Under layers of cloth bandages, his knuckles still ache and bleed, worn down to a raw fleshy pink-- all exposed nerve endings and scraped skin. There's caked blood on his Doc Martins. Not his. Beating a man to death bare-handed is messy business. They never seem to want to hold still. He always has to make it quick, nothing but punishing blows to the head (fractured skulls, split lips, broken cheek bones) and abdomen (ruptured spleens, torn diaphragms, splintered ribs). One hand over the mouth to stop the screaming while the other delivers cruel justice. Repeated blows. Over and over. Until they finally stop struggling.
The stains and scrapes are from last night. It's early in the evening, earlier than he usually works-- cops are always so much more fucking cocky in the daylight, and he hates having to beat the shit out of uniformed blues-- but today, he has an errand that can't wait. Brickett dragged on his leather jacket and took to the streets before the sun went down, stopping only once to teach a fatal lesson to a mugger in a dirty alley on his way to the library.
He dropped out of school at eighteen and never looked back. Revenge leaves little time for other things. He can barely remember the last time he even set foot in a library, can't even recall the last proper book he read. But he's not here for some light reading. There's someone he wants-- needs to talk to. Someone who might not be so damn pleased to see him around again, but like hell he cares about that. Brickett's a wild dog with teeth that don't let go once they latch on.
He waits at the foot of the steps, smoking a cigarette for warmth and counting the minutes impatiently in his head. Every second leaves him a little more tightly wound, makes his fingers a little more restless. He thinks maybe that Pallas-- he still isn't sure what that means, or what kind of superhero calls himself that-- caught onto his game and booked it. The thought makes him irritably flick his cigarette to to the ground to be crushed forcefully under his heel. His exhale is foggy breath and smoke.
The sound of the front doors clicking shut, footsteps on the stairs makes his head turn hastily. It's him.
"Not so goddamn fast." Quick steps put him in the man's way. "I didn't get to finish asking my questions last time."
Eli's too busy rattling off lists in his mind to notice anyone standing there. Need to buy milk, light bulb for the front hall, pretty sure I'm out of all deodorant, runs like a quiet ticker across the foreground of his mind and it's not until Brickett actually speaks, that Eli realizes that there are other things he needs to be paying attention to. When he sees who it is, he immediately stops and slips his way back up the last few steps, trying to reopen whatever distance remains between him and the vaguely familiar figure from the week before.
Innocently, Eli's hands go up and he shakes his head in way that silently says, I don't want trouble here. It's not a particularly heroic thing to do but Eli's not the hero here, Pallas is. He clears his throat in the proper way that only librarians seem capable of doing.
"To clarify? You didn't get to finish asking your questions cause I didn't have any answers for them--" He searches his memory for something to call the guy but Eli's nervous and slightly on guard. Without realizing it, he accidentally ends up searching the vigilante's brain instead. In lieu of landing on an alias, he hits the guy's real name on the head. "--Brickett. That, and the noise you were making was against library policy."
Those are the sort of things Brickett never thinks about. He hardly realizes there's no food in the cabinets until the hunger pangs hit and he notices he hasn't eaten for two, three days. The fridge is usually bare, except for half a carton of old milk and expired peanut butter. He only remembers to shower and cut his fingernails because the blood itches once it dries on him. Brickett-- the Rifter is a single-minded human being with little room for anything but vengeance and punishment in his head.
It's this single-mindedness that has him blocking this man's path. He has it in his mind that Pallas has answers for him, and it's unlikely that he'll back down, regardless of what the truth is. Those appeasing gestures, the hands up and the guarded posture, do nothing to discourage him. For every step Pallas takes backwards, he compensates with movement forward, eating up distance between them until its clear by the remaining inches of space that there's no room for escape.
"That's what they all say." Brickett's teeth glint white when his lip curls. In another life, he was a struggling teenager scraping a living off the streets. But this is a different kind of animal. "Don't think the cute librarian act fools me, 'cause I'm not that damn fresh--"
His words-- hot, angry, overlapping-- stop abruptly. Strikingly blue eyes widen slightly before narrowing, dangerous and wary. Suspicious.
"Who the hell have you been talking to?" Two more steps closes all the remaining space between them. The fog of his breath obscures the air, face close enough that his words can be more felt than heard. His tone and stance are nothing but threat. "How do you know my name?"
