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[ He can't sleep. Might as well walk. Nothing makes sense anymore; his mind is always clattering away to the discordant tune of You fucking idiot. What will you do now? All those sharp recriminations flitting through the darkness at the back of his head aren't new. He's always been able to feel them there. He'd just never cared to reach in and grab them. And damn it, he doesn't want to do it now. Not when it is so completely useless to know what those tremulous shudders of emotion -- for Yin -- for Korra -- actually are. Not when they serve no purpose, and instead make him long for things he can't ever have. ]

[ It's not something he can push aside. Disorientation and confusion stoppers him. He's taken to avoiding the same public spots as Yin, with the force of a repellant magnet. For the past few nights he's also found work that'll keep him from going to bed when Korra does. During the day he keeps his distance as best he can without making it too obvious -- even as he can feel the unarticulated tension building up between them. Each time Korra's worked herself up to question the cause of his coolness, he's rebuffed her with either silence or a bristling remark, and there the matter has rested for another few days. ]

[ It isn't going to rest, though. That is the trouble. ]

[ The City needs a 24-hour gym downtown. Needs a 24-hour something. Hei drifts down the sidewalk toward the Beach House. He's not looking forward to being cooped up again. He almost misses the days in Heaven's War: sleeping in an open field under the stars, no walls, no roof. No pressure. Except he needs to check up on Pai. Needs to -- fuck it. Needs to come to a decision on what to do. About Korra. About Yin. There's nothing touching or star-crossed about what he feels for either of them. If anything, they're better off without him. He should just cut them loose. Plain and simple. ]

[ As if it's that easy. ]

[ The Beach House is dim, slumbering, as Hei lets himself in the front door. Tiptoe, so he doesn't wake anyone. Just wants to steal upstairs, into Pai's room, stretch out on the bed next to her, without yanking down the coverlet or taking off his coat and shoes. Sleep is so elusive. Even now it flirts with him so softly. It may not come at all. May cling close to Korra and Pai, terrible, capricious beast. He wishes he could snatch it into the palm of his hand. To get away, from ... everything. Hei heads upstairs. Turns the doorknob to Pai's room, a thin pencil of light falling from the hallway to melt in a white stripe across her sleeping face. That's when he hears something -- a gentle susurration. ]

[ Crying. ]

[ Frowning, Hei narrows the source to Korra's room. At the threshold, he hesitates. This isn't his problem. She's entitled her privacy. If their positions were reversed, he'd hate to be caught out like a sniveling baby. But even as he thinks it, his hand gives the knob a slow turn, letting the door open half an inch. Enough to let a slat of light spill in through the crack, to see into the dark of the shuttered room. ]

[Stopping isn't an option. Korra can no more stop crying right now than she can bend fire, though she tries. Every attempt to hold back tears results in an ugly choking sound that hurts her throat, and she doesn't have the breath to tell him to leave. She curls up into the smallest ball she possibly can and buries her face in her pillow. He hates crying; maybe he'll just leave to avoid dealing with it. (The same stupid part of her that loves him hopes he'll stay and prove the wiser part of her wrong.)]

[ In the early days, after Heaven's War, something had left a stain on Hei's brain the size of a wolf's paw print. Like a mind-scar: occipital with spreading veins to parietal, temporal lobes. Dead black meat. It's as if love, sympathy, softness ... they were all beyond him. They lived in the black spot. Some nights, he'd woken howling odd places in twisted bodily positions, never knowing why. He'd seen guests on daytime talk shows. Emotion-torn faces crumbling apart under studio lights. Comprehension had eluded him. It had taken years for that psychic scar-tissue to heal. Sometimes, he still feels less human than robot. Something that simply records images, collects weaknesses, unleashes attacks, with all the perfect detachment of a machine. ]

[ But at the sound of Korra's crying -- the sight -- something in him gives off a sharp resentful twinge. He doesn't know what's upset her -- (nightmare? brewing on the rag? bad memories? his recent coldness? fresh traumas?) -- but he can't leave her to get on with it, as he'd resolved. Instead, on a breath, he slips into the room, shutting the door behind him. Sidles closer, then carefully kneels on the floor by her bed. He doesn't touch, just looks up into her face, half-hidden by her tangled hair and the pillow, his own palely uncertain. ]

...Korra...

[ It's almost voiceless, more an undifferentiated sound than a reassurance. ]

[She hates when his voice takes that tone, like he's lost about what to do. She hates the knee-jerk instinct to reassure him and pretend everything's all right so he doesn't have to try, when the truth is nothing is all right and she shouldn't want to reassure him when she's the one bleeding from her eyes. She shakes her head, not even sure herself what she's trying to say with the gesture, and completely hides her face in pillow.]

