( OPEN ) they say you grow,

[peasant]

CHARACTERS: alina starkov ( peasant )
LOCATION: common room, sunlight room, training room.
DATE: a week or so, post-mission.
CONTENT: catch-all vibes
WARNINGS: none that i can think of atm! will update if/when they occur.

[ all starters will be in comments below, both open and closed! lmk if you want a closed starter via PM or nereids. ]

Comments

☀️ common room, open.

[peasant]

[ it's a week before she emerges from self-imposed hibernation.

when she stumbles into an empty common room, she looks the part. bleary eyes that perpetually squint against the harsh lighting overhead, like she's a mole that's wormed its way above ground after a bleak winter. a ponytail that flops against her face. a pallor from being starved of sunlight, under smog and then layers of blankets.

an overwhelming collection of paints and brushes decorate the table, mashed wherever there's available space. for anyone who happens to stroll into the space, they may find a brush dipped in their half-full mug of tea, or a smudge of paint finding its way onto the dog-eared edge of their book, or a tube of paint to trip on. alina hasn't fared better; the more the minutes tick by, the more she disappears into paint stains, wedged beneath her nails and speckled all over raggedy overalls.

worn almost as openly as her guilt.

the mural above the wall is unmistakable, now: an image of viveca's world, streets alight with neon fixtures, holographic goldfish swimming among them. there's a vivid shine to it that hadn't been there in december, before she had been able to view it through her own eyes. before she'd ever known how much a simple image would mean to viveca.

she works almost tirelessly, almost too determinedly, even with the knowledge that a painting could never make amends. but there's a single-mindedness that blurs out the rest of her perception of the room, until a dot of movement or a sound jars her out of it with a little wide-eyed glance.

then, to whoever has disturbed her out of her trance, she quietly gestures to a blue paint tube popped open and forgotten on the couch cushions. ]

Can you pass that over?

[lateness]

[ Unfortunately for the Doctor, it's one of his mugs that happens to be a victim of Alina's artistic chaos. But no matter! It's the little paint tube that bears more importance right now.

And ah, blue. Yes, of course. His favourite colour. He inspects the little tube for about half a second before passing it over in Alina's direction as directed. ]

It's a bit like being back there.

[ His voice is soft, not spoken with wistful nostalgia of any kind — but it's thoughtful; pensive. He looks at the mural that Alina has recreated of E-23b and thinks that he's come across this image so many times, passing back and forth to get from one part of the station to the next, and he never took it for anything more than an outer-planet city. A lot like ones he'd visited in the past, it had all become something of a blur, really. It's not an uncommon experience for him, it's why he always enjoys seeing everything through someone else's eyes. This mural, this time, is no exception.

He comes to stand beside his little bird now, one hand holding onto his mug of tea with one of Alina's brushes submerged in cooling chamomile, turning the water a milky hue of bluish-greenish yellow. ]

[peasant]

[ she stills almost imperceptibly, thumb hooked over the unscrewed lid. it is a little like stepping back into that world, falling back into neon signs and smoggy skies like a snowglobe frozen at a perfect moment in time.

just as she'd planned.

but now that she has to confront that face, she wonders if she hasn't created an accidental punishment. for her mistakes, for their joined failures — but viveca most of all, already homesick without having to walk by a recreation of the same home they had nearly failed. a prickle of insecurity lodges a bur under her skin, lips slip-sliding around each other as they roll in contemplation. when her thumb comes away, a pinprick of cloudy-blue shines damply on its pad. ]

For better and for worse.

[ her eyes drift back to the swimming circle of goldfish as she absently squeezes liquid out into a paint pot, stirred around with a dollop of white with the end of a stained paintbrush. ]

Maybe it would have been kinder to paint over it.

[ more merciful, at least, to avoid reminding the entirety of the ship what bittersweet endings hold in store. ]

[cruelyethuman]

[It takes him days to shake the feeling of being set apart again. To allow the unsettling knowledge of being othered again settle against all the other insults he's been forced to bear for too many years.

Hours of doing nothing but watch a painted sun shine its weak, winter light through a forest, the note that came with it dogeared from being opened and refolded too many times to count. His fingers brushing carefully over his name penned in her hand. It looks like any other pine tree forest near the Fjerdan border, or from some other alien place that Alina might have imagined when painting this, her eyes and her hands flitting over it to make it perfect. A special brand of magic, not Small Science, slipped in to it and that sunlight is the only light he sees for days.

