ROADKILLIN'

Estella: 😌😌😌😌

Estella: You knew I got shot and you weren't thoughtful enough to send me some get well soon gifts? I'm hurt.

Kara: jeez. they said you were fine.

Kara: i know you're a badass, i didn't think i needed to play nurse with you.

eyebrows furrow for a second — she’s thinking about it, really is. but does it warrant a reply? “can i have a fire-breathing mouth instead?”, she asks, and one might even think she’s speaking seriously. “you know, like dragons. like in shrek”.

“what makes you think i’d even look for one?”. perhaps the unaddressed loneliness that’s so crystal clear behind the mask. perhaps the way she sometimes stares at people (happy people, loving people, people with hands that are meant to hodl and not harm) not with longing but regret. hands buried in her jacket, kara shrugs, a weak-willed attempt at downplaying the sadness that’s suddenly gripped her by the throat. if she were honest (if she even had the ability for honesty), she’d admit all she wants to, all she really cares about, is o feel human again. but she can’t, so she won’t: will keep pretending, instead, that nothing matters on this planet but the will of the body. “i just look for a good fuck”, she lets out nonchalantly, then grins. “the kind that scratches and bites and is just fun, you know?”

her laugh is coarse, it speaks of stinging more than it does of joy. there is none of the former in the look she gives — it’s cynical instead, perhaps clinical, as if anyone talking about this sort of sht must be ill, insane, deranged. the usually flat line of her lips curls in a mocking grin. “aw, you still believe in fairytales. that is cute”. but she’s loved her brother passionately, if love means putting someone above yourself, above your needs, your faults, your failures — losing him felt like losing a limb, and why would she go through the effort of attaching herself to anyone else, in any sense, when all that’s in store for her is one more amputation? this fucking ghost pain — she’s through with it. “forget about that”. the grin is gone, what’s left is barren disappointment. she thinks of the part of her that still feels: the part of her that steps too close to the edge of comfort, the part of her desires. she wishes she could murder it, set its body on fire. she can’t, so her expression turns sad, instead — a child facing life. “it’s just one more weakness you need to account for”.

“guess a wolf would be out of the question, uh?”, kara smirks, gazing swiftly away in to the sunset. stupid question, ain’t it? she herself feels like a goddamn tiger in a cage, most of the time. she looks at the sky and the passing flight of a bird reminds her of her brother. “i’d like a crow. a real one —” crow’s the name of her dog, too, and it was the nickname she’d given erik before him. maybe it induced her love for the dark-feathered creatures: maybe they just feel similar to her. 

they’re in a shitty mood. pretty blatant, actually: not that emotion is usually shown on their face, but one might notice the slightly tighter line of their lips, a furrow of their brows, muscles clenched even beneath the jacket. it’s a whole lot of things, piling up one over the other — it’s the shooting, still burning in their head. it’s the people who got hurt — people they cared about, and people they couldn’t admit they cared about. it’s that they fucking need a break, and healthier coping mechanisms, really — and that this job is a pain in the ass, no matter how loyal to the wolves they can be. “alright, listen —”, tilting their head, bones cracking somewhere along their fatigued spine. “— i don’t have the time, the energy or the fucking will to baby you so — speak. what’s the problem?”

Angie nodded, that same genial smile at the woman’s order. She cleared away the drink and set about making something stronger. “It can be, but you get used to it.” Shrugging as she looked for the right bottle, she poured out with a practiced ease. “I started mixing drinks at parties when I was maybe…sixteen or so? I was good at it then, with whatever people could swipe from their parents’ liquor cabinets. This town is small enough..by the time I could legally get behind a bar no one really raised an eyebrow. But they could’ve just been used to me being behind a bar.” Angie set the fresh drink in front of her client.  it seemed less like the job was sad and more like Angie’s life was sad. 

kara listened absent-mindedly, a cheek resting against her closed fist: not bored, but tired. a sensation she wasn’t truly used to, so eager to just keep thrusting forward, unrelenting. the woman could smile what she wanted, she could sense the bullshit — she was sad. seemed everyone in this goddamn town was always fucking sad and nobody would do a thing about it except just keep giving them more reasons to justify their sadness. kara stared at her drink, wondered if maybe she’d never really gotten the point of acohol ‘cause she’d never really allowed herself to feel this: whatever this shitty, need-to-punch-it-out feeling was. she took a sip, then set her glass down and groaned. “and you keep just giving things to people? that’s your job?” rude, yes: lacking manners, they’d never really been taught to her. with a sigh, kara took another sip. “fucking hate people”.