Eventually there comes a point in this game of retreat and advance when Eli runs out of steps and finds himself right where he started in front of the double-wide glass entrance of the library. He's unnerved -- which is saying something for a guy that runs around the city at night, playing at being an anonymous cape. Staring at Brickett through the haze of his quickly evaporating breath, Eli gets flickers here and there of the thoughts that skitter across the surface of the other man's mind. Blood and muffled noises and the pang of general malnutrition. Not enough sleep and chips of bone and gobbledygook mumbled wetly around broken teeth. Something, somewhere, about a sister. Shutting his eyes tightly and giving his head a sharp shake, he forces himself to look away, at something other that Brickett.
If he were a different person, Eli could just reach into Brickett's skull and jumble things around until they didn't make sense anymore, leaving the kid convinced whatever it was he thinks he knows was little more than an active imagination, a couple bad dreams and one too many drinks at the local dive. But Eli's not that kind of person; no, Eli -- in his best and worst moments -- is Pallas. Named after the goddess Athena, a symbol of heroic deeds and wisdom in action. Messing with some over-aggressive vigilante's mind just for the sake of getting home thirty minutes earlier definitely doesn't qualify as either in Pallas's book. Or Eli's book either.
Wary green eyes flicker back to Brickett's face, beneath a lowered brow. "I haven't been talking to anybody about anything, least of all you. It's-- It's what Pallas does, okay?" God, he thinks to himself, he must sound crazy (irony of his present company glossed over), referring to himself in the third person like that. Giving an uncomfortable glance at the library behind him over his shoulder, Eli presses his lips together and asks, frankly: "Listen, can we do this some place else? Some place not here?"
He doesn't bother trying to explain. Based on what he's seen he's not sure Brickett would understand anyway.
"Stay the hell out of my head," Brickett bares his teeth on his words, taking an unconscious half-step backwards as if giving back some of the space between them will protect the secrets of his head from the other man's powers. "I mean it. Stay the hell out."
It's one of the things that genuinely unnerves him. The idea of someone glimpsing the inner workings of his mind. There are things buried there that he would kill to keep hidden. He's killed over less personal things. Things less secret than his name, his private lifestyle-- things less sacred than memories of his sister (sweet sleeping girl, so small between all the beeping machines, so quiet, so still) and his old existence.
He doesn't want to kill Pallas though. He just wants answers. Answers.
"...Don't try to pull anything," Brickett warns, eying Pallas carefully-- distrusting, touched with this vague sort of unfocused anger. "Where are we going?"
"You think I like it in there?" Eli asks, a little unfairly. He immediately half-winces around just how judgmental his voice sounds when he does, his hands coming up again between them (palms up and out: don't shoot, or some rough approximation). His hands move forward, out from him and towards Brickett in a defensive motion, as if somehow applying the pressure on the air between them would somehow physically force him back and away. With the gesture comes a whisper (a suggestion) in the back of Brickett's head; better off if you just listened, just this once. More of Pallas showing through -- a defense mechanism.
"Just back off and it'll stop trying to find ways to fight you," Eli tells him, a little apologetically (though lined with a vague threat).
'It'. The capes and the hoods that Pallas knows never refer to their powers in quite the same way. Eli talks about them like they're another person who's just stepped out of the room -- a third passenger, the hard line drawn between Eli Ostermann and Pallas, his alpha and his omega. His hands give one last 'push' before dropping down to his sides and then disappearing into his pockets. Eli nods over Brickett's shoulder towards the street below.
"Anywhere, I don't care. You choose. Just not here."
Just back off. That's the problem, isn't it? He probably couldn't properly back off if he tried-- literally or otherwise. He didn't start out consciously wanting to kill criminals. They began as accidents. Not knowing his own strength when he hit someone and ended up shattering bones and rupturing organs. Then, it slowly became justice. This were murderers and thieves. The kind of men who had hurt his sister. It didn't matter if he could control his power or not-- they deserved it. They deserved the pain. Brickett evolved into a creature to whom revenge was as natural as breathing.
Reckless. Angry. Unpredictable. A wounded street dog with snapping teeth.
But, still. Something. Something, like a gentle and absent urge, makes him lean towards being cooperative. He tells himself it's the man's usefulness, the fact that he might possess information that could bring justice to the filthy fucks that ruined his sister's life. Or that maybe he doesn't want to see if he can crush the other hero's skull before that telepathic mind destroys his thoughts. It's an illusion that's childishly important to him-- the illusion that he is the one in charge of the situation. He chooses to restrain his own violence. Nobody chooses for him. Definitely not a middle-aged librarian.
