maskormenacelogs | He says he knows me / But I don't know that guy

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He says he knows me / But I don't know that guy

WHO: Miles Edgeworthovich and Ivan Mitchell
WHERE: A seedy run-down hotel on the outskirts of Heropa....by which I mean like a freaking JW Marriott downtown or something, there's a bar in the lobby that serves craft cocktails and you have to pay for both wifi and breakfast, fuck that shit.
WHEN: June 15thish
WHAT: John Mitchell has an itch he needs scratched. (It's guilt.)
WARNINGS: Probably discussion of past murrrrderrrrs.

[Edgeworth arrives first and reserves a room. He nearly leaves the moment after.

He is, truth be told, deeply frightened. He doesn't want to be; more, he doesn't want to admit that he is. But he is frightened by what he's offered to do; more, he is frightened by what might happen. He's afraid he'll destroy Mitchell's mind, his conscience. He's afraid of himself - he, who used this power but a few weeks before out of spite and cruelty to do harm, surely cannot be trusted; surely anyone who would trust him is making a terrible mistake. Surely Mitchell will regret this.

But instead of fleeing, he sits in the lobby. He's awkward sitting there; he looks uncomfortable, even in spite of his best efforts to appear confident and calm. The hotel at least is civilized enough that they have beverages set out in the lobby - a bit of cucumber water, coffee, the like - and so Edgeworth gets himself a cup of chamomile tea to sip, to soothe his frazzled nerves.]

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[It's clear that Mitchell didn't even so much as hear the question Edgeworth asked. There's no truly perceptible change in him: he's not suddenly examining Edgeworth with cold, remorseless eyes; nor is he fighting against his bonds in paroxysms of madness. He doesn't seem suddenly altered. He just seems dazed.

But that's quite the problem. He puts his glasses back on, and sits back in his chair. His face is tense with worry; he crosses his arms across his chest, a firm indication that at the moment, there will be no doing it again.]

Did you hear the question I asked?

[Focus. He can hear the tinge of mistrust in Edgeworth's tone, and he knows that he's said something wrong, that there was some correct answer to give and he did not give it. The feeling of desperation--that twinge of fear at the thought of losing what he needs--it's not unfamiliar. Mitchell swallows, blinks--pushes the back of his wrist over his mouth again and repeats:]

Yeah.

[And then, more normally:] Yeah. I heard. It just feels-- Good. Better.

[He sounds a little more coherent. It's not enough to make Edgeworth relax; after all, he cannot be entirely certain that Mitchell's not just playacting at normalcy. He cannot be certain, either, that Mitchell would not lie to reassure him just to get more of it. But...He has nothing more than the man's word to go on; he's in a position, now, where he must believe his word, because there's no other choice.

And he wants desperately for Mitchell to be all right. Desperately.

So he gives a small nod. He looks down at the bed. He says:]

Then please give me your hands. I'll untie you.

[But Mitchell doesn't offer his hands. He stays quite still, especially still for a man--man, creature, whatever--who was sneering at the suggestion of being tied up not fifteen minutes past.

The urge to have his hands untied is immediate, and so strong a thing he nearly just shoves his bound hands out to Edgeworth as soon as that prompt comes--but he doesn't. Instead, Mitchell stares at him.]

Why?

[It's stupid, how dry his mouth is. Take this fucking freedom, this is what you wanted--but if Edgeworth is unbinding his hands with the intent to let him go, to send him on his way--after just once--]

[Why? Edgeworth looks up, meets Mitchell's eyes with open alarm. What sort of a question is that, why? Oh, God - he fears that he has done harm. Mitchell had been harsh, defiant before; what if Edgeworth has...lobotomized him? Why, as though he'd not demanded his freedom fiercely; why, as though he's cooperative. What if Edgeworth has destroyed his mind, made him subservient - it's not what he feared, but it's something just as bad, just as horrible - God, why did he do this, why did he agree to this, why didn't he study it further, why did he allow himself - No, allow himself nothing, the blame for this is his, all his, not Mitchell's, his - ]

That was...the agreement.

[He looks truly frightened, looking in Mitchell's face. He looks terrified.]

