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fandomweekly2024-05-02 05:50 pm
a_little_apocalypse) wrote in fandomweekly2024-05-02 05:50 pm
Entry tags:
[#219] permission in your regulations (Control)
Theme Prompt: #219 - Stress
Title: permission in your regulations
Fandom: Control (Zachariah Trench/Casper Darling)
Rating/Warnings: PG13, language, spoilers
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 985
Summary: Once again Darling tries to convince you, but you've long since stopped listening.
It feels like being backed into a corner, this level of stress. Choices, decisions, each and every one of them harder than the last. Darling is in your office, a place you know, intimately, that he should be familiar with, but he sits awkwardly, nervously, like being called up to state his case for the Director rather than his friend--...
That is the case, though. He's talking about Hedron again, brought one of those fucking things with him, like that would make a difference. He seems to find a different angle every time, as if this time would be the one that made it all make sense - but you know what makes sense, and it isn't that. You know him, and you've known him deep into his research, excited for a discovery, the level of his joy and his enthusiasm - that isn't this. This is desperation; he's desperate. He's obsessed. You've allowed him his eccentricities over the years, but this is dangerous, and you lost patience for his frantic reaches in logic long before he stepped into your office today. (Or yesterday. Or last week. Or...)
It feels easier to sink into the whispers with each passing day. A sound beyond everything that effortlessly brushes it all aside, like a gentle breeze. Darling's words irritate you, but the thought - even the memory - of that sound calms you, somewhere beyond, something that he seems incapable of understanding.
(You walk through the Maze, alone. Red. You stand in Dimensional Research, despairing, considering what actions are available to you. You dig your heel into the sand, as if doing so might crush each grain down further. Red. You think of Darling, and how distant he now is to you, and what subtle thing took him over and took him away from you before you could even realise--...
You stand in your office, fingers pressed to your desk as you know that something needs to be done. You think of Darling. You think of what needs to be done. You know what you need to do. Red.)
However, you haven't done anything yet, though, and so he still sits in front of you, talking his nonsense. Twin urges course through you and you know he can't understand, the frustration you feel at him immersing himself in these things that just don't matter and the tight despair that feels like it's crushing your chest just to look at him, to know that he's there and he's alive and--
(--he's too far gone, and there's nothing you can do.)
Your mood flashes between these states in a way that alarms you. The depths of knowing him lost to you, wishing you could grab back your time together with your own two hands, history between your fingers, clutching it close to where nobody could ever break it or take it away - but you know how hopeless a fantasy that is. You know, first-hand, what it's like to lose everything - and even if the process is slow, over years, over decades, that, too, includes him. (And then it switches, in a moment, in the middle of a sentence, and you look at him sat there like a stranger and wonder how you ever had the patience for any of this. You know you don't have the patience for it anymore. This happens more and more, now.)
You run a hand over your face. "Christ, you never fucking shut up, do you?"
Darling stops, interrupted; you haven't been listening to him you want to listen and the way that he knows this is obvious on his expression, hurt in his eyes you want to hurt-- and he seems to mentally readjust, having declared this attempt a failure. (You hate the way he looks at you these days, with open suspicion, with pity. You can't fucking stand it.)
"... Alright. I'll--... I'll come back tomorrow."
"And say what? All this, again?"
"As many times as I have to until you hear what I'm saying. That's--... all I want, Zach. For you to listen." He makes eye contact for what feels like the first time in a long time, a hopeless smile on his lips. "I--... just don't want to lose you to this. ...I don't want to lose you."
It seems purely absurd to hear him say those words. You want this to be true. It's simply too late, and he's the one that's lost. And he's standing, now, walking around behind your desk to where you sit, still with that look in his eyes as he dares to press a hand to your chest, tentative fingers under folds of fabric like none of this was happening, like everything could be as it once was without argument.
"... And if you want me to shut up, you could--... shut me up yourself?" (He runs a thumb, haltingly, down your tie.) "Like you always did."
He still looks at you with trepidation, and you hate that, too. You've heard enough of his come-ons through the years to know him never normally so hesitant - a meek suggestion, as if-- afraid? Like there's nothing else left. You hate to see him like this and so you pull him down roughly into a harsh kiss, a hand tight in his hair, as if this was an answer to anything. You want to smile. You want to remember each kiss as it once was. You want to dream. Hands pressed against your shoulders, he's trembling. You push him away. You don't want to be.
"... Tomorrow, then."
He's confused now, slightly shaken - another expression that just irritates, somehow, but he seems to take your words as some kind of misplaced encouragement. "... Tomorrow."
Closing your eyes, you don't watch him as he leaves. Tomorrow, another attempt from him, and another opportunity for you - and you know what you have to do.
