His shoulders sit in a rigid line against his vice-like grip of the railing - a far more imposing stance, Porter thinks, if not for his lack of balance through keeping weight off of his left leg. The wood of the railing must be rotting, though. His hands start to crush it to mushy splinters almost effortlessly after only a few minutes. Augustus is standing there for much longer than that, however. In that time, the railing merely becomes hand-fulls for woodchip pulp compressed in knuckle-popping fists. By now, his arms are shaking with strain. It's as clear as day, even through the filthy windowpane.
"What's he thinking about?" Charles turns to look at the behemoth looming over him to spy the same scene. Delta's rather grotesque visage angles towards him, ever unreadable to the outside, and merely stares. "Penny for your thoughts?" he tries. Still, he gets nothing - only a blank, sea-green gaze. "Mmmh. Right." Turning back towards the window, Porter notes a gap in the roof's coverage which dumps a rather sizable amount of rain onto the older man's ebony mop. He doesn't even try to move… acts like it's not happening. Compared to the far more lively scene within the house - that of the children coloring or playing with whatever toys they were allowed to keep unpacked on the newly-cleared floor - it's chilling.
Said children sit amongst a landscape of barreness. What personal effects they had managed to gather in their considerably short stay - books, drawings, eatery, small fixtures - are all pressed snuggly into the back of a truck that is far too small. The rest, that which can be reasonably carried by hand, will be packed with its owners once they begin to make tracks. Currently, the young ones have created a pseudo fort or cott out of blankets and pillows, using the armchair and the couch to hold up the cloth roof. The front of said fort is fairly open with the corners acting as curtains for the "doorway." The back is a full wall of fabric from roof to floor where the top blanket meets the one spread out over the rug. On top of that blanket is a layer of mismatched pillows of varying size and color. It looks as cozy as a flame-lit log cabin in a snowstorm brimming with knit sweaters and quilts… a shame Odette can't be a part of it.
They'll sleep there tonight. No one wants them to see it - to see her. They've had enough of those visuals to last a lifetime. Speaking of which, Porter deems his presence unnecessary with Eleanor spread across the sofa within the fort and Delta standing at the window so he slips quietly from the den into the hallway. Comparatively, this slender space is a frightening visage - as bleak and as cold as death itself. The wood gains a blue sheen from the grey clouds beyond a far window which separates the two sides of the connecting hall. Only one side - that to the right - has any active artificial light and even that is a cold breed of yellow just barely able to distinguish itself from the natural light beyond.
From that room - one once filled with toys, warm bedding, sunny bedside lamp light reflecting on the clear wood - Charles sees only a single bed set center against the back wall. A faded, green quilt forms around a tiny, pale lump. Her skin is ghostly, breathing almost invisible... Tenenbaum isn't faring much better in that regard. Upon an old folding chair, she sits and stares at the corpse-like features which almost match her own save for the gentle fluttering of her eyelids that indicate she is, in fact, alive. There are towels around her feet. Maybe once they had been white or blue or pink... but now they're red which slowly drifts into brown at the edges of massive stains which will likely never come out. It doesn't matter. They're going to throw them away. Porter goes to speak but stops himself mouth agape with a thought. He raises his right hand and gently raps on the doorframe. She looks up at him, startling only a little. "Any change?"
"Her breathing is... stable. Aside from that, no."
"Mmm... You, uh... You going to tell someone what happened? What was so urgent that you had to call in all those people in the middle of the night?"
She wrings her hands in her lap. "Is... Grisly."
"I'm sure it is. I still want to know... and I think us adults have a right to know, all things considered. I mean, as much as I dislike the man, Sinclair isn't taking this too well and I don't think not knowing anything about it is helping. As for Subject Delta, well… I can't make heads or tails about that man in any capacity, but I'm sure he has to be worried, too." Porter crosses his arms and leans against the frame, eyes going soft over his glasses. Rarely does this do much to appeal to the stoic Tenenbaum but maybe - just maybe - she's in a fragile enough state to buckle a tad.