It'll be better to do it somewhere in private anyway. Less chances for interference.
Brickett's lips purse into a tight line, fingers flexing at his sides before he finally makes an annoyed sound, turning away to head back down the steps. "Come on, Pallas. We're going for a walk."
There's an impulse in Eli to stop Brickett, to put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze until the kid can't ignore him anymore and he just has to listen. Then Eli'd explain to him that no, it's not 'Pallas'. Not in the shadow of the library, not when he's still got stamp ink on his hands and is wearing his Saturday tie. --there are rules for a reason okay, all types of rules, and they make it so the stuff that's in stays in; in you and in me, where they're supposed to stay-- The impulse is strong enough to get his hand in the air, but not quick enough to finish the gesture. In the end, it hovers (fingers flexing) and lingers before falling away to be stuffed pathetically back into its pocket.
Because Eli's seen inside that of Brickett's head, after all -- not just this time, but the last time as well -- and he knows exactly the kind of animal the kid is on the inside. Hungry and obsessed to the point of simple-mindedness; so full-up on anger that there's never been any room to figure out how to be sad. Admittedly, Eli has no concept whatsoever what living like that must be like; he's thought about it in the abstract, of course, but never for very long. Impulse in a guy like him does nothing but get innocent people turned inside out. So Eli builds walls on the inside of his head, around the pylons of his life; tiny rooms that keep his powers in check and contained, that keep this part of himself removed and separated from the others.
Eli knows it's not the sort of answer Brickett's looking for, so silently he follows, heading down the stairs for a second time that evening. If he couldn't manage to give Brickett an explanation, or the answers he was looking for, the least he could do was give him 'a walk'.
Absently, to fill the tightly-coiled silence that follows, Eli says: "You should get your hands looked at. They hurt like hell from where I'm standing."
THESE WERE* clearly i shouldn't be allowed to type after midnight. 8|highdamageJanuary 22 2010, 15:04:52 UTC
He thinks he hears Pallas say something to him as they turn their backs on the library-- rules for a reason-- and it's enough to make him glance over his shoulder with sharp eyes. But, he only looks in time to see Pallas put his hand into his pocket, mouth clearly not moving at all, and Brickett's eyebrows draw together in an annoyed, perplexed expression at the sight. His paranoia, he thinks, is starting to catch up with him. (Or is it something else? Suspicion makes the muscles in his fingers curl tight.) He has a host of untreated, undiagnosed mental illnesses, surely, and it honestly wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated voices.
The next time he hears the librarian, he almost ignores it. Half because he almost thinks he imagined it again-- too real though, less inside his head and more from the space around him-- and half because something in him hates that sort of advice. He doesn't have time for the things ordinary people do. No time for doctors or teachers or lovers. Not while his sister lays unconscious in the local hospital, and not while the filthy bastard who made her that way runs free.
"Leave it alone," Brickett answers with a touch of bad temper, "What are you, my mother? I'm not some stray on the street that needs taking care of. If you wanna help, then answer my damn questions."
His feet move almost automatically. He isn't sure consciously where he can take this man for their little talk-- he doesn't know the restaurants or shops here, even after years of living around them. He doesn't pay attention. Doesn't go out much, except to weed out the city's criminals. There's only one safe place he knows. Home.
ffffft /welcomes your midnight typings with open armsalevelheadJanuary 22 2010, 15:28:33 UTC
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is not the first time Eli's been asked the mother question. It's a line Pallas gets from his teammates sometimes when he starts asking too many questions, worrying too much and thinking too hard about things that would simply wick off the minds of the others. It makes it easier to take Brickett's denial in stride even though the corners of his mouth tighten to prevent a frown.
"Whatever it is you think you're going to do? It's not going to help. It won't change anything." As soon as the words pass his lips (Pallas talking, Eli listening), he immediately regrets them, not entirely sure why he even bothered to say them in the first place. A hand tugs itself free from its pocket to raise up again, begging pardon. "Which isn't what you want to hear, I know. You want these answers I supposedly I have." He looks off across the street at the cafe where he has his morning coffee; down the block is a decent Chinese place that's good for greasy spoon take-out. There are plenty of places Eli can suggest, but he doesn't take the initiative to do so; just lets Brickett call the shots in the hopes it'll keep him calm and focused. Besides, he wants to talk to Pallas, which automatically makes half of the neighborhood null and void and off-limits.