the time of ordering kara around had long passed, their relationship with the manager of the dealers had become much more than one of simple colleagues. kara was one of the few reasons that tied yennefer to this town. a soft, tired laugh fall from their lips as kara’s dramatics are played out and the younger woman’s next question brings an all too familiar smile to yen’s face, one that says why the fuck not? yen knows her favourite fighter doesn’t own a licence but at five a.m. yen was willing to take their chances. “fine. you’re probably more alert than i am, anyway.” lazily, they rummage through their pockets for their car keys before throwing them accurately into kara’s lap. “don’t drive like a three year old just cause it’s five in the morning, either. cops will take any excuse.” and with that, they stand, stretching for a few seconds and heading towards the back entrance. 

“sweet”. she wouldn’t say it, but a certain kind of pride settled into her as yen handed over the keys — she was aware of her position in the wolves, she was far from the clumsy idiot who’d showed up asking for a job on day one. still yen’s guidance mattered more than she’d have liked to admit; more than that, she searched for reassurance the way a child looks for their parents. and like a child, her way of caring was reckless, and out of tune, and most of the time misguided. kara threw the keys in the air once, twice, making them jump in the palm of her hand and making it a game of not dropping them, as they made their way out the back, towards the car. then a groan, following yen’s words. “then what’s the fucking point?”, she produced herself in an exaggerated, comical yawn and took her place at the driver’s seat, next: pulling the seat back, letting the window roll down to the bottom so she could let her arm rest over it, the way she’d seen in passing glimpses through the movies erik loved to watch. with a sigh (far too dramatic, exclusively for show), kara leaned over the dashboard and began pressing buttons on the radio, looking for the perfect soundtrack. then, as she landed on a radio station currently airing a bad, bad rendition of a roxette song. eyebrows perked up — felt like a good enough soundtrack, so she turned to yen with an inquisitive look on her face. “good?”

gaming channel: what is your favorite video game? why?

erik had a gameboy once, in the hospital. someone gave it to him, and kara barely even understood the point of it, but it seemed to make him calmer, most of the time. sometimes she’d crawl in bed with him and watch him play until he fell asleep. she took it with her, of course, after erik’s death; barely even knew how to use the controls, but it was a good distraction on dark nights. “i like the little plumber one. the one with the mushrooms and all that shit”. the corners of her lips tug upwards now, remembering the noise he’d make each time his little plumber died. he’d lost his love for that too, over time. he’d lost everything, and nobody was there to save him. the smile fades, the anger remains. she lets her gaze drop the ground, kicking a stone away. “i don’t like that stuff, anyway. it’s children’s stuff”.

gamingmas: what do you do in the month leading up to christmas to celebrate?

jesus christ, christmas. that day in the year they’d punch literally any store clerk they could get their hands on, if they could. it’s a lot of aggression to hold within a body, so their ritual has a lot to do with renegade gym. “i just fight more”, kara props their chin against their fist, leaning over — apathetic, but perhaps wanting to remind them of their presence: not a poor lonely fucker, but someone who’s been taught to punch hard at prying questions. their gaze is cold, ruthless: then they smile. “there’s just something special about delivering kicks in the teeth like santa delivers presents”.

amazingphil: in what ways are you creative?

ah, see, that’s a much better question: kara grins now, and their way of leaning in is shady, cospiratory almost, like trying to utter a secret. “i know ten different ways to make you spit your own blood out. wanna come closer and see for yoursef?”

they pause. for a second, dark eyes are pierced right into the other’s face. they’re wary, wondering: is this a serious question or, perhaps, like any other thing that ever crosses their path — something that can easily be ignored? either way, kara barely has any secrets, so it’s easy for them to shrug and, dead-ass, reply: “i masturbate”.

