He'd say the last wringer they all went through in town together was a real doozy, but then all of them have been. All in different ways. This one, though, felt a lot more personal and intimate. It sparked a lot of questions that led to answers he wished he didn't have to acknowledge. At least he and Sally have agreed to keep their friendship, even if they decided they aren't the one for each other romantically. He can think of worse outcomes. When he does, a few names keep popping up in his head: people he should check in on. Today, it's Carolina. Lucky her.
"Knock, knock," he calls out as he clunks his knuckles against her front door. "I come bearing gifts." The gifts are a cup of still-steaming coffee and a stack of ginger snap cookies.
The morning starts out like most mornings, these days— nightmare, pitiful amount of sleep, stale coffee and a taste of blood she can never quite seem to wash out of her mouth. It's not real, she tells herself in the place of a good morning, world. It's over. The Fears have slid back into their respective dark, and she's doggedly set on pretending to be an actual, functional human being.
That means responding like a human being when she hears a knock at the door and a voice. Crichton's. Carolina exhales slowly, heavily, considers giving up and shutting herself away in her room for the day. It shouldn't be so difficult to look the people she likes in the face— but it is. It shouldn't be so difficult to just suck it up— it is. You're being an asshole. You haven't seen him in forever.
She greets him at the door with the spirit of a sad, wet cat and looks miserably at her gifts. Too nice. Doesn't deserve it.
"Hey. Uh, thanks." She takes them. "Long time no see."
"Yeah, it has been. Sorry about that," he answers apologetically as he hands them over. "Why I thought I'd come see how you're holding up. Before you try to say you're fine, just know that I'm not gonna buy it because I'm not fine. I'm rattled and I don't feel like pretending I'm not. Doesn't look like you do, either. So, can I come in?"
"You're so graceful at the art of conversation," she says flatly, considers shutting his nose in the door. "One day, someone's going to give you a very shiny trophy and punch you in the balls." Not today. She doesn't have a trophy (punching, on the other hand), unless she can mash her feelings into a molten metal blob and shape it into— something. But he's right. She's not fine, and she's been driving herself crazy pretending she is.
"Yeah. Yeah— come on."
She moves away from the door. On entering, Crichton might notice large splotches of brown staining the wood of her floors. A similar stain, more rust-colored, spread out over her sofa, which she's haphazardly covered with a blanket. Blood.
"I..." She exhales, embarrassed. Still holding her gifts. "I don't know where to start. It feels like so much happened."
"Haven't gotten the trophy yet," he gives her one of those annoyingly smug looks about it as he comes in, "But I get by on charm."
It helps that when he's being stubborn, he's also usually right about whatever that thing is. Or so he would like to think. The stains he's looking directly at make him pretty sure he is this time too.
"You want to start with telling me if those stains are from you or someone else? Oh, also, if you got baking soda around here, I can show you how to get 'em up." She can put him to work if she wants to. That's an option on the table. More hands make for lighter work.
Charm and being the personality equivalent of gum stuck on the bottom of a person's shoe, she thinks. Feels guilty. Doesn't really mean it. Talking feelings has a dentistry quality to it, where she's the one laying in the tacky plastic seat waiting to get all her teeth ripped out, and he's standing over her with the tools.
"Both," she says brusquely. "It's hard to remember who else. The lighter stains are kerosene; me. The darker ones are blood. So, someone else's. Radar's. Fever's, I think. Maybe more. Random people who came and went. It was the Slaughter. Like, a massive war zone. And I was—" She makes an aborted noise and brings her gifts to the coffee table.
"If you think you can get them out, fine by me. The cleaning stuff's in the kitchen, under the sink."
"Damn. Sorry it had it be that one," he says with a sad shake of his head. He's heard enough about it to know he probably doesn't want those exclusive details if he wants any hope of being able to eat lunch later.
"It was The Spiral for me. Less messy but, you know..." If he'd been given a choice, he might have preferred violence over getting all his screws loosened again. That's the point, though, isn't it. "Sally and I decided, after the fact, that maybe we're better as friends. All told, I guess I got off easy."
Under the sink, she said. So, he goes there to retrieve supplies (and to avoid having to face her after admitting that.) He'll continue to not look at her while he grabs a rag and a bowl to prepare his baking soda paste.
She doesn't envy him. The Spiral might not leave you soaked in gore and innards, but the fear's all the same. It takes you in, chews you up and spits you back out, and you're left worse-off and covered in saliva. "Sorry about Sally," she says at his back. And— continues to look at his back, Crichton apparently adamant not to be seen. A hard line cuts down the center of her brow. "If I talk, you talk. That's the deal, yeah? You're not getting off easy here."