He isn't hiding, or so he tells himself. He isn't covering in his hole to avoid Viveca and the body he went through so much trouble to secure, only for it to end up in the wrong hands in the end.

Late at night, when everything is quieter, he slips out of the room, allowing the tiny robot to clean it after all this time, to find something to eat. Stomach growling, he doesn't even see her, doesn't notice the shine or the popping colors until she speaks, too focused on pulling food from the cabinet to look around and at the sound of her voice, he stills-

one hand still clutching a container of neon-colored cereal, a carton of milk in the other

as he slowly turns around.]

Give me a moment?

[peasant]

[ the blood in her veins froths and bubbles and turns to icy sludge in her veins all at once. some mistaken part of her brain convinces itself he can't see her if she stills; her arm hangs frozen in the air, her brush a hair's breadth from the mural — a moment locked in time. a moment to consider every mistake that's led to this point, not least of all her misjudgment in believing she could avoid him for long.

circumstance always finds a way to intersect their paths. like a joke from fate itself, entertaining itself with her inability to break free.

she expels a breath, sends out a silent and colorful curse to the cosmos in her mind, and the moment shatters. her arm droops down to her side, paintbrush clicking as it rolls to the ground. abandoned, in favor of relying on herself to fill the request she's unknowingly flung his way. accepting his help with anything turns her stomach sour. ]

Never mind. I'll do it myself, [ she mutters out. the flash of neon tugs on her eyeline — splashing colors too reminiscent of a body-humid room, of a hollow apology at her ear, of basslines hammering down into her ribcage. a night better forgotten, alongside every other midnight hour she's allowed him too many liberties.

( allowed herself the liberties of being a stupid fool. the stupid fool he must think of her as, too, to think she'd never discover his schemes. )

she scarcely spares him more than a fleeting glance, eyelashes tickling up to find his face before her eyes instantly flit away. anything more, and she's not so certain beams won't shoot from her eyeballs to fry him on sight, with too many witnesses to vouch for him.

bare-footed, she trudges over to the paint tube she's left scattered on the coffee table, moving to snatch it off a precariously stacked pile of supplies. that's all it takes for the rest to come tumbling down, raining down onto the floor and rolling in separate directions. she grits out a swear underneath her breath, already bending to the floor to try to gather them back up. ]

[cruelyethuman]

[Unsurprising, Alina turns his offer down. Dangles her question before him, only to snatch it away as soon as he takes half a step in her direction. She's still going through the motions of setting the bait, trailing it in her wake to lure him in and stepping away as soon as it works. As soon as he takes it.

Forever left stumbling after her, feet braced against the the moving and unsteady ground that she leads them across.

She doesn't look like a saint here. Paint on her face, her hands stained with it and with the splatters of it on her feet from the dropped brush, dragging it over the floor to mark the path she takes to her supplies.

Bright footsteps on white tile.

Eyes dropping away from her face as soon as her refusal comes, gaze focused on a point just over her shoulder.

There is no reason why he should feel anything watching her face, the vague Shu features of her brown eyes or the fact that she looks so painfully human to him now. The broken pieces of what they could have been scraping at his raw insides, curling like barbed wire around the coiling tether.

No reason at all.

Salvation wasn't the mission, and neither was sparing bloodshed. Just the orbs, and getting what he asked for when the voice spoke so softly in his ears more than a year ago.

Throat bobbing, he swallows hard.]

Of course.

[Delayed just enough for it to almost drown in the cacophony of noise from her pile crashing to the floor.

Without a word, he sets the cereal down on the counter, walking slowly towards the mess on the floor and unlike her ungraceful bend, he sinks to his knees, gathering her supplies in careful stacks before returning them to the table.]

