[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.
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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.