Fran let out a heavy sigh once the sound of heels echoed in the space that was her second home – the nightclub that she was so fond of and spent a great deal of time in. She just needed to get away from it all, away from the anger in her head and she knew that this was one of the places where her thoughts could be kept at a comfortable length away from her which was a relief because at this point, all Fran wanted was to stop thinking. Everything was so fucked, and everything was resting on her shoulders – grief, pain, remorse, anger. Once she remembered that anger, it came back absolutely scorching and she immediately turned towards the bar because she fucking needed a drink. “Do you want a congratulations? A good job for serving yourself?” Fran asked with an eyebrow raised before settling herself on one of the stools. “Whiskey neat, and you can also start telling me why the hell you’re here,” she said, as her eyes started to move around the fairly empty nightclub. Nobody was in the mood to celebrate anything tonight. 

kara couldn’t exactly blame their leader’s sour ass mood. to an extent, it was expected: the air was heavy with bloodspill, and they’d been sensing anger flowing around their fellow wolves like snakes lurking in the grass. still, their go-to method to approach difficulties was either aggression or ignorance, and since they were lacking a good target for the first (and fighting fran would be, if not just wanted, purely suicidal), the latter would have to do. they weren’t insensitive to the pain: although they would’ve liked to find a switch to shut down any pretense of feeling, the anger was there, white hot, buried in their stomach. (the thought of jordan came to mind. jordan with bandages around her arm. jordan in a hospital bed. jordan among the smells of dead, and blood, and pain). kara suddenly felt guilt, and the smug expression faded from their face. they shrugged instead, following suit on their leader’s order. “nah. just didn’t feel like being out there, so.” they held the glass of whiskey up for the other, sipping their own silently. they weighed heir options: ask for a plan for retaliation, or pretend they couldn’t sense the tension in the air. oddly enough, they picked a third route. sipping on their gin lemon (and the fact that they were drinking was, on its own, a fire alarm), kara shrugged again. “you know, it could’ve been worse. they all made it out in one piece - more or less”.

her heart thumped wildly: drowning out everything but her and the moment they shared. it was easy to blur the lines they’d drawn; easier even to pretend like they weren’t actively slipping into something else entirely. stubborn as she was, kara’s words had managed to stir something in her, having poked and prodded a wound long left to fester. she could feel it eat at her then, spreading its rot to parts of her that were still good and dutiful. the thing about kara — the thing about them, really — was that it made her think twice. she could feel herself shifting, her thoughts going to a place she didn’t like to visit. jordan believed in order, justice, holiness — but was that enough to overcome the loneliness that’d made a home of her? was that enough to conquer that constant, overbearing hunger for more? what was her heart but another mouth to feed, and who – if anyone – had ever been so willing to fulfill such a task for her? 

knowingly, jordan’s eyes welled up. she didn’t want to go there, but the thought lingered - no matter how quiet. only kara could make the act of bloodshed seem romantic. “i’m not asking you to be okay with it,” she said then, her voice having shed its prior softness to reveal a newfound definitiveness. “i’m telling you to accept it. it happened. we’re here. there’s nothing we can do.” which, if she was honest, was a bitter pill to swallow. it was her own fault — forever a willing hero — but that didn’t make it sting any less. wordlessly, jordan let go of kara’s hand. it seemed that neither of them could manage to stop themselves from spilling into the other: the same tension that had overcome kara’s shoulders had now wound itself into her own. not wanting it to pop this bubble they’d surrounded themselves with, she was quick to reconnect: this time to tuck a raven strand behind her ear, fingers lingering. she brushed the back of them against the warm skin of her cheek then. was she comfortable? jordan hoped so, and thus tried not to move. 

this — all of this, was food for the starving. she’d choke on it, if carelessly stumbling into it, turn it sour and tainted. out of jordan’s mouth, she would taste it in controlled bites: tiny morsels, lest she forgot that an empty stomach is the key to keep her ready and aware. it was a language she barely understood, barely even comprehended the necessity for it. her binary mind (fight on one side — a natural instinct for aggression, directly tied to the other side — where the devoted loyalty, the hopeless faithfulness resided) had served her well so far, ensuring the survival of herself and those she’d vowed to protect. so what right did her heart have, to ask for more? to begin to melt under her touch, to feed off the feeling of her body, so close to hers, so warm — what good would it do her? at night, sometimes, she found herself resenting jordan. it held a beautiful irony, this game of theirs — she’d been played a hand of her own game and she was the one in withdrawal now, hooked up to the very drug that should be forbidden to her.