So safe, and nothing to worry about.
You open your eyes, knowing what you have to do.
Title: permission in your regulations
Fandom: Control (Zachariah Trench/Casper Darling)
Rating/Warnings: PG13, language, spoilers
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 985
Summary: Once again Darling tries to convince you, but you've long since stopped listening.
It feels like being backed into a corner, this level of stress. Choices, decisions, each and every one of them harder than the last. Darling is in your office, a place you know, intimately, that he should be familiar with, but he sits awkwardly, nervously, like being called up to state his case for the Director rather than his friend--...
That is the case, though. He's talking about Hedron again, brought one of those fucking things with him, like that would make a difference. He seems to find a different angle every time, as if this time would be the one that made it all make sense - but you know what makes sense, and it isn't that. You know him, and you've known him deep into his research, excited for a discovery, the level of his joy and his enthusiasm - that isn't this. This is desperation; he's desperate. He's obsessed. You've allowed him his eccentricities over the years, but this is dangerous, and you lost patience for his frantic reaches in logic long before he stepped into your office today. (Or yesterday. Or last week. Or...)
It feels easier to sink into the whispers with each passing day. A sound beyond everything that effortlessly brushes it all aside, like a gentle breeze. Darling's words irritate you, but the thought - even the memory - of that sound calms you, somewhere beyond, something that he seems incapable of understanding.
(You walk through the Maze, alone. Red. You stand in Dimensional Research, despairing, considering what actions are available to you. You dig your heel into the sand, as if doing so might crush each grain down further. Red. You think of Darling, and how distant he now is to you, and what subtle thing took him over and took him away from you before you could even realise--...
You stand in your office, fingers pressed to your desk as you know that something needs to be done. You think of Darling. You think of what needs to be done. You know what you need to do. Red.)
However, you haven't done anything yet, though, and so he still sits in front of you, talking his nonsense. Twin urges course through you and you know he can't understand, the frustration you feel at him immersing himself in these things that just don't matter and the tight despair that feels like it's crushing your chest just to look at him, to know that he's there and he's alive and--
(--he's too far gone, and there's nothing you can do.)
Your mood flashes between these states in a way that alarms you. The depths of knowing him lost to you, wishing you could grab back your time together with your own two hands, history between your fingers, clutching it close to where nobody could ever break it or take it away - but you know how hopeless a fantasy that is. You know, first-hand, what it's like to lose everything - and even if the process is slow, over years, over decades, that, too, includes him. (And then it switches, in a moment, in the middle of a sentence, and you look at him sat there like a stranger and wonder how you ever had the patience for any of this. You know you don't have the patience for it anymore. This happens more and more, now.)
You run a hand over your face. "Christ, you never fucking shut up, do you?"
Darling stops, interrupted; you haven't been listening to him you want to listen and the way that he knows this is obvious on his expression, hurt in his eyes you want to hurt-- and he seems to mentally readjust, having declared this attempt a failure. (You hate the way he looks at you these days, with open suspicion, with pity. You can't fucking stand it.)
"... Alright. I'll--... I'll come back tomorrow."
"And say what? All this, again?"
"As many times as I have to until you hear what I'm saying. That's--... all I want, Zach. For you to listen." He makes eye contact for what feels like the first time in a long time, a hopeless smile on his lips. "I--... just don't want to lose you to this. ...I don't want to lose you."
It seems purely absurd to hear him say those words. You want this to be true. It's simply too late, and he's the one that's lost. And he's standing, now, walking around behind your desk to where you sit, still with that look in his eyes as he dares to press a hand to your chest, tentative fingers under folds of fabric like none of this was happening, like everything could be as it once was without argument.
"... And if you want me to shut up, you could--... shut me up yourself?" (He runs a thumb, haltingly, down your tie.) "Like you always did."
He still looks at you with trepidation, and you hate that, too. You've heard enough of his come-ons through the years to know him never normally so hesitant - a meek suggestion, as if-- afraid? Like there's nothing else left. You hate to see him like this and so you pull him down roughly into a harsh kiss, a hand tight in his hair, as if this was an answer to anything. You want to smile. You want to remember each kiss as it once was. You want to dream. Hands pressed against your shoulders, he's trembling. You push him away. You don't want to be.
"... Tomorrow, then."
He's confused now, slightly shaken - another expression that just irritates, somehow, but he seems to take your words as some kind of misplaced encouragement. "... Tomorrow."
Closing your eyes, you don't watch him as he leaves. Tomorrow, another attempt from him, and another opportunity for you - and you know what you have to do.
So safe, and nothing to worry about.
You open your eyes, knowing what you have to do.
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