multiversallogs | 006; CLOSED. i'm not losing this time.

Entry tags:

006; CLOSED. i'm not losing this time.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik and John Mitchell.
What: Hasi's undercover work comes to a near-fatal end.
Where: Mafaton.
When: Veerdi.
Notes:
Warnings: References to sexual activity, uh, drowning, some violence.

Every day is a balancing act, but she's accustomed to as much. She thinks about if she's let herself get complacent, and then recognizes that fretting about it probably means she hasn't. She sees Ilde at the river, worries about her, checks the Network, considers the implications of what she's learned about the Militia, and she thinks to herself that the longer you look at anything, a city included, the more complex it's going to appear. When she goes to see Sandor down in the docklands, dressed the way he likes (in white, today), she's more confident than she was at first, even if she was always good at faking it. By now she knows that he trusts her, maybe even loves her in that shallow, territorial way men usually love her, but that doesn't mean that for some men loving a woman isn't always a test of their fidelity, their honesty. Hyde taught her that.

She kisses him like she means it, sits on his knee, plays what increasingly feels like the trophy girlfriend. It's all pretty seamless, until she feels the prickle of something harsh and energy-sucking at the back of her mind. When she turns her head, someone's lit three huge votives of witchbane, toxic smoke pouring off them faster than should be possible.

It probably wasn't meant to be a test. The betrayal in Zendak's eyes suggests he wasn't expecting her to freeze up, but someone tipped him off to the existence of the effect that rowan can have on certain kinds of witches (but who, that's what she wants to know, no one should know about that--) and it just happened to be lit around the knockout actress he'd been fucking for the past few months. And now he knows. The effects are instantaneous. Unlike virtually every other witch cognizant of the effect witchbane can have on their abilities, she's used it deliberately before in small doses to temper the crushing weight of her power, and has built up a slight resistance, but it's not enough to save her now.

Things go kind of hazy after that.

She remembers lots and lots questions, and being cut, and then slapped in the face, and even through she was half-sick, her very soul being sunk down under the weight of poison, she looked at him with the flattest expression imaginable. ("You can't torture a masochist, stupid." The last word was implied, but audible.)

So they don't torture the masochist. They don't really know what to do with a faqra, and furthermore, Sandor hasn't called anyone, which would be the logical thing. He's not thinking about logic; he's thinking with his heart, and the fact that she betrayed him.

She remembers they tied her to a chair, dragged her out to the waterfront edge of the warehouse, and when they released her binds, Sandor looked her in the eyes before pushing her back into the ocean. She remembers being grateful that her CiD went tumbling in after her, and that meant they couldn't access it. She's always been a strong swimmer, but her body is weak and her powers, bar the ones that would have let her pull the soul out of the man she just betrayed, were even less potent.

Things go from hazy to dark.

She does not remember how she gets to Mafaton, in her white dress and no shoes.

She just turns up at Mitchell's door, knees trembling, the look on her face blankly inscrutable. Hasi has no idea what she'll do if he isn't home. Wait, she supposes, since trying to walk again threatens to leave her helpless and crumbling to the ground, and she'd rather die than let anyone see her unable to stand on her own two feet.

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Unless Deacon needs him to run errands during the day when other vampires usually can't be out and about, most of Mitchell's work takes place at night. That means he's at home when Hasibe turns up on his doorstep, although he's not expecting anyone. There's a brief spy through the eyeglass, followed by the sound of the chain being frantically taken off and the door wrenched open.

He gapes at her slightly; it's as if the emotions within him are fighting between themselves as to which one will present itself first. Concern wins out, and he manages a small, "Hasi...?" with arms already open to accept her.

Edited 2012-01-13 19:44 (UTC)

She can't quite muster the usual bracing I'm fine smile, the starlet grin that is devised to deter people from even thinking she's ever sad about anything. Hasi meets Mitchell's eyes, albeit unsteadily, and says, voice rough like she's got a throat rubbed raw with saltwater (which is about accurate), "I'm done. Sandor knows."

