T'Pol (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maytakecenturies) wrote2015-03-21 10:20 pm
maytakecenturies) wrote2015-03-21 10:20 pm
OO6 | SPAM
[Spam for Steve]
[When she wakes....no. That is incorrect. She was never asleep. It all rushes in with consciousness, one fell swoop of being aware and remembering and the sudden surge makes her want to scream. Her outer eyelids peel back, and a moment later so do her inner ones. She clenches her jaw shut tight, and for a moment she wishes she were on Enterprise. At least waking up in this kind of agony would make sense in his sickbay.
But she knows everything. Captain Rogers' body. His shield. Its weight on her arm and his friend's knife finding her heart. How did he know? Her thoughts immediately head in that direction, he must have known, it was perfectly aimed to put down a Vulcan. She was wrong to think the Terran Empire had no sway here, it doesn't matter if they come from worlds with slavery or without, because in the end they're all Human and that is little better than monster.
She doesn't scream. She learned long ago not to give anyone the satisfaction of her pain. But she does start to push herself up to get a dizzying view of the infirmary, ignoring the way it spins and twists in her vision. She'll stumble out of here if she has to.]
[Spam for Dean, forward dated]
[By all rights, she should still be in the infirmary. She should, at the very least, continue resting in her quarters. But the idea of sitting in there for hours, staring at the steel of her ceiling, laying in her blue sheeted bed, surrounded by the largely undecorated, plain, Human Starfleet issue room makes her want to scream more than the pain ever did. So she reports for duty on the dinner shift more than a couple days early. Her skin prickles, her anger hovers in the air around her. It makes her feel less brittle. It makes her feel strong.
All thoughts of suppressing her emotion are slipping away. Around any corner may be another Sergeant Barnes. Around any corner may be whoever killed Captain Rogers. May be another Human. But why give way to fear or paranoia when she can slip into rage like a second skin?
(Fear is always the root. Surak said, Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak. Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear. But fear so easily turns to other things, and she follows those threads without a single thought for Surak's teachings. All they ever did was teach Vulcans to lay down and die.)
She cuts onions without her eyes reddening or tearing, inner eyelids safely shut. She slams the knife down too hard, clenches her fingers around it tight enough that green blood pools to her finger tips, leaves her knuckles white. It's so different from her usual state of being, and only so much of it can be attributed to the death toll's lingering effects.]
[When she wakes....no. That is incorrect. She was never asleep. It all rushes in with consciousness, one fell swoop of being aware and remembering and the sudden surge makes her want to scream. Her outer eyelids peel back, and a moment later so do her inner ones. She clenches her jaw shut tight, and for a moment she wishes she were on Enterprise. At least waking up in this kind of agony would make sense in his sickbay.
But she knows everything. Captain Rogers' body. His shield. Its weight on her arm and his friend's knife finding her heart. How did he know? Her thoughts immediately head in that direction, he must have known, it was perfectly aimed to put down a Vulcan. She was wrong to think the Terran Empire had no sway here, it doesn't matter if they come from worlds with slavery or without, because in the end they're all Human and that is little better than monster.
She doesn't scream. She learned long ago not to give anyone the satisfaction of her pain. But she does start to push herself up to get a dizzying view of the infirmary, ignoring the way it spins and twists in her vision. She'll stumble out of here if she has to.]
[Spam for Dean, forward dated]
[By all rights, she should still be in the infirmary. She should, at the very least, continue resting in her quarters. But the idea of sitting in there for hours, staring at the steel of her ceiling, laying in her blue sheeted bed, surrounded by the largely undecorated, plain, Human Starfleet issue room makes her want to scream more than the pain ever did. So she reports for duty on the dinner shift more than a couple days early. Her skin prickles, her anger hovers in the air around her. It makes her feel less brittle. It makes her feel strong.
All thoughts of suppressing her emotion are slipping away. Around any corner may be another Sergeant Barnes. Around any corner may be whoever killed Captain Rogers. May be another Human. But why give way to fear or paranoia when she can slip into rage like a second skin?
(Fear is always the root. Surak said, Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak. Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear. But fear so easily turns to other things, and she follows those threads without a single thought for Surak's teachings. All they ever did was teach Vulcans to lay down and die.)