[ Hei is cautious; Korra is honest. She is a prismatic rainbow of emotion; he's a monochrome of grays and blacks and blues. That's how it's always been with them. ]

[ He's often found himself trapped in difficult emotional waters with other people. But he can tread water. He can employ conversational strategies; he can reshape his expression and his words into careful facsimiles of softness. But here, he's frozen. As his silence lengthens, as he feels it lengthen, a panic rises in him -- he should have embraced her instantly. The longer it takes, the more she'll understand what a hollowed-out creature he is. Yet he can't get his lips to move. Can't find the words. Him. Always so glib, yet now ... He can't see Korra's face after she hides it. But a snapshot exists in his memory only as a tangle of emotional drives. Her face is his own face. The face of everyone he's ever damaged. ]

Korra... [ His voice is thick and blocky. His muscles feel the same, as he reaches for her. One hand, cool and dry, settles against her sloping shoulder. Gently, he shakes her. ] Tell me what's wrong?

[How is she supposed to tell you what's wrong when she can't even breathe? When the problem is... the problem isn't him. The problem is what she's accepted from him. She's the one who's basically told him that this is okay. This is her fault. She's not even strong enough to shake off his hand.]

Korra.

[ There's a tension rippling faintly, dangerously in his tone. It's not impatience. But he's not sure if it's fear, either, simply because he doesn't know the colour that emotion bleeds. Gently, his hand traces Korra's neck. The wild thrum of her heartbeat in his fingertips. This shimmer of something familiar in the air -- futility, self-loathing. It's ephemeral, but it's all there. Korra laid open like one of those Dali women with the chest of drawers where her guts should be. His rummaging hands inside. In that choking smog of tears, he's not sure what his mind's fingers close upon. But it makes something soften and slacken inside him, all at once. ]

[ The mattress creaks as he climbs into the bed, his weight shifting it. Carefully, he fits himself against her, gathering her in close, warm and solid yet so tremulous, her scent salty with tears. He smoothes a hand down her back, rocking her just slightly, a lulling motion like a wave. ]

Come on. [ His tone is steely but somehow quieter, private, pleading, held back with an audible restraint. ] Say something.

Edited 2014-02-16 04:53 (UTC)

[She's not sure whether she loves or hates him more in this moment. These little dollops of kindness that make her think that he cares. It's worse than an addiction.

She manages to choke out something like I can't.]

[ The words -- I can't -- are muffled by her bubbling sobs. His first instinct, the usual one, is to grab her by the hair. Haul her up and shake her. Knock it off. Tell me what's going on? But no. Not that way. With Amber, maybe -- she could take matter-of-fact violence as well as she could dish it out. But not Korra. He squeezes her closer with one arm instead. Slips the other hand between damp hair and a wet pillowcase. Takes her chin, tipping her head up to look at her, all swimming eyes and downturned mouth. ]

[ Genty, he presses his lips to her forehead. Warm and moist, the skin triggers some chemical storm in his nerves. Suddenly, his voice is tight. ]

I can't know what I'm supposed to do. Not unless you tell me.

[ As if what's bothering her is as simple as an enemy to be chopped down. ]

[She shudders and wraps her arms around his waist. The kiss, the tightness in his voice that could almost be concern, it's not soothing, but it feeds something dark & hungry inside her. She digs her fingers into his back and tries to breathe.]

Just...hold me. Please. [It's stupid and pathetic and the only thing she wants.]

[ It is stupid. The sharp-eyed, red-mawed predator in him knows that. It occurs to him, what he usually manages to overlook, how much she allows herself to need him. How little he has to do or say to keep her on his string. But then she has her string too, and he is on it. ]

[ He is on it. ]

[ Hei lets his eyes slip shut. Exhales, then gathers her in tight. Arms and legs wrapped around her, her head tucked beneath his chin. Rocking her slowly, a languid rhythm as if to draw the last of tension out of her as if by a mysterious charm. He can feel her body quivering with woe, sobs rising up like bubbles in thick mud. Such an immense rill of anguish breaking through from her depths; it's practically a geyser. He wonders what caused it. Wonders why he envies her, even as he tries to console her. But that's easy. The depths of emotion available to Korra, the luxury of feeling so intensely -- it seems just out of his reach, though he tries. ]

[ Smoothing her hair, he kisses her wet eyes, the lashes gummed together with tears. ]

Sssh.

[ Soothing words; careful questions -- none of that will cut it. Not now. Not until she's calmed down. ]

[She's not sure how long it takes to run out of tears; by the end, her body is limp and boneless, her muscles quivering with exhaustion. Her breathing is thready & weak. If she knew how he envied the intensity of her feelings, she'd tell him it wasn't worth it. She remembers the numbness she felt after killing Chekov, and a part of her misses it. It would be so much easier than the loathing and disgust she feels.]