[peasant]

[ her fingers flex around the wooden cylinder of a colored pencil, recovered from rolling under the shadow of a table. she slaps it down with more force than necessary, resonating through the room with a metallic clink until whatever peaceful atmosphere she'd welcomed into the room flees from the sound of that outrage.

it's more than infuriating, watching him carry on his charade as though stepping into the well-worn costume of a helpful hero. an insult to her intelligence, more so. either he's bold enough to believe she'll show him gratitude, drawn into his own deluded daydream, or he'd never thought her wise enough to stumble across the remains of his failed plans. a creature he could keep naive and innocent to the same crimes he commits, time and time again.

perhaps that's all he's ever seen her as, in the end, even when time has proven differently of her nature. around the table's edge, her fingers curl into biting claws. ]

Don't pause your busy day on my account.

[ she doesn't bother to hide the snippy bark to it, despite how it tramples on any half-formed plans she'd had for easing the information from him. leaking it out like a drippy faucet, before he had time to realize his secrets have spilled over into her hands. if she can't trick it out of him, then — cornering him into a confrontation is just as likely to bleed a confession. to dare him to spit in her face with a lie.

with the sharp point of arrowheads, her impatient glare rounds on him. ]

Shouldn't you be preoccupied with scheming more schemes? Or has plotting someone's death already lost your interest?

[cruelyethuman]

[Vitriol it is, then. Her hostility simmering just under the surface of her voice until it spills in to the room, angry-red and boiling. Another way to burn him, he thinks, to carve new words in to his skin. To place blame that lingers, on him.

The piles he's gathered so carefully, are on the table in neat stacks.]

I was hungry.

[Rising slowly, to stare down in to the banked heat of hatred on her perfect face. Watching her in glimpses, tiny jerks of his gaze from the wall to those expressive eyes. To the sour line of her mouth turned down at the corners]

Scheming takes a lot of energy.

[Ah- there it is. The blatant acknowledgement that she knows, or know enough to make a guess and Aleksander's eyes snap to hers for a second.

A long second as he picks up his discarded cereal, long fingers folding around the rough cardboard box and the idiotic instructions on the back of it.

His smile turns from polite and distant in to something a little more personal before he turns away, finding a bowl and a spoon. The clank of the cereal hitting the plastic echoes in the quiet.

Perhaps it should have made a crunch instead, to be more suited for the mood in the room. The shattering and bleeding cut she delivers so carelessly.]

Well- [he pours something that he knows is lying about being milk on to the cereal, it crackles and pops faintly under the too-transparent liquid.] I didn't really plan it. My mistake, I suppose.

Your painting. It looks lovely.

[peasant]

[ she snorts, a sardonic sound. the lack of shame is hardly new, but the careless admission is. ]

You're not even going to bother to try to deny it? How bold you've grown.

[ he might as well be a free man walking, for all that he fails to wriggle in the web she's trapped him in. that casualness rankles her — the ease of a man discussing attempted murder as though it's as commonplace as the weather, as expected as a blue sky above their heads.

the least he could offer is contrition, when faced with a saint's wrath.

alina pops back onto her feet to trudge after him, blowing out a steaming breath. one would think he's the spider and she's the fly, with the silken ease he slips away. she has the irritating impression that he must think her more insignificant than a buzzing insect swarming him, a microscopic threat to be brushed off. a child pitching a tantrum he can pacify with a distraction. undeterred, she lingers near the counter, sharp edge pinching into her hip. ]

I suppose it's not so easy for you to get your dirty work done when you have no underlings to order about.

[ she smiles, the sarcastic glint of pearly teeth peeking through. it takes concentrated effort to curl her fingers into fists to resist the urge to slap the cereal bowl out of his hand at his smile, how he treats her as a non-threat — and even greater willpower to bracket her arms across her chest to further starve the impulse. but at least she has the satisfaction of rubbing salt into the wound when she continues, ]

Still plotting revenge against Viveca for your next act? Because the last attempt went so well for you.

[cruelyethuman]

[He spoons food in to his mouth, stalling as the stale cereal crunches between his teeth. He learned fast that eating it slowly only allowed it to soak up more of the not-milk, letting it grow soggy and strangely mushy in his mouth.

No, fast was better.

For a lot of things.

But not for Alina, and her words are mostly just a rush of angry emotions that washes over him as he tries, and fails, to not watch her every move. The swish of her hips, the trembling fists and how lovely she looks with her arms crossed. How well she wears her anger and her pettiness.

He waits for the echoing anger to ring through him, for a reaction. For his own blistering emotions to rise to the surface, to yell back. To defend himself or for him to simply walk away.]