She cuts onions without her eyes reddening or tearing, inner eyelids safely shut. She slams the knife down too hard, clenches her fingers around it tight enough that green blood pools to her finger tips, leaves her knuckles white. It's so different from her usual state of being, and only so much of it can be attributed to the death toll's lingering effects.]
SPAM
Honestly, Steve doesn't know where her heart is, any more than Bucky does. But it makes sense for her to try to protect what she might still perceive to be a wound, so it doesn't strike him as worth noting.
He does make a slightly derisive, if raw, sound at her words.]
Yeah, you don't get to tell me what to do right now. [All the same, he at least pulls his hand back, shows he's not going to try to touch her again - unless she tries to get up.]
I know what happened. What I don't know is why.
[And he wants to know. He's not going to be quite so hands-off about getting the answer as he tends to be with her, either.]
SPAM
What Barnes has told you? How he hunted me down? How he knew exactly how to kill me quickly?
[Fury and adrenaline flood her, and she tries to push herself up again, though this time it's only to gain some height so that she can lean toward him without feeling towered over.]
When did you read my file? When did you ask your friend to murder me?
[It's the only thing that makes sense. Her mind is casting out logic, and all that's left is suspicion and rage.]
SPAM
His eyes narrow - maybe he's not reading enough into her words, but really, he's got no reason to.] Bucky is a trained and experienced soldier, T'Pol. He knows exactly how to kill a lot of people, and you aren't stupid. You should know that.
[Part of him flinches away from thinking of Bucky that way - it's too much like thinking of him as that assassin HYDRA turned him into. But the point stands - Bucky's seen just as much combat as Steve (had seen more, until Steve woke up, now they're about even) and he's always had the capability of being ruthless. Everyone does.]
I haven't read your file, [He says shortly.] And I sure as hell didn't ask him to kill you. But until you tell me otherwise, what I know is that you took something from a murdered corpse, didn't explain yourself to the one person you knew it would affect the most, and then tried to attack a soldier with something he doesn't understand and something that he had no way to counter, except physically.
What the hell did you expect to happen? For all that you hate humans, you've lived around them long enough to know how they react.
[Like he said before - she's not stupid. She's very smart. When she's acting rationally.
But she's not.] You're acting like one of us, [he says, just a little derisively, the way she might say it.] Congratulations. You're officially contaminated.
[It's partially aimed to make her angry. Part of him is so, so angry, too. This whole mess... It shouldn't have happened. He still blames himself for more than his share of it.]
SPAM
[She shouts it at him, and the pain leaves her panting. She doesn't regret it, not at all, and if she could just fill her lungs without seeing white spots in her vision, she thinks she might reach out to wrap her hands around his throat. Her hands flex, fingers digging into the sheets and mattress below her. Trained and experienced and convinced of Human supremacy, just like Steve, just like every Human she's ever had the misfortune to come in contact with.
She should have sabotaged Enterprise long before she did. She should have tampered with things in the Delphic Expanse, she should have ensured that the Xindi were able to destroy Earth but no, she helped Starfleet save Humanity by committing genocide on another race. One that could have, should have been an ally. T'Pol grits her teeth, bearing them as her rage builds.]
You are a liar, [she snarls at him, and if she had any grip on logic she'd know that he is a bad liar and none of the thoughts in her hear make sense. But she doesn't need logic. She has anger.
(And fear. Always there is fear.)]
You told me I could defend myself. [She pushes her self up, breath coming in sharp, pained bursts, but she manages to swallow anything that might betray too much vulnerability. It doesn't make a difference; she's still shaking and ashen.]
He cornered me, he drove a knife into my heart, but no, all that matters is that I am biologically capable of something you'll never be, all that matters is I'm an alien and he is not. Do you have any idea how disgusting your entire race is?
[Her voice is rising; adrenaline is the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
But he says officially contaminated and her pupils contract as all her rage settles on him. She throws herself forward, slapping him as hard as she can. She tries to throttle him, too, only she can't hold herself upright and winds up with a hand scrabbling at his collar to keep herself from falling. It doesn't stop the way her lips pull back over her teeth; she's never looked this wild.]