[ The numbness may be welcome, but Korra is too young to realize how fatal it is. To display all the signs of having lost the ability to react to suffering, loss, and danger. If you're frozen, stymied in the face of devastation -- emotional or physical -- that in itself is a death sentence. It's not numbness Hei craves, though there are moments when a spurt of unexpected emotion scalds the inside of his skull, and he wishes for a Contractor's desensitization. But what he wants is clarity. He wants her to understand, that breakdown often presages a breakthrough. That it's okay to shatter, because the psyche is like a phoenix hurtling comet-bright to the ground. The sun and moon and stars will drag themselves across the sky. And each day will be a gentler, quieter rebirthing. Giving you one more chance to find your way. ]

[ He waits until the onslaught of grief has passed. Waits until she's quiet, shuddering, nearly breathless. Scooting closer to her, he brings her hand to his mouth. Kisses the knuckles, then the palm, his words a gentle vibration against her flesh. ]

Do I need to kill someone? Or ... [ He taps a finger against her temple. But it turns into a caress, his hand gathering the damp hair away from her face. ] Is something telling you awful things up here?

[ It's almost playful, the way he speaks. But his look is solemn, dark-eyed. ]

[She meets his eyes with her watery blue ones, hating how her body shivers at his touch.]

What does it matter to you?

[It's a confrontational question, but there's nothing angry or aggressive in her voice. More than anything else, she's scared. She wants so badly to believe that he does care, that she's more than a doll to him and everything she's put up with hasn't been for nothing.]

[ What does it matter to you? Hei is confused, but the fear in her eyes, the sorrow, break the meaning upon him. Her distress isn't all for herself, but about him. She doesn't know if she holds any value for him. Isn't sure he returns an iota of her feelings, because if he does, then that means she hasn't suffered in this brutal struggle of an affair for nothing. Unarmed and all alone. ]

[ His jaw feels strung tighter than a violin string, and his eyes suddenly crackle with dark-blue flame. But he doesn't meet her eyes. It chills him, that someone should weep over him this way. Over anyone. She's like a little child who knows she can't go home, who has no power to keep from being lost. He's seen her cry before, seen her plunged in anger and self-pity. But he's never seen her quite like this. So pitiful. He doesn't know how to tell her that he cares for her -- the way she does for him. Doesn't know if, someday, he'll have the words and that depth of feeling, or if he'll die before it happens. He's been bred for a mean utility. Trained to fight and live only for the fight. It's all he knows. It's a life so singular of purpose, a utilitarian existence no different from that of a hammer or blade. Kindness, softness, empathy ... They're always a hairsbreadth beyond reach. ]

[ Try. He draws her against him, smoothing the water from her lashes with a thumb. ]

I wouldn't be here unless it did.

[ It's more factual than soothing. (Honest, in its own way.) ]

[She's too fragile right now to trust his matter-of-fact coolness. It's obvious what she wants to hear. She buries her face against his chest anyway, hating herself for craving comfort she can't believe in.]

I don't want to be a doll. [For Carla, for him, for anyone else.]

[ Doll. He knows he shouldn't read anything into that word. But at the same time he can't believe she'd say it like that. Like he doesn't know what a real Doll is. Like he's ever regarded even Yin as a Doll, even if that's her purpose. For a beat, he has reason to be glad he can't blush. Korra's words evoke a memory of Yin's face, her pale little hands, the stillness of her body wreathed in despondency, the pretty eyes looking so sad. He thinks of how she always manages to say some astonishing thing to him, some remark she can make to no one else. ]

[ Exhaling, he shakes it off. Lets the cool memory of Yin slip away in favor of the burning presence right in front of him. It's true, he started this affair by using Korra. She was nothing but the vehicle by which he chose to set himself free of his troubles -- for a few hours out of time. She was a veritable living doll the way Yin never was -- programmed for pleasure free of all complications. To be enjoyed until he grew bored with her. He's not sure how emotion blossomed from such a sober, self-serving deal. Not sure how some path in his mind that should certainly have pointed one way forever had instead imperceptibly veered. All he can picture is Korra padding around his airy kitchen, that afternoon they'd cooked lobsters, the glow of sunlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. Something had stirred there -- something bright and illogical and mysterious. ]

[ He wishes he could tell her that. Wishes he could ease the crux of her distress. He keeps smoothing her hair, a small, gentling motion. ]

Dolls don't have the effect you do on people. [ The remark isn't rhetorical, but issued in a whisper. ] You shine on them and they get a little less ... full of shit. Just a little. [ A beat, before he gathers her in tighter. ] Sometimes a lot.