That's really not what underlings are for, though. [Swallowing hard, spoon rattling in the bowl in his hands.] I've always done my own- dirty work.

[If only the tether wasn't a live thing, writhing inside his chest. If only he wasn't too wrapped up in watching her, drinking in her face after being deprived of it for so long. A self-imposed restriction, sure, but that didn't make the longing any less. It didn't cool the flames of something warm and alive and human inside his heart.]

Why would I want revenge, when she was kind? For what I did, she could have tossed me in the airlock. Or sent me home, regret unfulfilled. She could have offered all of my Small Science to the orbs for them to feed on. No, I don't want revenge.

[He wanted something to hold over Viveca, a physical gesture of his own kindness. To hear her acknowledge that she needed something from him, after her speech by his bedside.

He wanted many, impossible, things and there would be another chance. There would be something else Viv might want, and he would try. Again. To get there first, only to watch her thank him for it after.

Gratitude.

But there's no reason to explain this to Alina, who looks like every disgruntled Sankta he's had the misfortune to meet face-to-face. The same smug note of 'I told you so' that he finds so very grating to his soul.

He should leave, let the cereal grow soggy and disgusting in its bowl and head out. Away from here, and away from Alina's too attentive gaze. Away from the heat of her wrath and the spiteful words she wants to spew all over him.

Aleksander takes another bite, chewing slowly.]

She could have made this much worse. [A blink, another bite] But you didn't know that part of it, did you.

[peasant]

[ she laughs, fermented with bitterness. the angry red welts bitten into her collarbone beg to differ — the skin around the puncture of her antlers ridged, like the body itself had made an attempt to reject it. fought against the infection of a foreign invader. ]

David would argue otherwise. You always have had a habit of relying on someone else's talent.

[ not only a fabrikator dirtying his hands with a cursed object, but her own — the curative to wipe out his past blemishes. revitalize his own power, rather than repent for its misuse. her chin lifts, a stubborn set to her jaw that belies nothing. ]

I know plenty. More than you could begin to imagine, in fact. You were quite talkative when you weren't in your right mind.

[ where she expects revulsion at herself, adopting his tactics and twisting them for her own use, there's hardly a sting of shame. he'd done his best to lead her astray, toss her from the scent of his plans; it's only retribution to prey on his naivety the same, to try to convince him to believe his drug-fueled stint had led to him tattling on himself. and, beyond that — protection for kovacs and viveca, if he chooses to lay the blame for alina's awareness at their feet.

idly, she flicks lint at her shoulder, unperturbed by dropping that bomb — like it should come as no surprise to him that whatever he had ingested in that club would betray him. ]

It's like I've already said. You thought you had to chance to have leverage over Viveca now that she has power over your summoning.

You were wrong to think that would ever happen, but you are right about one thing. Your punishment was far too merciful for what you tried to do to Newt.

[cruelyethuman]

-- what?

[Because he remembers that night. Vaguely. Remembers Alina's slick dress, the sensation of leather or vinyl under his sweaty hands. He remembers the weight of her in his arms, of happiness. So pure and so huge it took his breath away. He remembers music, and Alina's hair brushing his face.

The spoon hovers just above the bowl as his eyes flicks to hers, catching and holding hers.

Remembers the taste of glitter and the shell of her ear. Remembers... everything else is drowning in the happiness. In the glittering shower of tasting the thrumming bass-line and watching the colors of conversation swirling in the air around them.]

I didn't.

[Did he, though? How loose would his tongue get, with Alina warm and breathing in his embrace? How much would he be willing to disclose if it meant having her for just a moment longer, if he could postpone the end for even another second?

Would he admit to anything, do anything, for this weakness that seemed to have no cure. And the most frightening moment comes, when he can't answer any of those questions.

Not even to himself.

Can only watch Alina, glowing and gloating, the ancient antlers embedded in her flesh and how that too, had been a mistake. A miscalculation. That all the projections and equations had been wrong about that, too.]

That's not what she did. [Setting the bowl back down, he twists his fingers together and shadows pour in to his cupped hands.] That's not my punishment. I am still the Shadow Summoner.

[But he wasn't, was he? When there was a line drawn now, a fence built that he couldn't climb or talk his way around. A limit, to the limitlessness.