A pause.

"I'd like to come in, but I'm afraid to move."

She also really hates trying to speak right now, as her inhuman physiology combats the impact of what she's just experienced, but it seems necessary to try.

He leaves the door frame and goes to her side, one arm going around her shoulders and the other out to steady. "Come in. Come on, now..." It's said gently and, if her legs do give out, he has absolutely no problem with carrying her inside.

He doesn't precisely ignore the reason why Hasi's like this, but he pushes it aside for now. He's much more preoccupied with her safety and comfort. Later will be a different story, because the more time Mitchell has to think over things, the worse the results are.

He may get the sense she is absolutely forcing herself to keep both feet on the ground, like stumbling would impugn her sense of self somehow. When she makes it to the sofa, though, it is kind of a relief, and somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks she's vaguely grateful she's drier than she was or she'd damage his leather couch.

She's pretty sure Mitchell doesn't care about the couch, but these are the things Hasi thinks about sometimes.

She sits curled up, silent for a while, gazing at her hands. Defeats don't come naturally or easily for her, and it's hard for her to contextualize this as anything else--it was chance for Sandor, but she can't help but think someone planted the witchbane to smoke her out, quite literally. Someone from the outside. It's too coincidental otherwise.

"I lost my CiD," she says, and then coughs a little into one fist, pressing fingertips afterward to her throat. "It's underwater."

He crouches down by her side, smoothing the hair away from her face, then repeating the gesture over and over as his thoughts race. Wetness. Underwater. Witch. Oh God, they tried to--

He exhales shakily through his nose, lips pressed together determinedly. "We'll get you a new one," he says, absently, although he's not quite sure how. He's not sure about anything right now.

No, that's not true. He is very sure he wants to tear someone apart for this, leave them a screaming, bloody mess on a floor, somewhere. But not right now, no, not right now, because Hasi looks so hurt and so fragile. He presses a kiss to her cheek, then murmurs. "Don't move."

As if she was about to go anywhere in a hurry, really.

He zips away from the livingroom for a moment before coming back, arms laden with a large towel, a clean flannel shirt and jogging bottoms and the duvet pulled from his bed. He sets those on the couch next to her then goes to fiddle with the thermometer on the wall. Temperatures may not affect them the same way as they do with humans, but it seems like the right thing to do.

And then he's back by her side, fiddling with something from the bundle. Anything to keep his hands busy and away from their current desire to close around a certain someone's neck.

She manages the shirt, if not the bottoms (even now, it's hard to get her into a pair of trousers, apparently), though the buttons are haphazard and probably done up all wrong. Though cold doesn't really damage her the way it would a human, it's not remiss to be concerned about temperatures--heat is natural for her, welcome, something she's going to miss in the coming week as she gradually wrenches her sense of self and her spiritual presence back out from under the fog of burning, blessed rowan.

Hasibe curls in against his side, grateful for this, even if she can't articulate it yet. It's hard for her mind to stop racing about the technicalities of what she's experienced, the ramifications. She's gotten a lot of intelligence from the Candlelighters, and she may still have a couple of turnable sources of information, but they don't have any spies any more, with Rhade gone and her outed.

"I don't have any powers right now," she tells him. "There's a plant, a drug...it makes me weak. I don't know who told them to use it. They didn't know it'd work on me, but when he found out--he was so angry."

Hasi lifts one trembling hand, holding it flat to experimentally demonstrate said weakness, and when it does, indeed, prove difficult to hold still, she makes a sound caught somewhere between a mirthless half-laugh and frustration. A ring of bruises encircles one of her wrists like a bracelet, contusions in the shape of a man's fingertips.

"I need to tell the others, I need--I can't just be done." Despite what she said earlier. Sitting down and taking care of herself has never been something she's very good at beyond things like perfume and lipstick.

Mitchell makes a 'shh' noise, putting both arms around Hasibe and pressing his face into her hair. His fingers move up and down in what he hopes are small, calming motions. "I'll take care of it."

