek. An abject lesson.]
cw for vague allusions to child abuse, fighting, etc etc just in case
It's not like this is the first time this has ever happened to him, because Maketh's right on one thing; the lesson never took.
He could fight back, but he chooses not to for the moment; he will if it seems necessary, but right now what she's doing is essentially just posturing. Although he's aware he should be afraid, and on some level he is, it's still buried under anger and defiance and exhaustion and the stress of the last several months. He just doesn't feel like being afraid right now.
Although he cringes a little when she wipes the blood on his face, his tone is just as venomous as it was before when he actually responds.]
And you're a coward.
[Because that's the only fitting word for people who look out for their own desires and wants above all else.]
no subject
Both, probably.
She spreads her arms wide, laughing.]
Better, Doctor Sweets!
[Much better.]
no subject
So he shakes his head, backing up further, one hand trailing on the bar although even he's not sure if it's to keep him steady or just to make sure it's the only thing behind him.]
I wish I could help you.
[It comes out before he thinks about it, almost surprising himself with it, but it's true. There's so much wrong, and the part of him that wants to help people--the part of him that's much stronger than the temporary flash of rage and hurt--feels for her and wants to do something. But it's just not possible, for so many reasons.]
no subject
Only he doesn't.
That's worse, somehow.
Maketh twitches, lowering her hands. He's supposed to fight back. One of them will win - probably her - and then it'll be over.]
What are you doing? Fight back!
no subject
[It's the same simple response that started that fight, and it's only fitting that this time it's to refuse to continue it. It's just as important to be able to say it now as it was then; it's one of the most meaningful acts of defiance he can manage, toward anyone who's ever raised a hand to him, to say he won't participate in violence himself unless he has absolutely no other choice.
And right now, he has a choice. This isn't a fight for his life, or to protect people he loves; it's a clash between two damaged people, whose convictions are too different for them to be able to even hold a conversation. It doesn't need to come down to this.
So he continues to back up, bringing up an arm to scrub at the blood on his face with the sleeve of his hoodie; his anger is fading fast, and now it is being replaced with the shocked daze he's more familiar with as it settles in and drains everything else he feels too. His hands are still shaking, but now for a different reason than before.]
This is pointless.
[And underneath the numbness he's starting to feel guilt for letting it get to this place to begin with; he knew better, and should've walked away the moment things got heated. Although he firmly reminds himself nothing he did warranted things turning physical, he does bear responsibility for how the conversation turned. Even though he didn't say anything with the sole purpose of hurting her, except for calling her a coward and the comment about reading people, he knew things were deteriorating and didn't stop it.]
no subject
Maketh twitches. Her hand is starting to ache.]
What are you doing?
no subject
[He says it simply, exhaustion beginning to return under the haze.]
I already told you violence isn't as effective as you seem to think.
[Not in making him do something, and not as an option to use in return. Instead he's ready to retreat from this altercation entirely, and begins circling around sideways toward the exit without turning away from her.]
no subject
Her hand is starting to throb. She squeezes down on it to slow the bleeding.]
Fool.
[He makes no sense.
She turns abruptly and makes for the exit. Somewhere, she'll find the logic. She needs it now.]
no subject
But she's leaving, not continuing the fight herself, and he wonders if she'll recognize the significance of her own actions later once everything has calmed. And it gives him question about just how much she actually believes in what she said, because he's known people who truly think violence is the answer and they usually don't stop. They would've taken the opportunity he'd given them.
It's something to think about.]