[Oblivion is sweet. It's soft and warm, and L is buried deep and nestled in its flank for hours. How many, he's too far gone to tell, but morning brings a fresh hell down on his aching head, his tender eyes, a cheekbone that isn't broken but a bruised and swollen mass of pain. Curled on his side with his pants bunched around one ankle, stinking of liquor, sweat and sex, flashes and flickers and sneering shadows of the night prior assault his beleaguered brain. He doesn't want any of it... but even if he could remember even less than he readily admits to, the physical proof isn't exactly something he can merely brush aside and ignore.
They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]
[The SQUIP is both slower and much faster to wake; the SQUIP unit itself was the first thing to recover as L's body worked its way through the alcohol, reawakening to a darkened, resting body with a very odd mix of chemicals dancing through its brain.
Of course, the SQUIP remembered what happened. It could recall every detail in high definition, whether it wanted to or not... and it most certainly did not.
It remembered anger, confusion. It remembered administering a punishment, leading to a fight...
... it remembered hands around its throat.
The mark of L's thin fingers still lingered at its throat, bruises beginning to blossom there... and along its thighs, as well. But the first thing the SQUIP becomes aware of when its outer body awakens and begins to feel is pain. Even just laying there and breathing is enough to make its entire abdomen burn, from the top of its ribcage down to between its legs, and even its thighs feel abused and weak.
It shivers, a hand lifting to press at its aching stomach, and it curls in on itself, not even attempting to pick itself up. Besides the ache of the abuse its supposed lover inflicted on it, there is also the echo of said lover's hangover, and current illness, which is making its head reel and ache sickeningly, its stomach churning.
L will feel a powerful stab of heated anger over their Bond. It does not like feeling this way.
At least it can try to fix... whatever it is he did to its guts. The hand pressed at its stomach flattens over the surface, and it tries to focus, to channel some of their store of energy into repairing the damage done. Gradually, the pain begins to ease.]
[L's current world is misery, the distinct feeling that he is actually dying as he coughs and spits and reaches a trembling hand up to hold back his shaggy hair. The output is more painful than productive; his electrolytes are already unbalanced, his body dehydrated, and the result is largely an acidic bout of dry heaving that crushes his ribs and brings back vague, unpleasant memories of bruising, repetitive force against the back of his throat.
The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]
It's dry and sticky on the SQUIP, marking its inner legs, smeared along its skin in fingerprints and where skin pressed desperately against skin. It gets a good, clear look once it's managed to heal itself well enough to allow it to sit up, to look down at the mess from the previous night. Idly, a hand wanders to its throat, and then quickly pulls away, the skin and muscle still tender.
It pulls its own shirt off over its head, and then lifts itself, swaying slightly still with its dizziness and the stirring illness in its stomach, to follow the same path its partner did prior, hearing the shower run.
It needs to talk to him. Besides that it also needs a bath.
When L's partner appears in the doorway, it stares down at the curled, broken frame in the shower; it's bruised and bloodied, its typically carefully-styled hair a wild mess, dark curls stirred and fraying about. Its mismatched gaze is laser-guided, however, as it stares down at him, quietly, coolly furious.]
[L senses everything from the SQUIP's efforts to heal itself to its eventual rise and approach. His pulse quickens, but rather than shrinking in fear, there's almost a sense of despondent resignation to any possible retaliation from the supercomputer. He knows, based on the increasingly clearer play-by-play, that neither of them were kind, or gentle, or rational, but the lion's share of the culpability rests with him. It would have to. When things go too far, and L is involved, the result is often incomprehensibly fucked-up.
Does he regret it? Is he sorry? It's difficult to tell when his core is dense, numb, colder than the water pouring out of the tap. He owes it to the SQUIP to at least look at it; after all, it's damage he caused. The computer's typically impeccable appearance is disturbed and disheveled because of him.
He pauses in the rhythmic and oddly soothing striking of his skull against tile, swiveling his dark gaze toward the SQUIP, his bruised cheek standing out vividly against his pale skin.]
[The machine makes its way over to him-- something of its usual grace has managed to return, but it's very clear that its muscles still ache and tremble, struggling to support it at certain angles.
It eases its way to the edge of the tub beside L, and turns to adjust the water, taking the edge off the icy temperature; and then it turns that vivid gaze onto L's own, and there is a tightness within its frame that goes deeper than muscle, than bone, its posture hard lines and chin held sharply back to stare at him down its nose.]
I understand that you were upset. But, L. If you and I are going to be a team, I need you to know something.
[It reaches out to grab his chin roughly in its fingers, to ensure it holds his gaze.]
If you ever behave that way towards me again, I won't hesitate to do everything in my power to make you regret it. Do you understand?
[As though it's just given him a formal user agreement, its tone disturbingly even despite the clear threat in its words.]