"You know how little sisters work, yes? How they are made into what they are?" He nods. "Well, the process of returning them to a more normal state involves... Well, the process which Subject Delta used to fix them had him… Let's say 'overloading' them with ADAM - or overloading the slugs in their stomachs, rather. This rush of ADAM is too much for them and so it causes them to disintegrate into small pieces which should be easily passed over the following days."
"So, I'm guessing something went wrong with the slug?"
"Most of the slug inside Odette broke apart as intended; however, the singular piece that remained was far too large for her to pass and her stomach was unable to digest it. As a result, it began to... rot inside of her. It made her very sick... and some of the residue made it into her bloodstream."
Porter exhales slowly, running a hand through his short hair. "God damn…"
"Her insides are terrible, Charles... The amount of pain she had to have been in… unable to describe it... or understand it…" There is a crack in her voice - tiny as a mouse - and it sends shockwaves through Porter's very soul. "I should have realized... A child has no words for pain like that."
"It's on all of us, not just you. To be fair, there is a lot on your plate, so if anyone should have noticed, it should have been me or Sinclair. Don't blame yourself." When she turns to him, looks him dead in the eyes, her stare is cold… agonizing. It freezes every drop of his blood.
"But I have to, Charles. I made her. I made all of them. I put that slug inside her to begin with…" He wants to console her but his own words echo in his head, seal his lips shut with heavy chains. Bitter, accusatory words in what feels like the distant past... With a few false starts, Porter finally gets his lips to part with a spearing flick of his tongue.
"We all… have demons. Some worse than others. Doesn't excuse the shit we've done or make it right... feeling sorry for ourselves and crying over it won't make it any better will it?" She snorts at the question. He's not getting anything else out of her and Porter feels she's emotionally exhausted enough. Silently, he escapes back through the corpse-chute of a hallway to the now more dimly-lit den. The young ones are now quieting down for sleep in their tiny fortress with Eleanor keeping her place on the sofa within except for now her form is nearly limp, eyes closed lightly in that fragile state between waking and dreaming just out of reach of restful sleep. Though he doubts this particular sofa's worthiness as a bed for a myriad of reasons - not even limited to its cleanliness - he won't bother her. He wouldn't bother her if she was on the floor, the kitchen table, in the fridge or on the empty bookshelves. Not tonight. No matter what it is - unless it's the roof - he just can't be bothered tonight.
Porter turns around just in time to catch a glimpse of a massive, brown shape slip through the screen door on its way outside - a colorful object firmly grasped between oversized digits. If there's one thing that Charles cannot ignore, not even on his worst night, it's his curious nature; so true is it, in fact, that it drags him over to the window and sets his eyes peering through sheer curtains to a modified version of the scene he'd been viewing not long before. Augustus hasn't moved, not even in response to Delta, but the bigger man doesn't seem keen on letting it stand as he usually does. In place of his normal reaction of giving the other space, Delta sets down an electric-blue box and approaches his older companion. He wastes no time in grasping his left shoulder and making Sinclair look at him. The wordless exchange that begins is filled with both amusing and perplexing expressions, little shifts that one might never notice in normal conversation due to the distraction of language. Without that audio stimulus, however, Porter can see just how animated Delta can become in the right company.
Eventually, the prevailing facade is confusion and this prompts Delta to release Augustus and walk over to the blue box. Upon opening it, Porter realizes that he's seen this item before - a record player. Tenenbaum scrounged it up from parts unknown for the entertainment of the young ones but they found very quickly that they weren't too interested in music beyond a little background noise which was still promptly drowned out. What record is on the player now is anyone's guess. Delta motions to it softly as he is crouched next to it and his companion continues to look on in confusion. Subject Delta's own movements start to grow more jagged and incomplete - possibly out of a struggle to convey what he wants… at least that's what it looks like. Porter can only guess with his own lack of understanding on the table. With a little more time and a flicker of a spark, it seems Augustus actually gets what the other is trying to say… and quickly shifts into denial. He dismissively waves a hand and turns back to the railing. It's unusually cold when compared to his other behaviors towards his gargantuan friend.