She's still breathtaking, still too captivating. The harshness in her voice does nothing to quell the fire that burns so hot in the back of his throat, the flames that feel as if they'll burn him alive if he doesn't find a way to make it stop.

The lows he was still willing to sink to, to please her.

The shadows bleed out of his hands as they close to fists, hanging in the air between them.]

And what should my punishment have been, Alina, what would please you?

[peasant]

[ his gaze hooks on hers in a way that forces alina to wonder if he's hoping to bait the truth out of her eyes, lure out her bold-faced lie. there's no revealing flinch that follows from her, no telling aversion of her stare. it holds steady, locked in the horns of his own. passively, she cocks an eyebrow in time with the tilt of her head, as though daring him to deny it once again. ]

Your lips were looser than you'd expect.

[ she leaves it at that. just a little seed to cultivate his doubt, not unlike the half-truths he's nurtured for her — always so careful with his phrasing, letting her own assumptions bloom. perhaps he's overdue for a reminder that she's an apt study of all his techniques, alina thinks. ]

You're a toothless Shadow Summoner. Defanged. Neutered. Hardly a threat at all now.

[ it's a shot in the dark, truly, but if his summoning can still pour into his hands — there has to be some drawback to the bracelet strapped around one wrist. some cage that viveca has built. and with aleksander posing such a clear threat — she doubts viveca would allow him to wield it as he pleases, without restrictions.

her stare remains a heavy, boring weight where it drills into his, watching and waiting to measure whether she's hit the mark. ]

If you go near Newt again, you'll find out what punishment I'd find fitting. I would choose something you'd hate the most. Maybe I'd have to ask Viveca to give control of your summoning to someone else, if you're a threat that can't be trusted with it.

[ the way you did the same to me, she doesn't need to say. it goes unspoken, a lingering grudge she can't forget. can't forgive. the thought of that revenge feels as stomach-churning as it is justified — a cycle of emotion that only feeds into the nausea she feels toward her own taste for ruthlessness.

but pleased by the thought? hardly. she isn't the monster he so often tries to make her feel she is. the part of her he makes her question above all else. her face betrays none of it — just a mocking pinch to an indignant, unimpressed scowl as she leans forward, planting a palm flat against the counter. ]

That would be poetic, wouldn't it? What do you think? Do you need me to be your assigned nanny, Sasha?

[cruelyethuman]

And I told you about Newton.

[The possibility was there, right there, always so close to the surface, to let all of his secrets spill out in to her lap. To explain himself, to get her to simple see what they could have been. What they should have been, had time been kinder.

Explain and let her see the truth, finally, and how it was so very different from the stories she grew up believing in. The lies and the obfuscation that hid his intentions for centuries. That painted him in the most unkind light, to raise up the king and his cruel treatment of their people.

Which leaves... how far would he fall, when he wasn't in his right mind?]

I told you about Viveca.

[But would he give up the last piece of her that he still believed that he held? The part of her that might be able to believe in him, despite everything.

Would he have given up hope, when faced with so much undiluted joy?]

I'm already near Newton. He had a shop, did you know that. A quaint little place, he fit right in with all of his bits and bobs laying around.

[A challenge, to her unshaken belief. The assertion that he might ever be harmless.

They're already standing so close, separated by the width of the kitchen counter and the bowl of ruined breakfast cereal between them. Her hand against the whiteness, and his own braced on his own corner of the same, the scarring on the back of his hand less pronounced than it was a year ago.

And she's still achingly beautiful, the hook inside of his still painful and so wanted - so much weakness, but like calls to like.]

If all you want is to control me, [The flirtatious smile that stretches his mouth feels fake, a distraction.] there are much better ways, lapushka.

[Pride flushes him, that she would even suggest it. That she might even want it, even if it would never come to pass. The strain of ruthlessness that he knew was in her, to take want she wanted without asking. To stop trying to hide all of the things that she were, to take power.

To want it

For all of the weakness that that wanting would bring.] You should know by now that I only want you willing.

[peasant]

You make yourself sound like a dog, [ she quips, drily unimpressed. ] Shall I tell you to heel and roll over?