Right, the kerosene. Where the fuck to begin with that?
"I was using it as blood. It was my blood. Stranger stuff. That came first." A beat. "Technically, Desolation came first. But the Stranger and Slaughter were..." Carolina steeples her fingers together. "Combined. I was all— changed, and— wrong."
Damn. When she's right, she's right. So, he turns around to meet her gaze.
"Thanks. At least, this time, we got to end things on our own terms. Hasn't been the case for either of us before." His long and storied history of failed loves stretches out behind him like a dark shadow, but at least he can still look Sally in the face and know he did the right thing before she got hurt by him this time.
"So it... transformed you into some kind of human-machine hybrid?" he guesses--not skeptically, just trying to clarify. He completely believes those twisted landscapes could do such a thing.
"With the Spiral it's all mental. It made me forget... everything. And I think the part that still scares me is how much of me didn't want to recover what I lost. Remembering it all at once again was... like seeing a highlight reel of all the worst moments of my life. And there's... a lot of choice material."
"Yeah, exactly. With a— fucking dog's head on top. A real dog. Blood, spit, the way I saw color, everything. Its face was my face, like a mask." Carolina's throat strains, humiliated against the memory. "Had me acting like a brainless murder-pet. The dogs armies used to send out into the field. Not that it would be wrong. I think that's the worst part."
In an effort for this to be truly collaborative, Carolina gets down on her hands and knees to join Crichton on the floor. Following his lead, she scoops out a bit of mixture and slathers it thickly onto the dark brown stain.
"Jesus. Not the movie you were hoping for? I know what you mean, though. Part of me keeps saying, Don't let this be a step backward. Things are finally starting to feel okay. Then this happens, and I wonder— how are any of us supposed to get better? How do things keep getting worse?"
"Making you into a literal war dog was a bit on the nose," he tells her ruefully. The irony isn't lost on him. "Then again, whatever forces these were didn't seem interested in subtlety."
His expression warms when she takes a place beside him. Doing this together makes the talking part feel easier too.
"Yeah, let's just say I'm a little tired of creature features." His dry laughter sounds suspiciously like a cough. "But I actually think you've hit on an important point. Every time some new calamity strikes we have to pivot all our resources into fixing it and healing from it. Doesn't leave a lot of time or mental energy for solving the bigger issue here, does it? That feels like a pattern."
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Friendly visit (Dated After FEARS event but before dance of celestine)
Date: 2025-12-08 06:35 pm (UTC)"Knock, knock," he calls out as he clunks his knuckles against her front door. "I come bearing gifts." The gifts are a cup of still-steaming coffee and a stack of ginger snap cookies.
no subject
Date: 2025-12-10 01:49 pm (UTC)The morning starts out like most mornings, these days— nightmare, pitiful amount of sleep, stale coffee and a taste of blood she can never quite seem to wash out of her mouth. It's not real, she tells herself in the place of a good morning, world. It's over. The Fears have slid back into their respective dark, and she's doggedly set on pretending to be an actual, functional human being.
That means responding like a human being when she hears a knock at the door and a voice. Crichton's. Carolina exhales slowly, heavily, considers giving up and shutting herself away in her room for the day. It shouldn't be so difficult to look the people she likes in the face— but it is. It shouldn't be so difficult to just suck it up— it is. You're being an asshole. You haven't seen him in forever.
She greets him at the door with the spirit of a sad, wet cat and looks miserably at her gifts. Too nice. Doesn't deserve it.
"Hey. Uh, thanks." She takes them. "Long time no see."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-10 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-12-14 11:07 pm (UTC)"You're so graceful at the art of conversation," she says flatly, considers shutting his nose in the door. "One day, someone's going to give you a very shiny trophy and punch you in the balls." Not today. She doesn't have a trophy (punching, on the other hand), unless she can mash her feelings into a molten metal blob and shape it into— something. But he's right. She's not fine, and she's been driving herself crazy pretending she is.
"Yeah. Yeah— come on."
She moves away from the door. On entering, Crichton might notice large splotches of brown staining the wood of her floors. A similar stain, more rust-colored, spread out over her sofa, which she's haphazardly covered with a blanket. Blood.