[Overly familiar with looks of terror, Mitchell should not feel compelled to flinch away from Edgeworth. But newly freed of some of his burden of guilt, he feels exactly that, like he's suddenly remembered how to feel that feeling anew. Except there's nothing that could have caused that look, not this time, not from him. He stares back at Edgeworth, regret giving way to plain and wary confusion.]

Yeah--

[The ropes creak when he twists his hands, even though the bite of those bonds aren't so bad. He's had worse.]

But that's it? We're done?

Edited (nitpicking oops) 2014-06-25 15:44 (UTC)

[And Edgeworth stares a moment - and then, all at once, lets out a long breath. Thank god. Thank god, that wasn't about being subservient - that was just about doing what's necessary to get another use of Edgeworth's power. He'd thought -

Well. No matter now. All right. It's fine.

He closes his eyes and sits back. He feels...very tired. But he replies to Mitchell without further comment upon that moment of misunderstanding.]

Was that not sufficient to alleviate your feelings?

[The weariness is plain on Edgeworth's face, almost like whatever guilt he took from Mitchell has been converted and rerouted and placed onto him instead, in some way. But the greed for that feeling prevents Mitchell from feeling anything more than a hair of misgiving; he laughs, and shakes his head.]

D'you know how long I've been at this? Nearly a hundred years now. That's just scratching the surface, of all the shit I've got.

[That sarcasm doesn't laugh, as a shadow crosses over his face once more--there, and then gone, shrugged off as best he can, but it lingers in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Guilt is so quick to ebb back in, to try and get a hold of him again.]

Please. Just-- once more, for now.

[He hesitates. He ought to say No, oughtn't he? Just to demonstrate that he is in control in this relationship. He knows already that this will be beyond problematic; he knows already that this will turn into Mitchell calling him in the middle of the night, or showing up at his workplace, or something of the sort. He ought to say no, right now, right from the very start, to demonstrate that there will be boundaries.

But that doesn't feel like making boundaries. That feels like denying food to a man starving in the street. So, after a quiet moment, he says:]

All right.

[He swallows.]

Give me your hands.

[He's quick to present his hands, twisting them in their ropes again so Edgeworth can get at them. Will it matter, that he's still got his gloves on? Does it have to be skin, or will it work just like this? But he's too eager to ask, and Edgeworth might not even know, and all of this will take time, seconds passing where he could be getting back some of that feeling of relief.

Because already it's fading. In an hour, he'll be able to remember that he had the feeling, once, but the feeling itself will be hard to place, like trying to remember the taste of stew someone made for you a hundred years ago.

So: needy, eager, he waits.]

[But he'll have to wait just a little bit longer: Edgeworth's intention isn't using his ability, but instead untying Mitchell. And - unsurprisingly, knowing Edgeworth - he's clumsy and awkward about it. He's better at untangling knots than tying them, since the latter takes more skill and the former more patience (and God knows he has more patience than skill, most of the time); but it still takes time. He works for a while before the ropes even loosen.]

[Oh my God, Mitchell thinks, dully--and he actually laughs, as Edgeworth fumbles through the knots.]

You're fucking ridiculous.

[--But he's not going to turn down the opportunity to be free, so he sits through it, with all the patience he can muster. It isn't very much, truthfully.]

The other way. Pull it the other way. That undoes it. Jesus...

[But, finally, the bonds come loose, and Mitchell sets to rubbing at his wrists. It's a reflex, really--there's not any actual blood flow that's been cut off, and the ropes were never that tight anyways.]

I don't have to sign another set of waivers now, do I?

No. The old ones stand. You did read them, didn't you?

[He meets Mitchell's eyes briefly. The worry in his face is real; he is truly, genuinely concerned over the possibility that Mitchell is not fully and thoroughly informed of his rights and responsibilities under the law. But a moment later, it registers that, yes, of course, that was a joke; he looks away, clearing his throat.]

Here. If I - may.

[A bit awkwardly, he reaches over and grasps Mitchell by the wrist, pushing up his shirtsleeve to get a good grasp on his skin. A moment later, he turns his gaze towards the wall - like looking the man in the face during all of this is an indecent thing.]

Tell me when you're ready.

[Because when the word is given, he will begin again. He keeps his promises.]

[As someone Edgeworth recently had tied to a bed, Mitchell doesn't protest when Edgeworth tugs up his sleeve. There's worse, right? He permits it; he sucks in a breath, trying to steady himself--]

All right.