Sucking on the inside of his cheek, he finally asks: "What if you're wrong and I don't have them at all? Your answers?"
It's as if Brickett wears a set of metaphorical blinders that prevent him from looking any direction but forward-- from seeing anything but the vengeance that has defined his existence for the past five years. He dismisses the people and places around him, turns a deaf ear to anyone who tries to tell him revenge will help nothing. Brickett has long forgotten how to exist without this purpose. He needs it. Needs his justice. Needs to crush the life out of the gang leader responsible for his sister's beating.
And this lifestyle, it's a form of justice too. Punishment to ease the guilt of having led wolves to Emma's home. Denying himself happiness of his own, because she can't have it. Because she might never have it again.
Brickett does a fine job of ignoring every word that comes out of the other man's mouth until he poses that last question. That's when the corners of his mouth tighten and his eyes narrow to slivers of blue. His steps come to a halt outside a questionable bar-- noisy, he thinks, full of drunks who won't give a damn what they're talking about-- and unceremoniously, he turns to catch Pallas harshly by the upper arm, pulling him in uncomfortably close so that Brickett's words are precise. Unmistakable.
"Then you're useless to me." His grip betrays a hint of his power, that unnatural strength. "I'm a good, tidy American boy. I throw out my trash."
Even though it's Eli that Brickett's caught by the arm and has reeled in undeniably close, it's definitely Pallas that speaks when he finally opens his mouth. The difference between the two is clearly there, though perhaps slightly lost to someone as perpetually preoccupied as Brickett is. But there's no mistake that the grimace that might normally crawl onto Eli's face just never comes, and instead of pulling back, Pallas leans his face in a little bit closer. So close that all either of them has filling his vision is the other guy looming. That way, when Pallas talks, what he says is equally undeniable -- along with his face, a seriousness in his eyes, a certain heavy defiance in his lowered voice (not entirely the pushover and Eli spends so much of his life being). His own hand comes up to take a hold of the arm that's already busy grasping his and although Pallas's grip isn't any stronger than the next guy's there is an unnatural pressure that suddenly starts and then spreads up and down the length of Brickett's arm. It doesn't hurt, per say, but it's difficult to ignore, especially since it starts to cut off some of the blood circulation after a little while.
"You don't want to do that," Pallas says without missing a beat. "Trust me. It's not a tree you want to be barking up right now."
There's a clear moment of hesitation-- he falters. And for a split second, Brickett looks as young as he is, openly startled by this defiance and quickly wary a beat later. It's as if he's unused to having someone fight back, too accustomed to the ritual of ruthlessly beating men to death with sinful ease. His head gives a little twitch when Pallas leans in closer, as if he almost flinches but stops himself. This close, his eyes are very blue, filled with that special unfocused anger and calculating, judging with the uncertainty of a cautious beast now that his challenge has been met.
It isn't until his hand starts to go numb that Brickett seems able to tear those wild, wide eyes away from the other man's face. He pulls at the grip on his arm with an abrupt, instinctive jerking motion, exhaling sharply through his mouth.
Even when Brickett looks away, Pallas's attention doesn't waver; he just keeps on staring into those strangely feral eyes, long after they've broken contact to look at anything but Pallas. Eyes, Pallas knows, are the easiest way to work his way into somebody, to peel the layers of a person's mind back in order to reveal what's hiding underneath. 'Windows into men's souls', that's what someone had called the eyes once, and by god were they right. Eli's already seen into Brickett's soul, whether it was on purpose or not, but Pallas takes another lingering moment to take a look of his own before finally stepping away.
In all honesty, it'd be easy to dismiss Brickett, to brush him off at face value. Peering inside of him seems like the kind of thing that would only seal the deal (too much anger, too much obsession; both in one place, it's not healthy) but for some reason it only makes Pallas want to look harder, dig a little deeper. Maybe it's the hero in him that's desperate to find something redeeming about the kid standing in front of him; maybe it's about saving someone, someone who -- without a doubt -- isn't looking to be saved. Whatever the reason, Pallas doesn't dwell on it for too long, not with Brickett's arm going numb; he'll leave it for Eli to do later.
"Let's just get one thing straight between the two of us," Pallas says. "Eli's a pushover. He's a librarian." When he finally releases Brickett's arm the pressure there immediately dissipates. Blood rushes quickly back to where it wasn't previously as Pallas ducks in again to add a pointed: "I'm not."