There's a long, silent pause where he continues to hold her, eyes trying not to drift to the marks on her wrists. At least until the quiet gets too much and he needs to move, needs to speak, to do something again before he starts to contemplate unspeakable things.

"Here's what we're going to do," he says, moving back to look at her squarely. "I'm going to get a pen and paper. We'll sit here, make a list of who needs to be contacted. I can do it, or you can do it, or both of us."

"Then I want you to make another list of things you'll need. I'll go to your flat, pick up some stuff and get Huan. You're staying here for now," and his expression softens as he presses a kiss to her forehead. "But I want you to call one of your girlfriends while I'm away, okay? I don't need to go right now, I just --it needs to be done."

He can be strangely considerate and forward thinking when the mood calls for it.

It's a good plan, and the idea of having something concrete to follow does soothe her, somewhat--she'd been worried about Huan. It strikes her as too petty to believe that Zendak would do something to her dog, but Huan is her protector as much as she is his. Hasi nods, quietly, mulling over the list of who she'll need to contact and what she'll need from her place. (It's a pity she's in no mood to contemplate the humor of Mitchell trying to contend with her walk-in closet.)

"I should take a bath, first," she decides. It's not that she's in any hurry to get near water any time soon, but the heat will be soothing, and she doesn't want saltwater sticking in her hair.

She looks up at Mitchell, golden eyes wide, a little more vulnerable than she likes to be (she's stopped letting it happen so easily after Hyde told her it was when she was the most beautiful, and he wasn't wrong, either, but right now it's not something she can help).

"Will you stay with me?" Sitting at the edge while she's in the bath is normally a more intimate practice than what she's suggesting, but arguably there's a closeness in this, too. People picking up one another when they're wrecked is a sign of something, she'll realize, later--much later.

"Right," he says rather decisively to the first matter. And to the second, more tenderly, "Of course."

Then, "Which one first?" Because while he's handling this well, he's not perfect.

For once, he wishes that he had something to add to the water when the time comes, but maybe that's something he can get later. Yes, later, along with proper groceries and dog food. These are the things he chooses to think about.

She considers her options, and decides an order: "Bath first, then my list of names, then my list of things."

Standing is a little bit of an interesting proposition right now, but she gives it a go, testing her balance. It's not good, and she ends up holding very still, like she doesn't want to give away how weak on her feet she feels (even though right now it's fairly apparent). Hasi exhales, shakily, looking down at the fall of his shirt on her shoulders, making a note of the buttons she did up wrong.

"I'm sorry I'm so..." And she tilts her head, eyes lowering again. That sentence goes unfinished properly. "I just need a bit of time to recover, I think."

"Hey." Both hands go to her shoulders, which is as much a caring gesture as it is making sure she stays upright. "You don't need to apologise to me."

And he begins to carefully steer them towards the bathroom, where he'll seat Hasi on the closed lid of the toilet seat and start running the water for her. For a while, he seems more distracted than usual as he goes about this simple task, before something else occurs to him.

"Are you hurt? I mean...are you hurt anywhere else?" Weakening her powers, the bruises on her wrist --it's odd that he of all people should tip-toe around the subject of sexual violence, but at least that's one thing that can be said in Mitchell's favour. He can be creepy as anything and he's used sex as a lure, but never as a means to physically hurt someone.

He has few standards, but at least he has some.

The question makes her look at him with a certain blankness for a few seconds before she parses what he means, and her eyes widen. Hasi shakes her head, slightly, curling up in on herself at the idea -- it's an uncomfortable thing to have to be asked, though it's not an odd question, considering the power dynamics at play, and considering they don't know what the Candlelighters are capable of doing. Hasi doesn't think Sandor would, but she doesn't really know, does she?

"No. He hit me, tried to cut me a little, but, well." She reaches up to push her hair back away from her face, rueful in a subdued way. "You can't fucking torture a masochist. I told him. So they just threw me in."