[He's staring at Edgeworth, even if Edgeworth is looking away. Once more, he promised just once more, but who knows if he can hold himself to that. The relief of forgiveness is too temporary. Once more, for now. That will be enough. It has to be.]

[Right. Edgeworth takes in a breath, and lets it out again. He closes his eyes. He hasn't any notion whether he needs to do any of that to activate this power, or whether it just sort of...flows off of him, or anything of the sort. He wishes he knew. He wishes he had any idea at all.

But it works, again. He can feel that much, a little more strongly now. Whatever it is, however it works, there's that feeling of draining away once again. And he keeps his eyes closed; he won't look at Mitchell.]

[It doesn't occur to him, later, that it could go the way that it did before, that the twist of guilt could suddenly be made worse. There is no worse, not when he's got relief right in front of him, so close he can nearly feel it in anticipation. What could possibly be worse than the moment that comes right before better, the clearest contrast. All he can think of is what is surely to come, what he waits for.

And then it's there, suddenly--impossible to put into words, clean and warm and bright, undoing everything he's done, even if only for a moment--like someone's covered a bloodstain with a bedsheet, but it doesn't soak, through--Holly, the woman's name had been Holly, like at Christmas, and she had laughed, and it was July and her roommates were still at the party--and in the morning, when he peeled back her white bedsheet, it was sticky and red, but now it's like all that red is running back into her, filling up her torn veins, and the bites on her arms close up, and she opens her eyes and she will tell him, no harm done, she forgives him, that one blotch on his record will be wiped clean--

His hand twists, involuntarily, a blind movement, and he grasps at Edgeworth's wrist, the wrist of the hand that's grasped on his wrist. His grip is hard, the grip of a drowning man, or a grip meant to hold Edgeworth to him, to not lose this feeling, at least for now--]

[That grip on his wrist makes his head jerk around. He's afraid again that he's hurting him and this is some sign of distress - but Mitchell's face is beatific when Edgeworth finally sees it. He's calm. He's nearly smiling. All those hard unhappy lines, all that tension and mistrust and pain is gone. That grip, Edgeworth realizes, is to keep his hand there.

And that makes him turn his face away again. It makes him raise his free hand to his face and press fingers against his eyes to hold back some emotion - maybe tears. Maybe something more difficult.

Because he is going to take his hand away. In one minute and forty-three seconds, he is going to lift his hand away, and this relief he's granting will be gone. And that's his decision. It's his decision, now, to deny Mitchell this perfect happiness. When he takes his hand away, he's being cruel. When he takes his hand away, he's causing the cessation of relief, and therefore when he takes his hand away he's causing pain. These expectations, this power - they've now made him into a torturer, because when he is not devoting himself to helping Mitchell, he is torturing him.

He wishes it hadn't worked. He wishes this second time it had gone wrong, so that Mitchell would mistrust him and approach him only warily, only when absolutely necessary, with expectations of relief balanced against the harm that might be done. He wishes he had some excuse to exercise this power cautiously. He has none, save his own cowardice and cruelty and indifference.

One minute twelve seconds. He wishes this weren't his decision. He wishes it were taken from him.

Forty-nine seconds.

Eighteen.

His watch hits the two-minute mark. He pulls his hand free at once. Kindness would be lingering a little more, letting it fade out, giving a little more time. But kindness would also be wasting away in this hotel room until he dies with his hand pushing relief into Mitchell's skin. He cannot be kind. He will be a monster regardless; he will be a bringer of suffering regardless; so he cannot struggle with kindness.

The moment it's ended, he's on his feet, gathering his things together. The rope gets unknotted from the headboard and tucked into his briefcase; the originals of the waivers are put into a folder, and the duplicates left in a neat stack on the table beside the television. He doesn't once look at Mitchell as he moves.]

[When Edgeworth takes his hand away--

The feeling of relief seems to linger a few moments longer this time, like the more often it happens, the longer it will last each time, like perhaps he can earn levels toward never feeling the endless chill of his guilt again. Mitchell knows that isn't the case, that he's damned himself--but it's so hard to think with such bleakness when the good feeling hasn't quite gone.