what a tight, aching predicament she’d trapped herself in. she needed jordan (not company, but jordan — not a good fuck, not a distraction, not an excuse to pretend she was capable of human emotions. just the presence of jordan, the thoughts lurking in her head, the way she caught her glancing over her at times and then looking away, like her gaze had never even been there to begin with). she needed her, and yet knew that whatever room there still was in her life, she could not squeeze enough to fill it — it wouldn’t welcome the very world that she belonged to, the one she carried around in spite of her need to call herself unleashed. as jordan’s hand moved through her hair (and kara found it odd, still, but pleasant: the way it seemed to smooth her thoughts too, dull the noise down to the background), kara’s eyes were glued to her, wide — lost, to an extent, for lack of a direction. “i’m sorry”. it carried the weight of other words too, but those she couldn’t pronounce. unknown to her language, or harbingers of bad luck — she’d let jordan find a meaning in there, and meanwhile she’d sit like that — tamed, draped over her, shield-like even after the storm. “i just don’t like the thought of you getting hurt. i was afraid… i’m still afraid.”

jordan sobers up. okay, maybe her joke isn’t that good. her grip tightens for a moment — letting her know that she’s there, witnessing them both. part of her regrets not taking the hydrocodone now: this is one of those moments where she’d really prefer the full range of her limbs. really, she doesn’t know what she’d do — doesn’t even know what to do in this very moment — but she knows that she wishes they were closer. that’s the only way she knows how to talk to kara; they only way she knows how to put a name to what swirled in the air between them. part of her wants to kiss her — anything to wipe that look from her face — but jordan doesn’t think she looks very ‘kissable’ right now. if anything, she feels like an exposed nerve — one with a perverse sense of rationality. 

finally, jordan clears her throat, sheepish. it was all too easy to get lost in her thoughts around kara. “why? ‘s’not like you did it.” and really, this is the part she hates most: the half-truths. it’s not kara’s fault. she knows that. she knows that as well as she knows that there’s good in the person before her, but.. it’s the dent in the table, isn’t it? the crack in the glass. her mind would always go back to it: the reality that kara’s a wolf - her natural opposite. whereas most believed in unruliness, jordan believed in order — more specifically, the order upheld by the law. ( would this have ever happened if neither outlaw group existed? it’s a thought that sits in the back of her mind, locked in a box somewhere. she doesn’t want it to taint this, however selfish of a desire that may be. ) see, kara doesn’t have to voice her intentions — jordan already knows. “i don’t know who did this, but even if i did..” her chest rises and falls with a steadying breath. “i wouldn’t tell you.” 

this is the part she hates. when she reminds her that there are layers separating the two of them, that the primal, nature-based communion of their touch always has to be sacrificed on the altar of justice, of law, of whatever shiny bullshit they put into her head to make her loyal to the so-called good guys. sometimes she realizes her anger towards the system comes more from the separation they impose on the two of them, than the natural order of things — dealer vs. cop, wolf vs. detective. it is easy to forget these things when she’s with her. it’s so easy she strips herself of her name, her past, her faults, the scars she’s collected on her skin, like dents against the prison walls. she’s someone — something else instead: a creature of few words, pure spirit instead, adapting itself to her, wanting so desperately to believe that souls exist, and that hers, with effort and time, might just melt into jordan’s.

but she enjoys reminding kara too much that they’re on the wrong sides of this story. her discomfort is clear, blatant in her gaze: she wants to pull away but jordan’s touch, right now, is the only thing anchoring to here and now. she pulls her face away instead, turning to stare at the beeping screen and wondering if the differences between them begin and end with that green line and the spikes it draws: perhaps it’s because jordan was born with a beating, red heart in her chest, and she wasn’t. she resents this. if she had a heart, she thinks, she could’ve been a better guardian for her: she would be fussing over the shape of her pillow, pouring water from a bottle to make sure she’s well-hydrated. she would be focusing on worry, out of love and not fear. she’s angry instead, and this — this definitely comes from fear. eyes focus into jordan’s and she can feel herself harden, her grip tighter on the other’s hand (if she had a heart she’d be delicate and soft: perhaps her need from jordan comes all from that). “so what? i’m just supposed to be okay with this?”. pause. she looks at her, seconds stretching in between her words without a chance for a coherent thought to guide her to her next moves. she drops her gaze instead, voice turning to a whisper while her head is lowered again, resting now on jordan’s lap. “i’m not okay with this”.