[ the line of her mouth grows grim. he might very well be the embodiment of the saying you can't teach an old dog new tricks, only — you can't teach the black heretic not to unrepentantly murder. no amount of offering treats from her hand for him to lap up, as he seems to imply, could train him to obey.

she would be a fool to seize upon that offer. a greater fool might; alina has little trouble envisioning the sheets he's crawled between — grisha soldiers made to be as devout as zoya when they're obeying him in the battlefield of his bed, lords and ladies that mistake the hunger in his smile for charm. anyone and everyone who hadn't known better.

she's certain it's the same wolfish grin that carves itself into his marbled face now, a man aware of the sculpture he makes, like a saint fallen from grace. darkly dangerous. willing to sharpen every last weapon in his arsenal — the slice of his cheekbones included. she refuses to let her eyes stray further than his own, resists the lure of falling back into that trap. no matter what he may have her belief, there is no controlling him. there is no leash she could place on him that he would not test the limitations of.

something sharpens in her eyes, flint in contrast to the spark he's trying to kindle. drawing an invitation to his bed, instead, in what alina suspects is some vain hope she'll forget his transgression. release this bit of information she's chewing on relentlessly, like a dog gnawing at a bone. fat chance, she scoffs in her head.

slowly, with every ounce of impatience boiling in her small body, ]

In case you've grown hard of hearing in your old age, I'll tell you again: what I want is for you to stay away from him.

[cruelyethuman]

Well-- you could certainly try.

[With all of his feigned and earned arrogance, fingers drumming on the table, he leans forward a little. Not enough to get close, no. Nowhere near as close to her as he wants to be, as the tether begs him to be - that connection that only left him alone on the train. And even then, he was still drawn to her.

Perhaps it would always be like this.

This insatiable thirst for her, for any part of her even her anger. Even her impatience and the stern little line between her eyebrows.]

Try it and see what that might get you.

[That still leaves the question of how much he told her, how much of himself he gave away for free on an electric dancefloor on a distant world.

Because Aleksander bends, where the Black General breaks. It weaker, when it comes to her and wasn't that who he was- who he would always be with her, Aleksander?]

You give orders so easily. What else did I tell you, Alina. Did I manage to finally tell you what I think about at night?

[peasant]

[ drolly, ] I'm sure your dreams are adequately filled with bloodshed. Really unimaginative, if you ask me.

[ a seat on a throne reserved for him. nations bowed at his feet. no boundaries for grisha power. she can picture the malformed shapes his dreams must take as vividly as she can envision him hanging from the metal rafters like an infestation of bats. it's a ridiculously fitting and macabre image of the black heretic in her mind's eye, unable to even dream dreams like the average ravkan, lacing the vital human component needed for it.

the threats certainly do nothing to help that impression along.

she snorts at the portrait she's mentally painted, gusting out of her nostrils with a dismissive air. her feet root themselves more solidly into the flooring at his advancing lean forward, a stalwart pillar that refuses to be pushed. she won't give him the luxury of the upper hand, nor the victory, in trying to chase her off his trail.

to say nothing of the childish impulse stamping its feet inside of her, as petulant as a toddler licking a dessert to claim it as their own. i was here first, she thinks loudly, sullenly. he has no right to drive her from a room he had invaded. her fingers clamp more harshly around the counter, staking that territory. ]

The not knowing what you must've confessed to — it must drive you mad. Why would I tell you anything when I can watch you wonder?

[ if fate has any sense of justice, he'll exist in the same limbo she had. left in the dark, never knowing; freeing him from that prison is too merciful, even for a saint. ]

[cruelyethuman]

[At least he had been able to keep some secrets from her, then. The ones closest to his heart. The personal ones.

What he tried to do to the murdering aliens inside of Newton, had only been personal because it involved Alina. Indifferent to the suffering of anyone else but her, they were all dust. They would all fall and fail, dying either here on missions or back in their own little worlds.

Alina was eternal, as he was.

She was like him, when no one and nothing else in the existence of their world could ever come close. The connection they shared, mythical and unheard of, and the balance that existed between them.

Light and darkness.]

Call me many things, but I have never lacked imagination.

[Tortured as it might be. As horrendous as she might find it, it was there all the same. Painting vivid images in the back of his mind, it seeped in to his dreams and colored his vision with all the prismed colors of the sunrise.