He doesn't understand it-- can't possibly begin to understand it. This separation of selves. Brickett Slater never stops being the Rifter. It's a state of existence he entered when his sister slipped into perpetual unconsciousness, and he hasn't been able to differentiate between the two for years. The line where Brickett ends and Rifter begins has grown blurred, made more and more obscured with every bad man that dies an ugly, painful death underneath his fists and bootheels. He couldn't stop being Rifter if he wanted to. That's the trouble with being obsessed. You forget how to live without your obsession.
It makes a person wonder what will happen, the day his revenge is finally fulfilled.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." That's half-true. He knows, and he doesn't. But either way, there's tension building in his shoulders, a quickened pace to his heartbeat that makes his fingers restless. He can't decide what his body wants more right now-- to run or to fight. Has he finally bitten off too much? Has he? "And I don't care."
He hesitates, brows furrowing. "Are you gonna answer my questions or not?"
Pallas knows (and Eli does too) that it's not the sort of thing that most people are built to understand. And even if they were, he's not sure whether or not sympathy to his situation would necessarily be a healthy thing. Because it's true -- Brickett might be obsessed with revenge to the point of blinding tunnel vision, but in a lot of ways Pallas and Eli are just as bad, if not worse. After all, who can say which is the lesser of two evils: a young man who is single-minded to the point of self-destruction or a grown man who willingly fractures his own psyche down the middle in order to find some semblance of self-control?
They're both damaged in their own ways; being what they are does that to people, irregardless of whether or not Brickett can bring himself to care. Eli does -- Pallas does -- which is why he eyes that slow churning hesitation in Brickett's expression for a moment. Eventually, Pallas nods and then tips his chin towards the bar door.
The stains and scrapes are from last night. It's early in the evening, earlier than he usually works-- cops are always so much more fucking cocky in the daylight, and he hates having to beat the shit out of uniformed blues-- but today, he has an errand that can't wait. Brickett dragged on his leather jacket and took to the streets before the sun went down, stopping only once to teach a fatal lesson to a mugger in a dirty alley on his way to the library.
He dropped out of school at eighteen and never looked back. Revenge leaves little time for other things. He can barely remember the last time he even set foot in a library, can't even recall the last proper book he read. But he's not here for some light reading. There's someone he wants-- needs to talk to. Someone who might not be so damn pleased to see him around again, but like hell he cares about that. Brickett's a wild dog with teeth that don't let go once they latch on.
He waits at the foot of the steps, smoking a cigarette for warmth and counting the minutes impatiently in his head. Every second leaves him a little more tightly wound, makes his fingers a little more restless. He thinks maybe that Pallas-- he still isn't sure what that means, or what kind of superhero calls himself that-- caught onto his game and booked it. The thought makes him irritably flick his cigarette to to the ground to be crushed forcefully under his heel. His exhale is foggy breath and smoke.
The sound of the front doors clicking shut, footsteps on the stairs makes his head turn hastily. It's him.
"Not so goddamn fast." Quick steps put him in the man's way. "I didn't get to finish asking my questions last time."
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Innocently, Eli's hands go up and he shakes his head in way that silently says, I don't want trouble here. It's not a particularly heroic thing to do but Eli's not the hero here, Pallas is. He clears his throat in the proper way that only librarians seem capable of doing.
"To clarify? You didn't get to finish asking your questions cause I didn't have any answers for them--" He searches his memory for something to call the guy but Eli's nervous and slightly on guard. Without realizing it, he accidentally ends up searching the vigilante's brain instead. In lieu of landing on an alias, he hits the guy's real name on the head. "--Brickett. That, and the noise you were making was against library policy."
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It's this single-mindedness that has him blocking this man's path. He has it in his mind that Pallas has answers for him, and it's unlikely that he'll back down, regardless of what the truth is. Those appeasing gestures, the hands up and the guarded posture, do nothing to discourage him. For every step Pallas takes backwards, he compensates with movement forward, eating up distance between them until its clear by the remaining inches of space that there's no room for escape.
"That's what they all say." Brickett's teeth glint white when his lip curls. In another life, he was a struggling teenager scraping a living off the streets. But this is a different kind of animal. "Don't think the cute librarian act fools me, 'cause I'm not that damn fresh--"
His words-- hot, angry, overlapping-- stop abruptly. Strikingly blue eyes widen slightly before narrowing, dangerous and wary. Suspicious.