Which doesn't entirely have to do with what Mitchell is asking, but she answered the question, and from there on she prefers the segue. The topic is too delicate, too jumpy for her, even three years after Hyde. There's another long silence, as though she hates to even admit this; it's frustrating for her to need help. She's supposed to be the fixer, not the other way around, although Mitchell's words from earlier will ring in her ears for days: I'll take care of it. There's a certain relief in that she can't process right this second.

Finally, she says, "He'll come after me as soon as he knows I'm alive, though, or send someone. I don't know what they'll do."

"He can try." There is a dark look in Mitchell's eyes as he sits gripping the edge of the bath. "I'll get someone local to put up wards. Come to some arrangement with Deacon. If they think they just can walk into this canton and take you, I will tear through them like a fucking force of nature."

It's said so quietly and purposefully. This is not the bluster of the newly recruited, but someone who knows precisely what sort of damage he can do, what kind of body count he can rack up. At their reunion, Ivan had remarked that the Box Tunnel Massacre was a piece of cake compared to Mitchell back in the day.

However, he realises that these are not the words Hasi needs to hear right now, and he shakes himself out of it. A hand goes to rest on her shoulder as he contemplates the feelings surging within him. They don't have anything like the history he had with George or Annie; they are just beginning. And he wonders, idly, if he would go to Hell and back for her, too, if the time ever comes.

(The fact that he's asking himself that means he already knows the answer).

It is not that she's been unaware she goes to bed with monsters, and that this particular monster had a body count that was unprecedented, even by her standards (Hyde had lacked the longevity, to begin), but seeing the calm ruthlessness show its face--

It should frighten her.

It doesn't.

For some reason, some twisted reason in her mind where she responds to violence like it's lifeblood she won't actually take, it's reassuring. She has a hard time raising a hand even in her own self-defense, and although she can manipulate and massage social situations on a level virtually unlike anyone else's, she doesn't know if she can defend herself properly, here. She's gotten in over her head, which is an apt comparison, considering she nearly drowned earlier in the day. Hasi rests her hand on top of his on her shoulder.

"Yeah. He can try," Hasi echoes, rising to move toward the bath. "It might be a good idea. Wards. The arrangement. Not even just because of me, but...in general."

They were planning something, the Candlelighters.

"Consider it done."

He breaks out of that intensity when he sees Hasi moving, shifting away from the bath and doing a little half-spin to look around the bathroom. "I don't know if you need to add some cold or anything." ...back to normal conversation topics, apparently (look, this is Mitchell). "And, um. Shampoo here, shower gel here. And a loofah." One of the plastic mesh puff ones, not the real kind.

"Do you need a hand getting in?" She still looks a little shaky and the last thing either of them need is a concussion on top of things.

"I'm okay," she promises. She probably won't use any of the cosmetic stuff--she just needs the heat, the soak, and to get the saltwater drained out of her hair. Hasi undoes the buttons on the shirt and slips out of the rest of her underwear, sliding into the bath.

It is hot, but that's a good thing for a witch who's meant to have a temperature two or so degrees above normal on a daily basis.

She dips her head back in the water first, closing her eyes, but after a moment being submerged feels like just a little too much too soon--she'll have to do that five-year-old thing of getting her hair wet but not her face. That's okay, she tells herself, ignoring the small surge of panic, forcing it to quell. She's okay now. Hasi sits up with her knees bent, tucked to her chest, so her back and its tattoo are visible, especially after she pushes her wet hair to one side.

"It's too bad," she says, after a silence, giving him a sidelong look, and a ghost of her usual warm smile. "We can't even enjoy this right now."

Her in the bath, him watching. It'd be a nice idea if she weren't fresh off an attempt on her life.

Mitchell watches her carefully regardless. He doesn't want to hover and treat Hasi as though she's suddenly become this fragile being (even though that's what's happened. Sort of), but he can't get rid of the knot in his chest ever since she turned up on his doorstep, no matter how hard he tries.

(Later, perhaps, he'll be able to sort things out and translate these feelings into words.)

