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 Posted: Tue Nov 26, 2013 10:39 pm
They wouldn't let him into the room.
Not that he would have wanted to go (he did) or that it would have done much good (it wouldn't), but either way Ian was a mixture of irritation, gratitude, and something else, something else he couldn't (wouldn't) name, something rooted deep within the confines of the heart he tried so hard to keep safe.
Hence the metaphorical barbed wire fence wrapped around it.
It kept running through his mind. If he had gone down there, if he had intervened, would it have made a difference? If he had told him no, you can't, stop that, would he have listened? If he had grabbed his arm, held on tight, and said, it's dangerous, don't go, would that have changed anything at all?
Probably not.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
He paced outside of the room with the moves of an anxiety-ridden cat, tense and stiff, his body refusing to settle. Ian had tried to tell himself that everything would be all right, that nothing was wrong, that things were okay, but that was probably the biggest lie he'd told himself since Patrick's death. And somehow this felt different than Patrick's death, somehow this felt bigger.
No, that wasn't right. Different did not mean bigger, or more important, but it also did not mean smaller or less significant.
Shiloh was neither insignificant nor unimportant.
Ian tried not to think too hard about Shiloh right at the current moment, but since that was what his whole brain was screaming about, his whole body protesting, that was rather difficult. But this was silly, Ian reasoned with himself, it was very silly to keep thinking about someone that no longer existed, because everyone died sooner or later, everyone left eventually, it was only a matter of time before Shiloh -
- before he -
- and then -
The thought(s) remained unfinished.
("Where is he?"
He hadn't bothered to even ask what had happened, since he'd known already, but the tech on duty still gave him the basic rundown. "Kid got into a fight with someone he shouldn't have, it's all over now," he'd said, and Ian had scowled, trying to push past him. "I asked where he was, not an ethics lesson. Where the hell is he?"
The tech gave him a strange look, eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, where is he? He's here, but - "
"Let me see him - " Ian tried to push past him again, but the tech had refused to budge. "Can't yet," he'd said. "We're still cleaning things up, still making sure - "
"Just LET ME IN," Ian snapped, his temper finally getting the best of him, "I want to talk to him, I've gotta make sure he's okay - " But the tech had still stood there, looking at him as though he were stupid (maybe he was). After a moment, he'd shaken his head, not in resignation, but in disbelief, as though he couldn't quite believe that Ian was still there, that he had not caught on to the reason why he wasn't letting him in.
"I don't think he's going to be talking to anyone for a very long time," the tech had said, and he was still shaking his head even as Ian knew what was coming, even when he felt the sickening sweep of anxiety low in his stomach.
"...considering that he's dead.")
Naomi had been keeping suspiciously silent throughout most of the afternoon, but now she spoke, her voice quiet inside of Ian's head, and though she was not entirely gentle, she was not really an unwelcome presence, not now.
{ Ian. }
It was the first time she had called him by name. He stopped pacing (there was now a slightly shinier spot on the terrible, off-white floor where he'd run down some of the tile) and stared instead at the wall, as though it might be able to give him some sort of answers, some sort of clarity. Unfortunately, however, the wall was just a wall, and not a very pretty one at that. Ian sighed.
What, Naomi.
{ Are you unwell? }
What a stupid question, Ian thought. Out loud, he said defiantly, "I'm fine."
Naomi remained unconvinced, which was unsurprising. { That does not sound as though you are 'fine.' Is it because of the pink haired one? }
The 'pink haired one,' Ian thought, suddenly irrationally angry, has a name, and his name is Shiloh.
There was the smallest of pauses; a fragment of a hesitation.
{ His name was Shiloh, you mean. }
He didn't want to admit that. No, that was not true, Shiloh was not a past tense, because a past tense implied that the person whose name that they were discussing was no longer in existence, and wait, hadn't he just said that it was thinking so much about someone no longer in existence, someone who was -
Dead.
The word felt harsh, heavy, black. Ian let it shudder down his throat like taste of a bad bourbon, strong and putrid, and a shiver ran down his spine. He picked up his pacing again, slightly more off kilter than before, his feet stumbling over one another in their haste to move. He twisted the bracelet around his wrist; an almost subconscious gesture, but Naomi was still watching him, still listening.
So many things I could have said to him (You're my favorite person).
{ Ian... }
So many things I should have told him (I'm addicted to the way you look at me).
