[locked to Robin]

Nov 17, 2009 21:20

I'm all right.

I'm sorry.

I miss you.

locked: robin

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with_coffee November 26 2009, 10:49:00 UTC
"You're- You didn't say if you were... calm." Robin winces because he hadn't meant to say that. He can hear the emptiness in her voice. He can tell. Obviously. She's calm. Too calm. He can see it in her face but something holds him back like he's not quite sure.

He pushes past whatever it was that's holding him back or maybe it finally registered that she is calm. Robin unlocks the handcuffs with the key and steps back and doesn't look at her. I'm sorry gets caught in his throat again. He hates those words. He hates them because they make no difference. They make no difference at all. They're useless, terrible words from someone not strong enough to fix whatever's gone wrong. He locks his jaw, looks away from her, and doesn't say a thing.

Maybe she does hate him. He hopes that she does even if it's impossible to describe the overwhelming levels of pain that threaten to knock him over at the thought. It doesn't matter. Stop being selfish for once and be happy that she doesn't have to deal with you anymore. Be glad no one will give a shit in the end. No one but you who will be begging for it.

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changingtheodds November 26 2009, 10:55:44 UTC
She gets up, slowly, rubbing her wrists, staring at the marks on them. She looks up at him, and in the same calm, commanding tone he used when she started to wake up, she says, "Look at me."

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with_coffee November 26 2009, 11:01:21 UTC
He tenses. And God, he's afraid of her. Not because of what she can do with her abilities. No, not at all. It's because of the power she holds over his heart. Every inch of him already hurts so much that he's not sure how much more he can take even if he deserves it.

He winces, breathing unsteadily, and he looks at her, forcing his gaze to remain on her, to not look away as much as he would like to. He owes her that much, doesn't he? He owes her more than that.

God, he's going to be sick.

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changingtheodds November 26 2009, 11:10:46 UTC
"You’re a liar." She lets the sentence hang, lets it fester for a moment between them. "You said you didn’t give up. You have. You can tell yourself whatever you want, that this is noble, that you’re helping the people who come after you by submitting to that sadist--" Ruvin stops.

"You’re wrong. You aren’t helping anyone. Least of all people like you. Look at how long you've lived without Wyatt. Look at what you had without his help. You keep acting like this will fix things. Like somehow other people having happiness will make your life mean something. A family, love--you had that. You had that. You could still have it. We’re both still here. I’m still here."

She's so tired. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if she's tired or angry or anything. She's tired of being tired. Tired of feeling broken. "I love you. You stupid, foolish man."

Ruvin takes his face between her hands for a moment, presses them against his chest like he can memorize the feel of his heartbeat beneath her palms. "You said that Wyatt stopped you from killing yourself. You're wrong. He's just helping you do it a different way."

And then she leaves. She leaves him there, and it kills her to do it, and hearing the latch of the door click shut behind her almost breaks her heart in two. But she can't-- She can't stay. She can't be his strength. He needs to find his own again and if he can't...

If he can't, then he really is gone.

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WARNING: Trigger possibly for SI. Sorry. -_- with_coffee November 26 2009, 21:10:41 UTC
If she had stuck around, if he had had the energy, he would have told her that she doesn't know what even goes on here, she doesn't know how he's helping, she doesn't know anything about this situation, and she's only saying those things because she's angry at him and because she wants him with her and because she doesn't understand. It's best that she doesn't understand. It's best that she thinks whatever she wants as long as it keeps her away from him. It's going to hurt for her for a long time, and God, he feels horrible about that. He'd do anything to take the pain away from her, to make her forget all about him, to make her stop giving a shit either way. If she stuck around, he would say that he was sorry even though it means nothing in the end.

She doesn't stick around though, and he doesn't go after her. Why would he? She did what he wanted her to do in the first place, leave, give up, give in. It was a more complicated process than he'd wanted it to be or than he'd ever anticipated, but it happened. A family, love. He had that. He doesn't deserve that. It was his one breath of happiness, and he's lucky to have had that much because most of his kind. Do not. Will not. The only strength he's had his whole life came from other people, from his need to not let them down (though he still managed to do that time and time again until they're all gone). He's never had any strength himself. They overestimated him. Life should never ask anyone to fight against themselves for so long.

He walks over to the door and locks it behind her, not that he thinks she'll ever be coming back, not that he blames her as much as some tiny, weak part of him wishes that she would. His hand rests against the handle like he's hoping someone will knock, like he's hoping that he hasn't pushed every single person away. He walks over to the sink and grabs a knife without thinking. It's sharp, long, made for cutting meat and in the end, that's all he is, isn't it? That's all anyone is. There's no thought here. There's impulse. There's need. There's ending at his fingertips, at the tip of this blade. How easy it would be. Wyatt is gone. Everyone's gone. No one would ever have to find out because he's burned his bridges. Just like you wanted. And it's all the same to them whether he dies or never comes back to them. It's all the same.

His hand is shaking. He knows what his body wants. It wants a tranquilizer. It wants to destroy alcohol and every person like his mother. It wants blood. It wants to kill. It wants- but it will never let him be. Never. Not until it's over. Not until- He rolls up his sleeve and presses the blade down into his arm, diagonally, wincing at the pain and watching as blood pools up under it, slipping down his skin and into the sink, drip by drip. A little deeper. A little harder. Both arms. That's all it will take. A slow ending for-

Robin makes a pained noise as realization sinks into him. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve death. He drops the knife into the sink and it rattles echoing off the sides of it, smearing blood against the silver background. His hands are trembling, shaking. Personal hell, Robin, that's what you told yourself and that's what you'll have until this is all over. Not when you say it's over. When it is over. How dare you think for even a second that you can make your own escape. Worthless, stupid, little hateful cuss.

The pain in his arm is bitter, sharp, endless. Tears burn angrily, painfully behind at the edges of his eyes. And he can feel the hatred in it, speaking to him, telling him that's all he deserves and all he needs and all he is, and how easy it is to believe his own body over the words of a young girl who hasn't been in his head, who doesn't know that there's poison running through him. It's been killing him since she met him, since he was sixteen. He watches the white, shining blood drip down the drain until it slows, until he's weak, and then he steps back to clean and bandage the wound.

A slow ending.

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