[She wants to believe him, but how can that be true? Old wounds are opening up now, issues that she thought she'd resolved, like her guilt over killing Chekov. Every past mistake coming back and cutting up her insides. And every past hurt. The time he'd pulled out the knife. The time he'd flipped her over after she told him "no." Every time they'd been together and his mind had gone somewhere else.]

[ She's quiet, and something in Hei rattles, as if in a wind gust. He wishes she'd look at him, but at the same time, why would she? His face is full of things no one should like to recall, the night in the shed under the fizzy low-watt bulb, the evening outside the bar, where he'd told her he should kill her, the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol rising up to overlap Korra's juddering shock, her loneliness after all her friends left, and he didn't offer more than a token reassurance, the absence after she'd killed Pavel, and his idea of comfort was to pound her into the mattress in time to her strained gasps, then snap at her afterward. All those bitter times come back to him now in an inventory of ambivalence and regret, so jumbled up it makes his head pound. ]

[ Very gently, he rolls them, so she's on her back. Settles against her, a heavy bony quilt of warmth, his arms bracketing her on either side. When he kisses her, it's soft and moist as rain, his lips dotting across her wet face, tasting the salt on his tongue. ]

You don't believe me. [ It's not a question. His voice is raspy, and to his own ears, strangely tender. ] Do you know ... I've never known simple joy? Darker, more complex things, yes. But joy? No. I was infected by the psychosis of winning by age eleven. [ A beat, the words stifled for a second, then jerking out of him. ] I know I'm not always good to you. I've hurt you and I've used you. But I wasn't lying when I said you've made a difference. Your energy. Your kindness -- to someone like me, it's a miracle you exist at all in this world.

[ It's strange, trying to be honest when his expertise lies in deception. But these words have to be said to her. Over and over, until she believes them. If she ever will. ]

[She doesn't believe him -- not all the way, not completely -- but she's not strong enough to hold onto her doubts when he's saying exactly what she wants to hear. He lies on top of her and it's like he's putting a bandage over an open wound. She grips the fabric of his shirt and arches into his kiss, but it's not sexual. She's too scooped out for sex, drained of energy and feeling and too fragile to take off the shield of her clothing.]

[ Hei kisses back, and it's a hot, urgent slide of lips. But his passion in this moment isn't erotic. Instead he gathers her in close, burying his face in the lush tumbled warmth of her hair. He is breathing, but perhaps the better descriptor is that he is breathing her, her moist scent and the tang of her tears, her emotion. It's never something he's cared for -- but in this moment, it hits him. How much he's wanted this. The idea awes him. He's only just beginning to approach the shape and color of his feelings for Korra: their ways and meaning. He'd done so little thinking about her before, and what there was, tracked such a narrow groove. ]

[ It's unexpected, but there's a prickle of gratitude in there too. It's so rare that anything surprises him like this. ]

[ It's a long moment before his grip loosens. He draws slightly back to look at her face. There's something both distant but warmly drunk in his expression. ]

I know ... It's not enough. Whatever I've given you. Or what I'm saying now. But I swear, it's true.

I want it to be. [Maybe a stupid admission, but it's not like she has a history of making smart choices about him.

She gently pushes him off, maneuvering so she's curled up at his side, her head resting against his chest. Her body feels heavy and her heart feels bleak, but she knows it will all be better after she's gotten some sleep. Maybe the sound of his heartbeat will drown out the whispers of her darker thoughts.]

[ I want it to be. That honesty, that sweetness ... It makes his brain melt, even as good sense tells him: Beware. How has this happened, that he's been given this girl who might as well be the antithesis of him, yet shaped to his every susceptibility? Stronger than him, kinder than him, full of earnestness and humor and beauty and all that power that lures him, raises his awareness and his cock and his every barbed-wire instinct -- turning it love-soaked and shapeless. Some small bright fragment of her is in him. She is singing through his sinews. ]

[ No, not an antithesis at all. Just a contrast that offers balance. Two sides of the same coin. Diamond cuts diamond, after all. ]

[ He doesn't know how to express any of that. Not articulately and rationally. Instead he sighs and hitches her closer. One leg thrown over hers, an arm encircling her, letting her fit against him as if he is a bolster. Practical concerns intrude -- he wants to ask if she'd like a drink of water. But another part of him is loathe to let her go. It's better this way, anyhow -- the words have been spoken, the grief has passed and left her wrung out, and now his job is only this. Holding her until she falls asleep. It's not his usual way. But he's changed his ways in other things lately. What's one more to add to the list? ]

[ Oh, you can change, but you'll both pay for it. The question is ... what price? ]

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