{ Ian. }
So many ******** things I should have just said (I don't deserve you, but I want you).
{ Ian. }
So many unspoken things (I think I - ).
{ IAN LISTEN TO ME. }
He was still pacing.
What, Naomi. What do you want? To gloat? To tell me that I deserve this, that I should have listened to you all along? A short, bitter laugh escaped his throat, more of a bark than anything else. You were the one who told me to not get distracted, and now look at what's happened. Well, you should be happy now, I won't be distracted by anything anymore.
{ That's not what I was going to say. }
Then what, Ian thought, rather nastily, were you going to say, hm? You've never had anything positive to say about me or my choices in life before, so why start now?
Naomi was silent for a long while, and Ian at first thought he must have finally settled her into silence. He walked back and forth in front of the infirmary doors, every once in a while letting out a small, muttered curse, or shaking his head, or twisting the bracelet again.
Then she said, { I've disapproved of your choices, Ian, but I've never disapproved of you. I know you think me overbearing, but I am your partner. I want what's best for you. }
"Shiloh," said Ian, and his voice was slightly hoarse, a desperate edge to it that galled him. He reeled it back in, his jaw tightening, and said, in a flurry of messy, unintended words that spilled out from the hollow space in his chest, "Shiloh was what was best for me."
Thinking it was possible was one thing. Believing it was another, and admitting it aloud was still another. But even if he'd refuse to admit anything else, even if he downright disapproved of the rest of what his head and his heart was telling him, that small bit of truth - the truth that Shiloh had somehow been keeping him steady, keeping him upright - was enough to make him feel dizzy and lightheaded. Ian stopped pacing, his hands reaching upwards to press his fingers against his temples, press hard until he saw black spots appearing in his line of vision.
Naomi's voice was soft.
{ I know, Ian, I know. }
He shook his head mutely, backing up until his shoulders hit the wall, and he leaned over, half doubled, his hands still pressed on either side of his head. He couldn't listen to this, couldn't bear to hear Naomi's gentle acknowledgement because it meant that she thought Shiloh was really and truly gone (which he wasn't) and Ian couldn't handle that, couldn't handle the fact that she was only saying this because she thought that Shiloh was dead (not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead not dead)
Make up your ******** mind, he thought, or maybe it was some other part of him that wasn't Naomi and wasn't himself; a nagging little conscious to remind him of things he pushed down hidden. You can't have it both ways. Either you admit that he's dead or you lie in stubborn wait for someone that's never going to wake up. That's not how it works, you don't always get what you want.
Or, in your case, you never get what you want.
What do you want?
That was a easy question, too easy.
I want not to feel.
Too bad it wasn't as easy to do. He could see Patrick's face in front of his, that cheerful, carefree smile that melted into one of pain and bittersweet love; and Patrick's face morphed into Shiloh's, bright and happy and laughing that turned into one of stunned realization, of surprise and pain and then nothing at all, disappearing into the black fog of Ian's mind.
He pushed them both aside, hidden beneath the layers, stuffed beneath the rest until nothing but a black void expanded inside of his head, eclipsing out the pain that seemed to reverberate from some part deep inside his chest that he didn't know existed, didn't want to exist.
Ian's hands moved away from his face, pressed against the wall, fingers curling against his palms. I told you from the start, he thought, and closed his eyes. I warned you from the very beginning that I wasn't a very good person. And I was right, wasn't I? I was the one who left you to deal with that ******** monster on your own. I was the one who stood on the side and let it all happen when I could have stepped in and protected you.
Stupid, stupid kid. What the hell were you thinking?
Why the hell didn't you tell me what was going on?
What the hell is wrong with you?
What the hell am I supposed to do without you?
He wasn't crying, not yet, at least, but his face felt hot, feverish, his mind swimming. He stepped back away from the wall and swayed a little where he stood, stumbling, and Naomi made a soft noise of concern that he didn't feel, that he pushed aside in favor of other feelings. Or rather, a lack of feelings, because he wasn't going to feel anything anymore. Booze, that was what he needed. Booze could numb him, drain him of the feelings he couldn't, didn't want, couldn't deal with.
Finn, he thought, as he staggered down the hallway, away from the room, away from Shiloh. Finn will have booze and he won't ask me anything.