He's aware, dimly, of Edgeworth moving about the room, brisk and quiet and unhappy. He can't bring himself to care. He stares at the ceiling like a man coming down off of a high. The lightness in his chest is already fading, but he holds as tightly to that feeling as he can, trying to memorise it so later--later, when he's alone, when it's set back into him again--he'll at least have some piece of it, some small memory to hold against the despair of guilt.

Time passes strangely, slowly. He flicks a glance to Edgeworth just as he's arranging the papers beside the television.]

I owe you.

[If there's some sort of repayment, it will feel-- more honest, maybe. That's a human impulse, that need for some exchange. It's good that he can still feel the need to make that concession.]

[Edgeworth doesn't look around at Mitchell. He just shakes his head and flicks the locks shut on his briefcase.]

No.

[He ought to have said yes. Yes, you owe me silence, Mr. Mitchell, a bit of peace - you owe me decent treatment, you owe me fewer abuses, you owe me a bit of kindness, you owe me not to laugh in my damn face next time, you owe me the right to determine when the next time will be, you owe me some cessation of my own guilt - something. But instead, just no.]

Please call me if you begin experiencing any unanticipated aftereffects. You have my number.

[But that's not what he wants to hear, and just as quickly as he'd come up with the thought of repayment does Mitchell abandon it, skipping instead to what comes next. Not the aftereffects, not any undefined unpleasantness--]

And next time?

[He's quiet a moment. Then he answers. He tries to sound as impersonal as he possibly can, as cold and dispassionate as he can. If Mitchell thinks he is cruel - if Mitchell thinks there is unkindness in him and nothing else - then perhaps Mitchell will not seek to play upon Edgeworth's compassion.

(As if it weren't all ready too goddamned late to pretend that playing on his compassion wouldn't work.)]

When it becomes an emergency, you may contact me again. Please do not do so before that point. I only have so much time and energy to devote to this.

[Maybe it's some predatory's instinct that helps him to suss out weaknesses faster than your average person. The sooner you know what pieces fit together and what pieces break and splinter, the better. Or maybe Edgeworth is just too demonstrative, or Mitchell too clever--

In any case. He does not question what he's told--the clipped conditions, the dismissal. Anyone else might see it as a setback.

But Mitchell knows a bit more, too much to fall for that. For now, he feels only the warmth of that lingering forgiveness, working against all darker thoughts that want to flood back in again. It's that calm that lets him nod, once, almost serenely, as if this is his hotel room. Already the balance of power is shifting off of Edgeworth, even if he's trying to establish himself. Fucking idiotic.]

All right.

[It's not amicable, but it is steady.]

[Good. A cold man wouldn't even say goodbye as he stalks out of the room, so Edgeworth does not. He just goes to the door, and tries to think of an appropriately dispassionate parting shot...Maybe If you eat anything from the minibar and cause charges to my credit card, the deal is off, but that would perhaps just sound like a challenge or something of the sort. Besides, if Mitchell is hungry, then Edgeworth doesn't see anything particularly wrong with footing the bill; no doubt all of this is draining, and the man frankly looks like he needs to eat more in general. He -

No. He needs to divorce himself emotionally. Damn it all.

So he doesn't say anything else. He can't think of anything that's right, anything appropriate. So, after an awkward moment, he just opens the door and goes.]

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He says he knows me / But I don't know that guy

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, please don't eat him just because you can

it gets more difficult to rewrite around "your smile is like a breath of spring" bc.... wolf teeth..

"your smile is like a breath of meat" maybe

mmmm i'm hungry

wafts bacon gently at you

days later and i still want bacon

That's....sort of a constant for you though

the absence of a constant is no less painful

Especially that constant...

mmmm yes also sorry still going to be calling in the middle of the night 8E

you suck john mitchell

yep :E sucks ur blood

NO wrong kind of sucking STOP

toooooooooooooooooo late

OH MY GOD great now he's dead how do you feel about that

guilty................ but also not hungry!

ugh you're the worst john mitchell

sorry not sorry but very sorry actually! ps super proud of how skeevy this log sounds out of context

god me too I am in love with the grossness in here (it also sounds skeevy in context)

yes and i look forward to all the context/out of context skeevy gross threads and logs to come

Man me too, so much

still going to stalk you edgeworth sorry

I'm so happy that this will be the case (edgeworth is not)