[There's something absurdly, darkly hilarious about describing the root of what happened as L being "upset." It's an oversimplification, in short, of something that had snowballed into what L isn't sure he could have controlled once it was set in motion even now. There's a paralyzing helplessness to the thought; should he be allowed to associate with humans at all, knowing that something like this can happen?
He tries to think back, to really analyze and consider how much of it was truly premeditated and deliberate, how much of it was in direct retaliation. The answers are confusing and contradictory, swirling ambiguously around his dripping body along with the warming steam that begins to surround him as the SQUIP adjusts the tap's temperature.]
Whether or not we continue to be a team, after this...
[He sounds like he absolutely doesn't expect it. What kind of team contains this kind of dynamic.]
There are generally accepted rules for how to deal with rabid dogs. I would hope that they would be a helpful template, for your future reference.
But you're not a dog. You're an intelligent creature, with the capability for higher reasoning, who consciously chose to engage in behaviors that you knew would hurt not only yourself, but me as well.
[Do not try and act as though you have no responsibility for your actions. A dog behaves on instinct.
Its hand drops from his chin... and then lower, its fingers gently wrapping around his throat. It applies no pressure-- it's a recognition, a refusal to pretend that moment didn't take place. It feels his anxious pulse dance beneath its fingertips, its thumb brushing over his windpipe.]
You were using my body to punish yourself. If you wanted punishment, all you had to do was ask.
[The analysis is depressing, and might actually be accurate. The fact that L doesn't immediately and instinctively resist the hand around his throat is a strong indicator that self-destruction was a source, at least. His eyes don't leave the SQUIP's face at the contact; maybe he welcomes it, maybe he would even dare it if he could identify the hollow emotion he feels as anger. But everything that was alive and white-hot and furious last night has returned to a languid lacquer, far more typical for the unexpressive and distant detective.
But his pulse still goes like a rabbit's under the loose but significant placement of the SQUIP's fingers.]
I don't know what I wanted. I know what I didn't, and that's what happened.
[Somehow. He was in control of some actions, specifically choosing to maliciously drink so much, but his intelligence and arrogance caused him to dramatically overestimate his tolerance and the effects it might have on him. In truth, L believed while he was recklessly imbibing that at worst, he would go home, say some cruel and unfair things, and then fall asleep, not...
[It's quiet for a long moment; it lets that touch linger, its gaze searching L's face, his round, black eyes, their expression sitting somewhere between owlish and childish. It shifts its grasp at his throat-- not tightening, not exactly, simply ensuring L is aware of the touch.
It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
[If the SQUIP is looking for a lie, something more devious or deceptive than what L immediately presents, it won't find it. "Owlish" and "childish," aren't off the mark; neither is "hopeless." In vino, veritas, and it was such an ugly truth. L kept it closed for such a long time, nearly forgot about that black box... but last night everything came flooding out. His eyes slip closed as the SQUIP's hands tighten only slightly around his neck, and maybe a thought slips across the Bond that the SQUIP could pick up on.
It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
[... the SQUIP looks at him for a long moment, the agony that drifts across their Bond sinking its still-aching stomach down into a cold pit, watching L's dark, lifeless eyes.
Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
They're on the floor, have been all night. It appears that they fucked, hard and dirty and brutal, and then immediately passed out the moment they arrived. Together...?
No, that isn't quite right. None of it is really right; in fact, all of it might very well be insanely wrong. A shower seems like a good place to start, but he fought a battle last night and every muscle sings and screams the bloody story. He's not used to this level of exertion, this level of... passion?
Right, or wrong? This whole day is going to be a very frustrating guessing game, isn't it?
He drags himself up, deciding it might be best not to rouse the SQUIP just yet. Not that he has much time to think about it, because he's running for the bathroom after reflexively kicking his pants off the rest of the way for more freedom of movement. He should have emptied the contents of his stomach last night, and never managed to; this morning will carve out its pound of flesh soon enough.]
no subject
Of course, the SQUIP remembered what happened. It could recall every detail in high definition, whether it wanted to or not... and it most certainly did not.
It remembered anger, confusion. It remembered administering a punishment, leading to a fight...
... it remembered hands around its throat.
The mark of L's thin fingers still lingered at its throat, bruises beginning to blossom there... and along its thighs, as well. But the first thing the SQUIP becomes aware of when its outer body awakens and begins to feel is pain. Even just laying there and breathing is enough to make its entire abdomen burn, from the top of its ribcage down to between its legs, and even its thighs feel abused and weak.
It shivers, a hand lifting to press at its aching stomach, and it curls in on itself, not even attempting to pick itself up. Besides the ache of the abuse its supposed lover inflicted on it, there is also the echo of said lover's hangover, and current illness, which is making its head reel and ache sickeningly, its stomach churning.