For now, he smiles at her remark fondly, allowing himself to slip into their usual banter. "Mmm," and there's a little glance over. "You know, I can see some problems with keeping clothes on if you're going to stay here."

Although it's not said with the usual immediacy. There are a hundred little thoughts swirling around in his mind and, considering what Hasi's been through this today, he's not about to be the one to instigate anything.

"What a tragedy that won't be." She observes his watching her, and tries to feel a little more comfortable with the whole thing--it's not terrible, she tells herself, to be looked after. This is a vulnerability she has to trust someone with, the knowledge that she is mortal and fallible. (It's not the best kept secret in the first place, probably.)

Right now, she's too tired, too weak, to really take this to the physical place she'd like to go, but there's time for that. Crashing here will be an interesting experience, with the two of them in such close proximity.

"You'll end up getting sick of me," she teases, but she does wonder how it will go. Even if it's only for a short time, domesticity, however temporary, has a way of speeding things along between two people.

"Yeah, it's going to be terrible." He slips down to sit next to the bathtub, folding his arms on the edge in order to rest his chin comfortably. "Living with a gorgeous woman. Not having to go across town for sex."

He doesn't say anything about how he enjoys her company and how he's missed having someone to share a place with. There are things he can't admit aloud yet.

"By the way," he says, dipping a hand and trailing his fingers in the water, "do you want anything to eat?" Bathing has been taken care of, but there are other physical needs to be taken into consideration.

"Oh, so having me on demand is your priority here," she teases; it's clearly in jest, but...that might be one of the few perks of this mess she's in, frankly. She tips her head back, trying to unstick her hair a little from her shoulder, since it's damp there.

"Maybe?" Hasi hazards, limply shrugging one shoulder.

"I still feel a little...--I feel like I should eat, but I don't know what I want. When this happens, when I get hurt badly, my body wants to revert to what it's supposed to be, and things like eating become...distant, I suppose." Faqra physiology is unnecessarily complicated, for the record. "I'm still afraid I'm not tethered to the earth, like I'll just...float away if I don't stay tied down."

Mitchell listens looks at her quietly once she's finished talking, as if she might, just might disappear in front of his eyes if he doesn't keep watching. Then he sits up to lean over the water and give her a reaffirming kiss. Although he can't really say whose benefit it's for.

When he breaks away, he stays relatively close. In fact, his folded arms are half-hanging in the bath, threatening to make his sleeves wet. "Well, have a think about it later. Something easy, maybe. Or something that's usually a treat. Name anything you want in this city and it's yours." He means that.

The promise makes her smile for real now, her pale-amber eyes lighting up at the idea; she has no plans (currently) to demand anything extravagant or difficult to acquire, but it's a sweet thing to say. Although, she tells him the truth about that, too: "That's a dangerous thing to say to a girl like me."

Hasibe reaches up to press her (watery, leaving droplets on his skin) fingertips to Mitchell's jawline, leaning forward. She kisses him again, long and thorough enough to leave her, at least, a little breathless when she speaks a second time, smile slighter but present. "But if you want to order in, I won't say no. ...a drink would be nice, too."

It rarely takes long before she veers back to alcohol.

Once they part, he murmurs, "I'll take my chances." All Mitchell needs is an excuse to cause chaos. Sometimes even those rest on shaky ground.

"Luckily, the bar is well stocked." Although by bar, he actually means kitchen cupboard above the sink. "How about I call that Thai place we ordered from last time? Same again?" As if either of those were ordinary quiet nights in. Yes.

She likes the idea, and nods--it's maybe a bit of a thing for them, liquor and takeaways, and she's not sure when they got to the point of having their own rituals developing. Right now it's something Hasi feels grateful for, and she grips the edge of the bath to lift herself up. It takes a bit of balancing, though, and she's bothered about her own sense of weakness.

"I keep being afraid I'll fall asleep," she says, wry. "I shouldn't, though."

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006; CLOSED. i'm not losing this time.

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