Delta, however, is unfazed. He grabs Augustus again, but this time in a much less forceful manner. One hand is joined by the other on the opposite upper arm to form a stand-offish embrace which becomes just a tad more intimate when Delta pulls the other out from under what has to be a freezing shower. On what looks to be impulse, Sinclair makes a bit of a jerking motion once his back touches Delta's chest, but that behavior is corrected with a deep breath. After that… he just... Porter doesn't know if he should describe it as Sinclair melting into Delta's touch or surrendering to the greater power but whatever it is, he's following Delta's guiding movements until the both of them are well under the protective roof. Once he's sure that Sinclair won't retreat again, the larger lets go and reaches down to place the needle on the edge of the vinyl - an action which brings a half-hearted grin to the older man's face. It's the kind of grin one would give for a situation they deem ridiculous. And then they go back to talking… A little more insistent… more pleading with the expressions and hand motions. One of Delta's - his right - extends to Augustus and engulfs his much smaller shoulder. The oversized thumb strokes the plated covering in little circles.
That grin fades to a far more tired, more gentle one. Augustus grips the larger man's wrist with reciprocated force and squeezes. When he talks next, it's audible… or would be to anyone outside and poor Charles can't read lips as well as he used to. He thinks he sees the word "broken." By now, Porter knows full well what Delta is trying to do. The soft tilt of his head, the almost invisible swaying of his upper body... An interesting form of distraction. 'Concerning, more like…' he thinks to himself but forgets his reservations momentarily as he watches Augustus sigh. It's a performance sigh - he can even tell from here - made to make his surrender all the sweeter for his brutish friend. Join that with his exaggerated reluctance to move his hands into place, Delta is practically beaming as the two tangle their fingers in one hand each and his own right finds purchase right above Augustus's hip. As expected, it's awkward. Their large boots clank together quite a few times early on which causes plenty of stumbling and certainly can't be helped by the condition of the older man's mishealed leg. They smile at that, though… Wider and wider each time, sinking more and more into the moment.
As it goes on, Porter finds himself less able to think… to criticize. The once reluctant Panamanian is practically leaning on the other, now. His forehead presses firmly into Delta's pecs with little concern over the harsh line of the collar. Still smiling. Both of them. They aren't great smiles, not necessarily ones of happiness but… content. The best they can hope for, he supposes. It's only a moment - just enough to keep someone sane in a time like this. As for everything else, Porter isn't sure what he thinks, what to make of their more intimate bond… A sentiment Sinclair apparently shares as, at one point, he stops to look up at Delta's softly-smiling face and pulls away... like a flinch, almost. Though his fingertips dwindle ghostly on the larger man, his stance makes the barrier between them very clear. A string of words - or stutters - streams from Sinclair's mouth followed by a chuckle but Delta is not amused. He eventually becomes tired of the babbling and quickly takes a step to re-grasp his partner's upper arms. Just by the look in Delta's eyes, Porter knows he's saying something and whatever that something is has Augustus shutting up. From there, though his intrigue is stronger than ever, Charles knows the limit. He pushes off of the windowsill and leaves the two to whatever is left of their moment.
Beyond that threshold, out into the constant droning of the downpour upon rotting shingles and through lush tree branches beyond the abode, the two men stand in tense silence - Sinclair's brought on by surprise and Delta's be exhausted yet determined firmness. "What?" The older man sputters after many long minutes. He'd "heard" what Delta said. He wants him to say it again.
'I... I care about you.'
"That isn't what you said," he chokes coldly.
'Same thing.'
"No, there is a big difference."
'My point still stands. I'm tired of sidestepping it.'
"So why won't you say it again?"
'Because it's not the point, Augustus!' Delta sighs and squeezes the other's arms a little tighter, lowering his forehead until it's almost touching his. 'I mean it. I care about you a lot and I'm tired of just... both of us not addressing it. I can feel it. You can feel it.'
"I don't know what I feel."