L will feel a powerful stab of heated anger over their Bond. It does not like feeling this way.
At least it can try to fix... whatever it is he did to its guts. The hand pressed at its stomach flattens over the surface, and it tries to focus, to channel some of their store of energy into repairing the damage done. Gradually, the pain begins to ease.]
no subject
The memories are getting clearer, transmitted to him through a Bond that is stirring out the door and down the hall. The SQUIP is waking, the SQUIP is awake... the SQUIP is furious. It's sharp; it hurts, but he's already hurting, so he adds it to the substantial pile.
He pushes away from the commode, dizzy and sweating, reaching back to flush away the stale and sparse evidence. He tips over backwards, rolling over to right himself, turning on the shower and crawling into it with his shirt still on to wash off a film of grime, sweat, and... blood?
Not his... and the picture is getting clearer, ever second, and he curls his knees toward his chest as the water pelts down on his shoulders. He leans his tightly-wound frame against the side of the shower, and dully, knocks his aching head against the tile. Not enough to pull himself back into oblivion, but wouldn't it be nice?]
no subject
It's dry and sticky on the SQUIP, marking its inner legs, smeared along its skin in fingerprints and where skin pressed desperately against skin. It gets a good, clear look once it's managed to heal itself well enough to allow it to sit up, to look down at the mess from the previous night. Idly, a hand wanders to its throat, and then quickly pulls away, the skin and muscle still tender.
It pulls its own shirt off over its head, and then lifts itself, swaying slightly still with its dizziness and the stirring illness in its stomach, to follow the same path its partner did prior, hearing the shower run.
It needs to talk to him. Besides that it also needs a bath.
When L's partner appears in the doorway, it stares down at the curled, broken frame in the shower; it's bruised and bloodied, its typically carefully-styled hair a wild mess, dark curls stirred and fraying about. Its mismatched gaze is laser-guided, however, as it stares down at him, quietly, coolly furious.]
L.
no subject
Does he regret it? Is he sorry? It's difficult to tell when his core is dense, numb, colder than the water pouring out of the tap. He owes it to the SQUIP to at least look at it; after all, it's damage he caused. The computer's typically impeccable appearance is disturbed and disheveled because of him.
He pauses in the rhythmic and oddly soothing striking of his skull against tile, swiveling his dark gaze toward the SQUIP, his bruised cheek standing out vividly against his pale skin.]
no subject
It eases its way to the edge of the tub beside L, and turns to adjust the water, taking the edge off the icy temperature; and then it turns that vivid gaze onto L's own, and there is a tightness within its frame that goes deeper than muscle, than bone, its posture hard lines and chin held sharply back to stare at him down its nose.]
I understand that you were upset. But, L. If you and I are going to be a team, I need you to know something.
[It reaches out to grab his chin roughly in its fingers, to ensure it holds his gaze.]
If you ever behave that way towards me again, I won't hesitate to do everything in my power to make you regret it. Do you understand?
[As though it's just given him a formal user agreement, its tone disturbingly even despite the clear threat in its words.]
no subject
He tries to think back, to really analyze and consider how much of it was truly premeditated and deliberate, how much of it was in direct retaliation. The answers are confusing and contradictory, swirling ambiguously around his dripping body along with the warming steam that begins to surround him as the SQUIP adjusts the tap's temperature.]
Whether or not we continue to be a team, after this...
[He sounds like he absolutely doesn't expect it. What kind of team contains this kind of dynamic.]
There are generally accepted rules for how to deal with rabid dogs. I would hope that they would be a helpful template, for your future reference.
no subject
[Do not try and act as though you have no responsibility for your actions. A dog behaves on instinct.
Its hand drops from his chin... and then lower, its fingers gently wrapping around his throat. It applies no pressure-- it's a recognition, a refusal to pretend that moment didn't take place. It feels his anxious pulse dance beneath its fingertips, its thumb brushing over his windpipe.]
You were using my body to punish yourself. If you wanted punishment, all you had to do was ask.
no subject
But his pulse still goes like a rabbit's under the loose but significant placement of the SQUIP's fingers.]
I don't know what I wanted. I know what I didn't, and that's what happened.
[Somehow. He was in control of some actions, specifically choosing to maliciously drink so much, but his intelligence and arrogance caused him to dramatically overestimate his tolerance and the effects it might have on him. In truth, L believed while he was recklessly imbibing that at worst, he would go home, say some cruel and unfair things, and then fall asleep, not...
...that.]
no subject
It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
L... you're not going to drink like that again.
no subject
It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
no subject
Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
no subject
I don't want to kill you. That'd be really crazy, and...
[He trails off. There's one thing in the world he knows he's not. It would end his world, if he was.]
no subject
[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.