"Who the hell have you been talking to?" Two more steps closes all the remaining space between them. The fog of his breath obscures the air, face close enough that his words can be more felt than heard. His tone and stance are nothing but threat. "How do you know my name?"
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If he were a different person, Eli could just reach into Brickett's skull and jumble things around until they didn't make sense anymore, leaving the kid convinced whatever it was he thinks he knows was little more than an active imagination, a couple bad dreams and one too many drinks at the local dive. But Eli's not that kind of person; no, Eli -- in his best and worst moments -- is Pallas. Named after the goddess Athena, a symbol of heroic deeds and wisdom in action. Messing with some over-aggressive vigilante's mind just for the sake of getting home thirty minutes earlier definitely doesn't qualify as either in Pallas's book. Or Eli's book either.
Wary green eyes flicker back to Brickett's face, beneath a lowered brow. "I haven't been talking to anybody about anything, least of all you. It's-- It's what Pallas does, okay?" God, he thinks to himself, he must sound crazy (irony of his present company glossed over), referring to himself in the third person like that. Giving an uncomfortable glance at the library behind him over his shoulder, Eli presses his lips together and asks, frankly: "Listen, can we do this some place else? Some place not here?"
He doesn't bother trying to explain. Based on what he's seen he's not sure Brickett would understand anyway.
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"Stay the hell out of my head," Brickett bares his teeth on his words, taking an unconscious half-step backwards as if giving back some of the space between them will protect the secrets of his head from the other man's powers. "I mean it. Stay the hell out."
It's one of the things that genuinely unnerves him. The idea of someone glimpsing the inner workings of his mind. There are things buried there that he would kill to keep hidden. He's killed over less personal things. Things less secret than his name, his private lifestyle-- things less sacred than memories of his sister (sweet sleeping girl, so small between all the beeping machines, so quiet, so still) and his old existence.
He doesn't want to kill Pallas though. He just wants answers. Answers.
"...Don't try to pull anything," Brickett warns, eying Pallas carefully-- distrusting, touched with this vague sort of unfocused anger. "Where are we going?"
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"Just back off and it'll stop trying to find ways to fight you," Eli tells him, a little apologetically (though lined with a vague threat).
'It'. The capes and the hoods that Pallas knows never refer to their powers in quite the same way. Eli talks about them like they're another person who's just stepped out of the room -- a third passenger, the hard line drawn between Eli Ostermann and Pallas, his alpha and his omega. His hands give one last 'push' before dropping down to his sides and then disappearing into his pockets. Eli nods over Brickett's shoulder towards the street below.
"Anywhere, I don't care. You choose. Just not here."
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Reckless. Angry. Unpredictable. A wounded street dog with snapping teeth.
But, still. Something. Something, like a gentle and absent urge, makes him lean towards being cooperative. He tells himself it's the man's usefulness, the fact that he might possess information that could bring justice to the filthy fucks that ruined his sister's life. Or that maybe he doesn't want to see if he can crush the other hero's skull before that telepathic mind destroys his thoughts. It's an illusion that's childishly important to him-- the illusion that he is the one in charge of the situation. He chooses to restrain his own violence. Nobody chooses for him. Definitely not a middle-aged librarian.
It'll be better to do it somewhere in private anyway. Less chances for interference.
Brickett's lips purse into a tight line, fingers flexing at his sides before he finally makes an annoyed sound, turning away to head back down the steps. "Come on, Pallas. We're going for a walk."
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Because Eli's seen inside that of Brickett's head, after all -- not just this time, but the last time as well -- and he knows exactly the kind of animal the kid is on the inside. Hungry and obsessed to the point of simple-mindedness; so full-up on anger that there's never been any room to figure out how to be sad. Admittedly, Eli has no concept whatsoever what living like that must be like; he's thought about it in the abstract, of course, but never for very long. Impulse in a guy like him does nothing but get innocent people turned inside out. So Eli builds walls on the inside of his head, around the pylons of his life; tiny rooms that keep his powers in check and contained, that keep this part of himself removed and separated from the others.
Eli knows it's not the sort of answer Brickett's looking for, so silently he follows, heading down the stairs for a second time that evening. If he couldn't manage to give Brickett an explanation, or the answers he was looking for, the least he could do was give him 'a walk'.
