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TITLE: Scarlet
AUTHOR: Beat
RATING: R for fast sex, fast violence and lame swearing.
SUMMARY: “I realise you. I do.” In a world where everything is hard and unwelcoming, you find new ways of learning and
sharing. New ways of knowing.
CATEGORY: Drama/Romance, Psychobabbling
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This came about as a fitule attempt at post-Revolutions therapy. But though it didn’t turn out the way
I’d planned for it to, I am still quite pleased with it. Scarlet doesn’t offer much in terms of plot or character development, it is rather a
small look into a world of hollow greyness and what a splash of red, just simple red, evokes there. A little study in colour, flow and taste
(ah, I’m picking pretentious-points with as much ease as Neo beats the shit out of Agents).
Thankyous: To Ryven and Danascully for encouragement, ideas and putting up with my never-ending whining. To Trinity and Neo for
letting me be take liberty with them. It’s been a hell of a ride. This is not a fic, this is pure, first class voyeurism.
The small print: Trinity, Neo, Morpheus, the Neb and Zion are not mine. I stole them. I won’t tell on you if you won’t tell on me.
Chapter titles (in falling order): Three – from “Into My Blood” by Carina Round. Two – Henry David Thoreau. One –
tagline for the film “Pi” (1998). Zero – from “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot.
Let’s rock’n’ roll.
Scarlet
Visions had blurred a lot lately, memories melted together. There were a lot of things they couldn't tell apart. Like themselves. Or their days. Wake up, grope, eat, work, ache, weld, hurt - or kill - and work, talk, itch, escape, exhale, and fuck. Things had got permanently urgent somewhere along the line, and they didn't know why. Just felt.
But it was always scarlet at first, deep scarlet. Hers on his hands, his in her mouth. Mixed together, rubbed into their sheets sometimes, violently. Or stained on torn collars and sleeves. When something went really wrong, enough to make their hearts pump away at a desperate speed, it would be seeping from here, from there. Too much at once, too much entirely. And an eon of no-no-no's later, of "hush" and "it will be okay", they would be there again, as if it never happened. Biting down again, scratching again and again, and scarlet would flash before their eyes.
Maybe they would feel differently if they knew that they shared it. That morbid fascination, like being drunk and high and loving it. Like being crushed and wanting more. Her breasts crashing against his chest did that to him. The slight crackling of his vertebrae, to her, as he arched into her hands. And all the scarlet, all the more.
Three. Wait all my life, just for the rush.
Trinity sat, and sat, waiting. A hard chair, but she didn't give a fuck, in the near-blissful numbness of finally getting off a shift. Hard days, tough, with Morpheus barking, running his hands through non-existent hair, throwing Link out of the Core so he could hijack the station, the decks. And Neo, always shouting for Neo to join him. He needed to learn, she knew. Morpheus thought he had some kind of divine intuition when it came to potentials. Yeah right, she thought. He was unique alright. That, and all sorts of things - right about now.
And memories. Morpheus announced the discovery of the One. They had all rolled their eyes. But even though she refused to remember it, she had tossed and turned in her sleep for a long time after that. That watch area she had found right before switching shifts with Morpheus, that little run down apartment complex. She had registered some potential activity in there, Trinity suddenly remembered. And without knowing it - him. It. The it-thing. The Oracle-thing, the unmentionable, the secret.
Oh yeah, the secrets. She enjoyed having them, now. He'd started showing her how to lock secrets in. With lips, mostly. Just the two of them. Ssshhh.
She sat now, waiting, and knew that her clothes were too thin to disguise anything. Nipples were giving her away. She pressed her triceps against them, rubbing her eyes. Nails against scalp, but not his. Her own. His, soon, hopefully. Scalp and everything. Who gave a fuck about keeping secrets, anyway?
The door creaked, and opened. He caught her eye - one eye, peering at him through fingers and strands of hair. He grinned sheepishly.
"Hi."
Then she noticed, and hands were brought down to reveal her bright features. "What's wrong with your face?" Quickly out of the chair, reaching to lay her hand over his. He hoped that her bare feet wouldn't be too cold. She winced a little at the shock of metal against her toes, then pulled his hand from the side of his face. Sleeve clutched in his fingers was red. A cut.
Neo felt her fingertip on his cheek. It stung beautifully. "Cut myself shaving", he said simply.
How stupid.