jordan doesn’t know if she’s crying, but she does know that she’s leaking. all of her — blood, sweat, tears, and all — seeps into the bed she lies in. she thinks she might’ve heard the nurse say something about ‘panic’, but jordan doesn’t do panic. no; this has to be something else. surely it’s because of the monitor that beeps behind her, interrupting every useless thought that pops into her head. maybe it’s because of the person beside her that won’t stop talking — an older man trying to check on his daughter, she thinks. hell, it might just be the fact that she chose the worst possible day to wear white. whatever it is that unnerves her, she just wants it to stop. jordan presses her head into the pillow and shuts her eyes, uselessly hoping to will herself elsewhere. she hates hospitals — always has, always will. 

the sound of the curtain moving shouldn’t spook her, but it does anyhow. her eyes are wide as they land on kara, and suddenly a thought comes to her: this isn’t fair. the monitor’s tempo picks up behind her — an undeniable betrayal — and jordan can only hope that she doesn’t take notice. she fumbles for a moment, blinking away the wetness in her eyes. “there was, um — there was a shootout,” she says, voice thick. jordan feels small in doing so, but she can’t help herself. if kara’s going to be here, then jordan needs her to really be here with her. a bloodied hand moves atop kara’s then and holds on. “they got me in the arm, but it’s fine.” a lot about kara scares her, but the way that she’s looking at her now scares her most. unsure of what else to do, jordan moves their hands closer to her midline. “i can say i got you beat now though, so..” her lips curl in a sorry attempt at a smile, and whether it’s for her or herself remains in the air still. “silver lining, i guess.”

she should be laughing. somehow she can tell jordan expects her to laugh. the predictable move would be shrug this off, pretend nothing’s really happened — downplay the scar in a more or less ill-fated attempt to downplay her concern, yet. if she was any good at acting, her lips would be tightening in a grin, an eyebrow would shoot upward, out of her lips would come a line that would sound a lot like what’s that face? i thought you were trained for this shit. none of that comes out. instead it’s a gaze that seems to be frozen still, set in stone as if to not betray the turmoil it hides. her hand betrays her: squeezing jordan’s, holding too tightly. it is a response that has little to do with the conscious effort to maintain a distance that, by now, only exists in her thoughts. she’s drawing closer instead — in spite of herself, it seems something else is driving her. anger, perhaps. its target still unknown.

it takes a mighty effort to peel her eyes off the bandages around jordan’s arm, turn them to her eyes instead. give her the benefit of a face-to-face conversation instead on focusing on the growing burn she can feel somewhere inside of her — tastes like rage, white hot fire right beneath the skin of her face. someone must have shot. someone must have pulled the trigger. someone must have aimed at her — she squeezes tighter, and like her hands now move with a will of their own, the other also joins jordan’s, and she leans over, a penitent sinner at her saint’s bed. “i’m sorry”. language escapes her, sometimes — words, she finds, have changeable, unclear meanings, they lack the sharpness of physical gestures. but her sorrow is real: if she could, she’d take her pain and put it in her flesh, instead. the way jordan’s lips turn, as if trying to convince her she’s not in pain — that unsettles her, too. wasn’t it her, pretending everything was just peachy? now the look of pain over her is a slap in the face and she can’t bear to look at it — she finds her face closer to jordan’s hand, her cheek pressed against her skin. when she’s looking up at her again she’s silently pleading for an answer, a way to give a meaning to her anger: “do you know who shot? did you see them?”. a harmless question, perhaps useless, too — still, she needs, no, has a right to know. there would be no telling where a claim such as this could come from; deep down, she just suddenly feels like the gash in jordan’s arm is her responsibility. it should be her hunting down the guilty hand that pulled the trigger. it should be her fixing this.