I won't let you kill me again, I'll kill you before I ever let you or your friend arm yourselves against me, my ancestors could melt the skin from your bones with a thought--
[She's furiously babbling. The worst part is that every word has perfect clarity in her mind.]
SPAM
He slowly, carefully, tries to push her back onto the bed - if she tries to struggle, then his grip is going to stay put, arms locked, and she'll find she's not strong enough to move or break the hold. But he's just holding her, despite the anger welling up inside of him, because hurting her isn't even an option for him.]
I said you could defend yourself, and I meant it. [He doesn't like it, but he won't lie about that.] But you fucking scared him out of his mind, and you've got no right being in there, besides. You didn't deserve death, but he didn't deserve to have his privacy invaded. It was a mistake, and if you want me to punish Bucky for it, then tell me, and I'll take care of it. But if you just want to scratch somebody's eyes out because it'll make you feel better... then fine. If you want to kill me, then fine.
[He releases her, stays up in her space, nose inches from hers, raising his hands up a little; he won't push her away again.] Do it. Punish me for being human, because that's what I am and it's not going to change. But I'm not going to punish you for being Vulcan, because that's not what this is about. You used what you had like a weapon and he reacted like you'd attacked him because that's what you did. I don't care if you'd read his mind or pulled a gun, the result's the same, and the way he reacted would've been the same. And I really, really thought you were smart enough to know that.
[He waits, posture open, because if she wants to hurt him, he won't even try to hold her back, this time. Maybe she really does just need something - someone - to rage against, so fine, let that be him, it's his fault.] I'm sorry. It means nothing to you and it won't solve a thing, but I'm still sorry.
SPAM
Punish him!
[She latches onto those words, though more of them are more out than in: T'Pol stops twisting to stare at him, the material of his collar held in a loose fist because she can't make herself hold it any more tightly.]
Punish him, meaning a slap on the wrist, a finger shaken in his face? I know how Starfleet punishes Terrans for harming aliens! [It doesn't matter that he isn't Starfleet, because he might as well be, because she can't think straight. There is room for nothing but fear.
Her hands spasm, and she wants to claw his eyes out, to rip them from his face. Instead she bares her teeth, because the nausea is turning overwhelming.]
You're just the same, I'm sick of being judged by your kind. You call us weak and punish us for acting more like you. [She blinks, and for a moment she has clarity on the difference between Steve rogers and Jonathan Archer.]
Let go of me Captain. Then stay away from me.
SPAM
[His eyes narrow - he'd wonder if this was some part of the death toll, disorientation, but he didn't feel overly disoriented, when he'd woken up. A little confused, and in a lot of pain - he still is, quite honestly, and he doesn't want to admit, even to himself, how very much it's taking him to stay upright, to hold her as she twists, before he lets go and gives her free rein to do what she wants.
He just takes what she says, expression stoic, because whatever it is, it's something she clearly needs to say. And something he clearly needs to get through to her.
But even he can recognize that now is not the time. He can barely think straight, and he knows she isn't. He hates walking away from something like this, hates it with every fiber of his being, but for once, it seems like the right thing to do.]
We're gonna talk about this later. Because I can do the first, [and he does, although with a pointed glance that says she's going to have to let go of his collar to fully disentangle the two of them.]
But I'm your warden. You're my responsibility, and I'm not going to stay away forever.
[All the same, when she does let go of him, he'll get up out of the chair slowly, stiffly, with none of his usual grace.] I'll leave you alone to recover.
[As much as he can - his bed's not too far from hers, and while he doesn't plan on being here much longer, just making it over to his bed right now feels like almost all he can do.]
Re: SPAM
Her emotional control is a bursting dam. She falls quiet, curled in protectively - but when he moves, her eyes follow. He is dangerous, as much a predator as the sehlat she had for a time as a child. She says nothing, offers no rebuke, until he's out of the chair and moving away.]
Find a new responsibility, Captain.
[Her voice is raw, low, a dangerous kind of quiet. Threat is heavy in her voice.]
Or you will wish you had.
SPAM
But it doesn't mean he's not going to fix it. So when she finally speaks, as he's making his way back to his bed, he pauses, managing to look over his shoulder stiffly as he makes a sound that's halfway between a snort and a cough.] I don't respond well to threats.
And I'm not giving up.