Absently, to fill the tightly-coiled silence that follows, Eli says: "You should get your hands looked at. They hurt like hell from where I'm standing."
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The next time he hears the librarian, he almost ignores it. Half because he almost thinks he imagined it again-- too real though, less inside his head and more from the space around him-- and half because something in him hates that sort of advice. He doesn't have time for the things ordinary people do. No time for doctors or teachers or lovers. Not while his sister lays unconscious in the local hospital, and not while the filthy bastard who made her that way runs free.
"Leave it alone," Brickett answers with a touch of bad temper, "What are you, my mother? I'm not some stray on the street that needs taking care of. If you wanna help, then answer my damn questions."
His feet move almost automatically. He isn't sure consciously where he can take this man for their little talk-- he doesn't know the restaurants or shops here, even after years of living around them. He doesn't pay attention. Doesn't go out much, except to weed out the city's criminals. There's only one safe place he knows. Home.
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"Whatever it is you think you're going to do? It's not going to help. It won't change anything." As soon as the words pass his lips (Pallas talking, Eli listening), he immediately regrets them, not entirely sure why he even bothered to say them in the first place. A hand tugs itself free from its pocket to raise up again, begging pardon. "Which isn't what you want to hear, I know. You want these answers I supposedly I have." He looks off across the street at the cafe where he has his morning coffee; down the block is a decent Chinese place that's good for greasy spoon take-out. There are plenty of places Eli can suggest, but he doesn't take the initiative to do so; just lets Brickett call the shots in the hopes it'll keep him calm and focused. Besides, he wants to talk to Pallas, which automatically makes half of the neighborhood null and void and off-limits.
Sucking on the inside of his cheek, he finally asks: "What if you're wrong and I don't have them at all? Your answers?"
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And this lifestyle, it's a form of justice too. Punishment to ease the guilt of having led wolves to Emma's home. Denying himself happiness of his own, because she can't have it. Because she might never have it again.
Brickett does a fine job of ignoring every word that comes out of the other man's mouth until he poses that last question. That's when the corners of his mouth tighten and his eyes narrow to slivers of blue. His steps come to a halt outside a questionable bar-- noisy, he thinks, full of drunks who won't give a damn what they're talking about-- and unceremoniously, he turns to catch Pallas harshly by the upper arm, pulling him in uncomfortably close so that Brickett's words are precise. Unmistakable.
"Then you're useless to me." His grip betrays a hint of his power, that unnatural strength. "I'm a good, tidy American boy. I throw out my trash."
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"You don't want to do that," Pallas says without missing a beat. "Trust me. It's not a tree you want to be barking up right now."
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It isn't until his hand starts to go numb that Brickett seems able to tear those wild, wide eyes away from the other man's face. He pulls at the grip on his arm with an abrupt, instinctive jerking motion, exhaling sharply through his mouth.
"Stop it."
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In all honesty, it'd be easy to dismiss Brickett, to brush him off at face value. Peering inside of him seems like the kind of thing that would only seal the deal (too much anger, too much obsession; both in one place, it's not healthy) but for some reason it only makes Pallas want to look harder, dig a little deeper. Maybe it's the hero in him that's desperate to find something redeeming about the kid standing in front of him; maybe it's about saving someone, someone who -- without a doubt -- isn't looking to be saved. Whatever the reason, Pallas doesn't dwell on it for too long, not with Brickett's arm going numb; he'll leave it for Eli to do later.
"Let's just get one thing straight between the two of us," Pallas says. "Eli's a pushover. He's a librarian." When he finally releases Brickett's arm the pressure there immediately dissipates. Blood rushes quickly back to where it wasn't previously as Pallas ducks in again to add a pointed: "I'm not."
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It makes a person wonder what will happen, the day his revenge is finally fulfilled.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." That's half-true. He knows, and he doesn't. But either way, there's tension building in his shoulders, a quickened pace to his heartbeat that makes his fingers restless. He can't decide what his body wants more right now-- to run or to fight. Has he finally bitten off too much? Has he? "And I don't care."
He hesitates, brows furrowing. "Are you gonna answer my questions or not?"
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They're both damaged in their own ways; being what they are does that to people, irregardless of whether or not Brickett can bring himself to care. Eli does -- Pallas does -- which is why he eyes that slow churning hesitation in Brickett's expression for a moment. Eventually, Pallas nods and then tips his chin towards the bar door.
"If I have answers, I will."
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