"I..." She exhales, embarrassed. Still holding her gifts. "I don't know where to start. It feels like so much happened."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-23 08:05 pm (UTC)It helps that when he's being stubborn, he's also usually right about whatever that thing is. Or so he would like to think. The stains he's looking directly at make him pretty sure he is this time too.
"You want to start with telling me if those stains are from you or someone else? Oh, also, if you got baking soda around here, I can show you how to get 'em up." She can put him to work if she wants to. That's an option on the table. More hands make for lighter work.
"We'll tackle it one thing at a time."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-23 08:39 pm (UTC)Charm and being the personality equivalent of gum stuck on the bottom of a person's shoe, she thinks. Feels guilty. Doesn't really mean it. Talking feelings has a dentistry quality to it, where she's the one laying in the tacky plastic seat waiting to get all her teeth ripped out, and he's standing over her with the tools.
"Both," she says brusquely. "It's hard to remember who else. The lighter stains are kerosene; me. The darker ones are blood. So, someone else's. Radar's. Fever's, I think. Maybe more. Random people who came and went. It was the Slaughter. Like, a massive war zone. And I was—" She makes an aborted noise and brings her gifts to the coffee table.
"If you think you can get them out, fine by me. The cleaning stuff's in the kitchen, under the sink."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-23 10:05 pm (UTC)"It was The Spiral for me. Less messy but, you know..." If he'd been given a choice, he might have preferred violence over getting all his screws loosened again. That's the point, though, isn't it. "Sally and I decided, after the fact, that maybe we're better as friends. All told, I guess I got off easy."
Under the sink, she said. So, he goes there to retrieve supplies (and to avoid having to face her after admitting that.) He'll continue to not look at her while he grabs a rag and a bowl to prepare his baking soda paste.
"Where'd you get the kerosene from, anyway?"
no subject
Date: 2025-12-28 08:23 pm (UTC)She doesn't envy him. The Spiral might not leave you soaked in gore and innards, but the fear's all the same. It takes you in, chews you up and spits you back out, and you're left worse-off and covered in saliva. "Sorry about Sally," she says at his back. And— continues to look at his back, Crichton apparently adamant not to be seen. A hard line cuts down the center of her brow. "If I talk, you talk. That's the deal, yeah? You're not getting off easy here."
Right, the kerosene. Where the fuck to begin with that?
"I was using it as blood. It was my blood. Stranger stuff. That came first." A beat. "Technically, Desolation came first. But the Stranger and Slaughter were..." Carolina steeples her fingers together. "Combined. I was all— changed, and— wrong."
no subject
Date: 2025-12-30 10:33 pm (UTC)"Thanks. At least, this time, we got to end things on our own terms. Hasn't been the case for either of us before." His long and storied history of failed loves stretches out behind him like a dark shadow, but at least he can still look Sally in the face and know he did the right thing before she got hurt by him this time.
"So it... transformed you into some kind of human-machine hybrid?" he guesses--not skeptically, just trying to clarify. He completely believes those twisted landscapes could do such a thing.
"With the Spiral it's all mental. It made me forget... everything. And I think the part that still scares me is how much of me didn't want to recover what I lost. Remembering it all at once again was... like seeing a highlight reel of all the worst moments of my life. And there's... a lot of choice material."
no subject
Date: 2026-01-05 07:19 pm (UTC)"Yeah, exactly. With a— fucking dog's head on top. A real dog. Blood, spit, the way I saw color, everything. Its face was my face, like a mask." Carolina's throat strains, humiliated against the memory. "Had me acting like a brainless murder-pet. The dogs armies used to send out into the field. Not that it would be wrong. I think that's the worst part."
In an effort for this to be truly collaborative, Carolina gets down on her hands and knees to join Crichton on the floor. Following his lead, she scoops out a bit of mixture and slathers it thickly onto the dark brown stain.
"Jesus. Not the movie you were hoping for? I know what you mean, though. Part of me keeps saying, Don't let this be a step backward. Things are finally starting to feel okay. Then this happens, and I wonder— how are any of us supposed to get better? How do things keep getting worse?"
no subject
Date: 2026-01-07 04:18 pm (UTC)His expression warms when she takes a place beside him. Doing this together makes the talking part feel easier too.
"Yeah, let's just say I'm a little tired of creature features." His dry laughter sounds suspiciously like a cough. "But I actually think you've hit on an important point. Every time some new calamity strikes we have to pivot all our resources into fixing it and healing from it. Doesn't leave a lot of time or mental energy for solving the bigger issue here, does it? That feels like a pattern."