'Yes, you do! I'm in your head, Augustus. You're getting better at controlling it, but you can't lie to me.'
"You don't even know what it feels like, Delta. You have no memories beyond being a lab experiment."
'It doesn't take a genius! Not when looking through your head.'
"So you have been rootin' around." Sinclair twists from his grasp, offense dripping from his lips.
'Not willingly! I have as much control over it as you do those dreams! Your head just… shows me things sometimes.' Augustus looks fit to snap back but stops mid-syllable. The older man closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he releases it, his arms - which had been raised in a defensive stance - drop limply to his sides along with a loosening of his shoulders. His face is the last to settle, losing nearly all of its scrunch.
"I can't do this, Delta…"
'Do what?'
"This!" Sinclair whines with exasperation, motioning simply to his partner's chest. "I care about you a lot, too - more than I should - but I can't do this." The larger man's face scrunches, but much less in anger than genuine confusion mixed with a bit of hurt - the ladder of which growing more and more as time passes for him to think.
'Why not?' For the first time since this uncomfortable line of questioning started, Sinclair catches Delta's eyes and holds his gaze for longer than a few seconds. In that lock, the two share bated silence - that brought on by Delta's stunned reaction to Sinclair's unexpected expression. It is anger at first… white-hot like a welding torch but that flame flickers swiftly, melting away the anger to reveal a core of conflict. His face is a tug-of-war with both indignance and sadness vying for control of the Panamanian's outer facade. 'I'm not trying to force it,' the larger Alpha tries gently. 'I just want to understand…'
"Del, I…" Sinclair splays his palm across his own armored chest. "I don't even understand... I'll give you that, chief, I am as lost as a diver in the desert. That's why this - I'm not somethin' you want. I have never in my life been able to make this sort of thing work. You saw for yourself. Told me as much."
'The thought obviously didn't stop me.' Augustus chuckles at that, though he doesn't mean to.
"No," he agrees softly. "It certainly did not. Came right out with it, gave me a god damned heart attack."
'I just want to talk through this.' It doesn't take much to erase the older man's fragile humor. He grips the back of his neck hard and draws out a cringe. He knows the other can sense his response before it even leaves his lips and that expression sinks long prior. In spite of that, he continues onwards anyway.
"I don't know."
Just one more sigh. That's all it is. That's all that he leaves between them. Not a single sentence, not even a word does the larger Alpha conjure into Sinclair's head - only huffing a cloud of hot air into the scant space between their bodies before turning and walking back inside through the screen door. He leaves the record player to spin idly long after it had played out the chosen track which has faded into the constant, dry scraping sound of the needle. Augustus can't even remember what the song had been... He hadn't been focused on it. His pounding chest, gasping lungs, a pair of sea-green eyes watching him so intently and gently... He already knew it but denial is one hell of a drug: he's gotten himself into quite the mess.
…
The pool seeps so thoroughly through shag and into plywood sheets - down beyond supports and maybe even to concrete just beneath. Past his cigarette, he finds the smell of iron and ammonia to be just as glaring as it had been many times prior. This time wasn't as messy, however. He'd been expected and he knew as much. One does not act so rashly and doesn't understand the consequences. This man was a rational one. Emotional to a fault on top of that, but rational to an extent that the older man had hoped he'd know better in spite of his better judgement explicitly warning him otherwise. He, too, had prepared for this outcome, though. The notepad in his hands was turned to a page with a single line written upon it. A name, some numbers, a few cardinal directions... It's what he'd been waiting for... and yet he waits just one moment longer - watches his cigarette burn down until the heat is nearly on his lips. He watches the skyline change hue, notes the eyes on his back urging him to get up. Just one moment. Just one more and he'll be ready.
-AN-
Hello, everyone. I just want to give a small update to let you all know that I will be taking a break from this story just to let my brain get away from Bioshock for a bit. I'm still going to be writing, just not this story and nothing this long. I want to branch out to other ideas I've started on in-between. This story IS NOT ABANDONED. I am just putting it aside for a little while. Thank you for sticking with me.