The counter isn't worth a fight, backing down as she steps up, knuckles white as she clenches around the edge of it. A step back, a half-turn, to find something to eat that doesn't taste like wet paper, but keeping an eye on her.

Around the line of the cupboard, he can still see the slope of her shoulders, the tight line of her mouth.]

You want me to suffer. [Hand closing around another cardboard box, this one rattling with the crackers inside.] How very-- cruel of you, Alina.

[As if her words don't cut deep, slicing right through his masks and his excuses and down to the painful quick of his soul. As he doesn't care, isn't weak for her in all the ways he always dreaded to be weak. The weakness that must have been what his mother meant, all those years ago and in all the years in between, the weakness that shouldn't be there- but is was.

Now.]

I've never been mad before, it might a nice change of pace.

[peasant]

All you are is mad ambition let loose.

[ spinning its wheels, weaving threads as though he believes himself to be the hand of destiny. that's the folly of ambitious men, alina has found; they all believe themselves to be righteous martyrs when they're merely madmen dressed up in the costume of a savior.

if that isn't a demonstratable sign of his insanity, she isn't so certain what is.

her claws slip from the countertop the moment his back is turned toward her, carrying an air of arrogance so bold she has to wonder if he's aware of his posturing. showing his spine like he's unafraid of having a knife plunged into it, removing his gaze from her as though she doesn't pose a threat. she can't determine which chafes more, in the end. only knows it's an injustice that he thinks himself so safe in her presence when he's the reason she looks twice at shadows, questions the intentions of anyone that toes too closely to her, glances over her shoulder in empty rooms to be sure there isn't a fresh betrayal ready to creep up on her.

for no other reason than pettiness, she lifts his abandoned bowl and dumps the contents onto the floor. it oozes together, forming a soggy puddle she steps away from. you're the reason i've become cruel, she does not say; he doesn't deserve even that horrible accolade. there's no part of her that will ever credit him for what she is.

instead, she scoffs out into the room, snatching a paintbrush on the way back to her mural. ]

Don't speak to me of cruelty. There's only one murderer in this room, and it isn't me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4CRikRJxNe4

[cruelyethuman]

[There is no answer to her mindless accusations. No new ones, at least. They have been over this, again and again, going in circles around the same topic of conversation. How many lives would it take?

How many fates were an acceptable loss?

Was it fair, to sacrifice one life to save a thousand? A million? How about all of them, the safety and the promise of a life lived free for every Grisha alive and all the ones who could be born with a future brighter than the ones dealt to them?

Watching her from behind the open cupboard door, the tense lines of her.

The vibrating pulse at the base of her throat, the pale line that he remembers the taste of, her life fluttering against his tongue.]

When you are ready to listen, I am more than willing to discus this.

[With you, always with you.

A chance to explain himself and the reasons that made so much sense four hundred years ago. About the stories told to a small boy, who listened too well and who learned too fast about the balance of the world and how to look in to the Making at the Heart of the World.

The rules that applied back then and the grief that tore him apart.

He should have - could have, should have, would have. Chances wasted, as he lost himself in her - asked more questions about how she saw the world.

Eyebrow raised as she makes a mess.

A suitable metaphor.

When she walks away, his gaze burning across her back, watching. Always watching, the sway of her hips, the tilt of her head and the tight clench of her fingers around the brush- he closes the cupboard with a quiet snick.

As if it had even been a question about what he would do, when he sinks to his knees, a wrung-out piece of cloth in his hand as he cleans her mess.

Again.

Wiping the floor until it shines, a gleaming spot that fades in to the rest of the clean floor. Unnoticeable unless you knew where to look.]

I am more than what you accuse me of.

[peasant]

[ the darkling's shuffling becomes distant noise. an insistent reminder that he's still here in this room, occupying space; that he's still here in her presence, overstaying his welcome. where it demands her attention, alina refuses to feed the impulse. lets it starve as her head locks in place, eyes singularly trained on the blend of colors melting into the skyline of her mural. ]

So you can give me whatever speech you've rehearsed inside of your head? All of the reasons you've come up with to justify yourself, once your secret came out?

