Agent Orange
Who: Barney and Red. Yes, again. I know.
What: Post this and precursor to this.
When: BACKDATED to 8th. Late at night. Very late.
Where: Barney's room.
Rating: Likely PG13, but you know us. We don't go graphic.
The whole point of it was to be a game.
And yet neither of them could win.
Well, Barney had won little battles, here and there; more attuned to his surroundings and a special brand of guerrilla warfare, forcing Red to adapt to deadly napalm tactics.
Napalm.
What a funny little metaphor.
Because it was how he stuck with her, burning and masochistic. They were the same person, she realized with a hint of fear; damaged and lonely, grinding against one another night after night in the hope of feeling something other than isolation. Of course it was always accompanied by useless banter and false names, pushing apart just enough to where maybe it wouldn't matter that, occasionally, something resembling reality slipped between them.
And there were just so many things he'd never say to her. (No, not that. That was never something either of them wanted, thanks anyway.) Like how she knew the force of her presence upon him. His dependency. His fix despite her constant attempts to undermine.
If he was napalm, then she was Agent Orange.
He was Asphyxiation. She was Ruin.
Maybe that was why he didn't see her coming -- the effects were not always visible from the start. [But it's when you realize that your hair is coming loose and your body is beginning to reject any semblance of health that you know her claws have sunk far too deep into your ribcage; poison-tipped daggers for fingers.]
(Her skin peeled away from his chemical touch.)
--
They were their own destruction, mutually assured while confident in their stature, him in his impractical suits and her without. Her standing tall with immeasurable slink and a gaily-patterned Chinese robe that tied about the middle. Her with her arm on the door-frame while the other hand knocked.
This was just a game, after all.
What: Post this and precursor to this.
When: BACKDATED to 8th. Late at night. Very late.
Where: Barney's room.
Rating: Likely PG13, but you know us. We don't go graphic.
The whole point of it was to be a game.
And yet neither of them could win.
Well, Barney had won little battles, here and there; more attuned to his surroundings and a special brand of guerrilla warfare, forcing Red to adapt to deadly napalm tactics.
Napalm.
What a funny little metaphor.
Because it was how he stuck with her, burning and masochistic. They were the same person, she realized with a hint of fear; damaged and lonely, grinding against one another night after night in the hope of feeling something other than isolation. Of course it was always accompanied by useless banter and false names, pushing apart just enough to where maybe it wouldn't matter that, occasionally, something resembling reality slipped between them.
And there were just so many things he'd never say to her. (No, not that. That was never something either of them wanted, thanks anyway.) Like how she knew the force of her presence upon him. His dependency. His fix despite her constant attempts to undermine.
If he was napalm, then she was Agent Orange.
He was Asphyxiation. She was Ruin.
Maybe that was why he didn't see her coming -- the effects were not always visible from the start. [But it's when you realize that your hair is coming loose and your body is beginning to reject any semblance of health that you know her claws have sunk far too deep into your ribcage; poison-tipped daggers for fingers.]
(Her skin peeled away from his chemical touch.)
--
They were their own destruction, mutually assured while confident in their stature, him in his impractical suits and her without. Her standing tall with immeasurable slink and a gaily-patterned Chinese robe that tied about the middle. Her with her arm on the door-frame while the other hand knocked.
This was just a game, after all.