Naomi had stopped trying to talk to him.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2013 11:38 am
He'd found the pattern buried in a stack of papers he'd forgotten he'd owned, which was a hassle because the Life Techs had been breathing down his neck, reminding him that these labs were not to be used for personal usage and why were you doing things that were unrelated to research?
It would have taken too much effort to explain that he was only here because he could not and would not be in his room, and when he had come across this paper while sorting through his things for sheer distraction, he had taken it as some sort of terrible, cosmic sign from a universe intent on rubbing his face in the fact that Shiloh was currently not "suffering from personhood" anymore, as he'd once read.
"He's here, yes, but he's dead," was what Ian had managed to weasel out of a lab tech, though this information was all but useless. That, combined with the weary look of resignation on her face as she'd shut the door in his face only served to prove one thing to Ian, just one thing - and that was that in spite of the fact that Shiloh was still here, in a pod, of all things, he was not alive inside of that pod.
So what was the point of keeping him here?
It made no difference to Ian (or at least, that's what he told himself), who had spent another half an hour pacing outside of the room until the floor had run down again and the techs had kicked him out of the hallway for disturbing the peace. After that he'd looked down at the little, crinkled paper he hadn't thrown out and made a decision that wasn't really a decision, but more of a distraction. He'd gone searching for the proper material (read: gone door to door in the Deus dormitories), and though it had taken bargaining some things he wouldn't have normally bargained (such as one of his favorite old teeshirts), in the end he finally managed to get what he needed.
After which he merely stood outside of the pod room and stared blankly at the strands of white, yellow, and blue string that he'd requisitioned for himself and wondered whether they would magically come to life and do their own thing. He'd never made a bracelet in his entire ******** life, how the hell was he supposed to make one now.
Still, it gave him something to do. He pushed open the door to the room.
The pods were vertical, and there were only two of them in here - one, Ian noted, housed the redheaded one that had been the other half of the fight, and Ian ignored this pod entirely after a brief glance, turning his back and stepping towards the other one. Whether Rep was asleep or awake or alive or dead, Ian didn't care, it didn't matter, because the only thing that mattered was the second pod, the one with the pink haired hunter enclosed within it.
Ian wasn't sure he could handle this.
The pod was an odd creation, one that Ian never wanted to set foot in again, and he moved towards it with hesitant steps, his heart thunderous in his chest. It gave off a low humming sound, like a machine, and all of a sudden Ian wanted to leave, wanted to run away and disappear and never come back.
Shiloh's face was pale and still, entirely unmoving. He looked almost peaceful, and Ian might have believed that lie if he hadn't seen everything happen, if his chest didn't feel as though it were going to burst right then and there. He hated this, hated this feeling of anxiety and pain; he'd spent years and years building the wall around his heart and now it felt as though it were crumbling into dust.
Why did you do this to me?
He didn't like the odd stillness of Shiloh's face, which was throwing him off. Where was the bright smile, the laughing eyes that were filled with happiness and a love of life? Where was the sound of his whispers, the gentle cadence of his voice when he told Ian he was being ridiculous?
His feet carried him forward without realizing he was moving, Ian putting a hand on the metal of the pod, which was cool to his touch. His body moved, his head tilted, and Ian pressed his forehead against the glass front, above where Shiloh lay, as though somehow trying to bridge the distance between them would mean that he could hear him.
This isn't fair.
I didn't ask for this, any of this.
I didn't ask for you.
His fingers curled into his palm, his face pale, and for a moment, he nearly lost it, a shudder running through Ian's body, his hand trembling violently where it pressed against the pod. Teeth gritted together, he forced himself back into that space, back into that void where nothing could touch him, keep himself steady and distant.
It doesn't matter (it does matter) it doesn't matter (it does matter) it doesn't matter (it does matter)
Why didn't I save you?
He pulled away from the pod, reeling in a sharp breath, and his face had rearranged itself into a calm one, a facade draping across Ian's features. He took a step back from the pod and looked around the room for a chair, which he found tucked away beneath a small table. Ian dragged it out and over towards where Shiloh's pod was, sitting himself in front of it with one leg crossed over the other.
He pulled out of his pocket a small book, and with it the colored strings and the crumpled piece of paper. Settling down comfortably (or as comfortably as one could get while sitting in a metal folding chair that had seen better days), Ian tucked the edges of the strings beneath a few pages of the book and opened to the first page. The crumpled piece of paper sat atop his knee so that he could see it.
Ian cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
"On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples..."
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