[ her mouth slants to one side, the closed-mouth start of a sneer. that's all the acknowledgment she feels that offer deserves when he's chosen to treat her as a misbehaving child in need of a lecture. as though she's the unreasonable one in their equation of two, when not so long ago he was transporting an empty husk of mechanical parts in the name of some absurd scheme. ]

[ tightly, ] I'll pass. There's nothing you could say that would make me agree with what you've done.

[ she has to rebalance her grip to ensure she isn't stabbing at the lines she's already drawn with such care. with a tight frown, she wipes her brush off on a nearby cloth, investing her time in remixing a new color instead. ]

A snake's scales can come in many colors, but it's still a snake by nature. Just like a murderer is still a murderer.

[cruelyethuman]

I was a murderer since before you met me.

[For many reasons.

Most of them good ones.

But he tears his gaze away from her body, from the hand painting lights on the wall and the smear of paint against the leg of her pants.

From all the little details that make her so--

her.

The confidence that slips from her grip and paints itself on the wall for everyone to see. The vivid colors of a world they all left behind.]

You saw the first one, Alina. [The memory by the shore of a freezing lake. The blood of children staining the dirt he had been kneeling in. Streaks of blood coating his hair, and his own desperate voice in dark.

There is still food to be had and the near-quiet clicks of cabinets opening as he searches for--

something sweet.

Something to smear frosting on back in his room to rid himself of the can, hidden underneath his bed.]

Of course you wouldn't agree. You, who would rather die than make the hard choices. You, who runs away when you are desperately needed. Why are you so afraid to be seen.

[By me

Voice softening, as if he's talking to himself more than he's talking to her, coming back out of a cupboard with a roll of cookie dough in hand.

But that would be a lie. He had seen her, had seen all of her. Had held her tight as the many moons rose to the apex of the alien sky and still he wanted more.

He wanted

This weakness. This gaping hole in his chest that wouldn't stop leaking emotions, all of these messy emotions that should be gone by now. Should have been burned away eons ago, leaving nothing but ruthlessness and efficiency.

But watching her back, how she turned from him as easily...]

And what does that make you, Alina Starkov?

[Stepping away and out of the kitchen, prize held in a firm grip and the dough smushes between his clenched fingers.]

[peasant]

[ there's no point in a truth he easily rejects, tossed away with the rest of the mess she'd poured onto the floor: he has never once seen her. if he'd looked beyond the picture of what he believes she should be, the woman he hopes to mold her into through persistence and deceit, he'd have known he was clinging to a delusion of his own making.

she doesn't rise to the bait in defense of herself, ignoring the one-sided spat he seems to be having with his own thoughts as she overlaps her brushstrokes. only when he's begun to usher himself out, scampering back to whatever hidey hole he'll create for himself, does she choose to do him the irritation of having the last word by calling out, ]

It makes me better than a monster who can't admit he's the biggest coward of us all.

[ it echoes after his fleeing form, unshaken by his accusations. staunchly convicted. the time for that particular brand of self-doubt has come and passed, no matter how he tries to infect her with it anew. she may be no hero, may be no saint, but she's better than whatever he has chosen to be. ]

[romancekiller]

[clarke has seen the mural that alina had painted on the wall too many times to count before, whether it was as she passed through the common room or from the times she was also preoccupied helping or doing some painting and drawing of her own, but this it hit a little differently knowing it was viveca's world— the same world of their previous mission.

she is all too familiar with the chaos of the art supplies scattered throughout the room as she navigates through it in search of where alina happens to gesture. she easily picks up the blue paint tube as she approaches to hand it over and eventually settle to stand next to her friend while admiring the image, the likeness of it was captured perfectly that it almost feels like being on the planet itself] It's a bit surreal, isn't it? Knowing we were just back there.

[peasant]

I must've looked at it a thousand times.

[ until the colors bled into her eyesight. until she knew, by heart, how many goldfish floated through the skies. until she could trace the contours of it through memory alone, whittling hours away in the common room. and never had it once occurred to her that viveca's request might be layered with a sentiment and meaning she hadn't seen, no matter how many times she studied it.

she flips the tube of paint over in her hands, fiddling with its silvery cap. a pensive line scrunches her mouth together as she stares it down now, looking for any obvious clue to a puzzle she hadn't known was a puzzle at all. ]

Going there ourselves ... It felt like being in a dream you've had before, but couldn't remember.