Her mouth was slightly too open, as she regarded the gash in his face. Right below that birthmark on his cheekbone. Razorblade cheekbones. Yes. When he spoke again, voice thick, a tiny red river trickled down his face, onto his neck, entirely too white. She should probably have tried to find some plaster, stop the bleeding. But his Adam's apple moved. And she just...
"Morpheus is merciless. It's late. And I'm...not used to straight razors."
His hands on her waist, lightly. Hers on his shoulders. And her eyes tore themselves from that stream of red, looked up, met by his hazels, seeing his smile. The movement of skin made some more blood seep out of the gash. He drew in a sharp breath. Must...hurt. The tiny droplets died at his clavicle, soaked up by thin fabric. Neither wanted to hold back, or compose themselves. But Trinity was, for about two seconds, shocked at her reaction to that...neck, lined in red. They didn't break the lock of eyes. Neo's breath was hot against her temple. He revelled in the raking of her eyes over him. Her eyelids fluttered. Oh.
"Clumsy", escaped her lips in a gasp. His smile faded.
They brushed against eachother, and pressed, closer. Neo mumbled something inaudible, and tightened his grip. His pulse beat into the small of her back. Her hip bones beat against his for a moment. She brushed what little fringe he had out of his forehead. Ran nails, hard, against his scalp, all the way down, brushing at hairs and metal there. Breaths were stuttered now. Way too quick. Way, way.
But it was all so new, familiar but new, as he caught her mouth mid-inhalation and swallowed her breath. New as she violently forced the door shut, and pressed, and shoved them both, devouring eachother, onto the bed. A slight sound of protest as he hit his head on the edge of the bunk. And then, no more protests. Just her gasps when his fingers dug themselves into her buttocks, and his as she rose above him, straddling his lean thighs, pushing the heels of her hands onto his groin.
"Nice", Trinity growled. Neo made a strangled sound in response. Yeah. He wanted to know why she forced his head to one side, and dove for him. Her tongue said it all. Lapped it up, she did. Sucked it off.
After that, all was quick and furious. No talking, but grunts of unity. Her clothes came off properly, his didn't. But who had the patience to wait? His legs were awkwardly tangled in shapeless trousers, but she would lower herself down on him anyway, like nothing mattered. She braced her forearm against his chest, he struggled a little. Elbow crushed one of his nipples. He gasped. His hands squeezed her breasts, maybe a tad too hard, as she moved. And moved, and moved, until she was barely breathing. And neither was he. They didn't take turns in movement or sounds, all together, maze of skin on the verge of implosion. Her arm gave. Mouths met halfway, and they met, and crashed, until -
Scarlet, he realised. Your lips are scarlet. And they were.
And afterwards, there wasn't enough room to stretch out. So they curled up together, in a bundle of blankets, half-sitting in the dark head corner of their bed. It was a comfortable silence. He rested his cheek against cold metal, to soothe the stinging. His eyelids were dropping. She regarded him, tipping her head backwards. Licked his neck a little, rubbed his thighs between which she sat under the covers. Yawned, and slurred slightly -
"I think I found you, you know."
He made a small noise, an exhausted parody of a giggle. "No shit."
"No, really, I left your building onscreen for Morpheus." She yawned, and hummed when his hands on her stomach rubbed just the right spot there. "And then the day after he went manic."
"He...does...that alot", and Neo was almost gone.
"How's your cheek?", she managed to ask. Mouth refused to work. He sighed, a sigh of surrender.
"Fine", and his lips didn't move. "It's fine." Then they curled up in an undetectable smile.
Two. Things do not change. We change.
That colour, all around. Close your eyes - see grey. Open then - see grey. The colour of it soaked through everything here. Metal. Iron, steel.
And the taste of it, familiar to the tongue. But different, now, since he had swept by and stayed. Before, she could have licked walls. Now, she only needed to lick him. Surrounded by the colour and taste of him instead.
And he, he thought that sometimes he only began to understand her through that - swallowing some of her, and letting her taste the mix of them. I realise you, his tongue would pour into her skin. I do. He hoped that she understood.
More things were different. They had never really talked much on duty, but even less now. He didn't know what to say - she barely knew what to think. That day, hundreds of runs since that first one, she'd stumbled. Really stumbled, lost her balance, and fallen. Erupting from somewhere in her hairline, unreal blood - not warm enough - flooded her vision, there on the ground, and she was being kicked. Stomach, ribs, solar plexus. Over and over, with no chance of a breath. No, her brain pounded, no fucking way. She reached for her unreal gun with her unreal hands in an unreal instant, drew her knees against her chest and shot.
And two shots echoed.
He stood there, tall and dark at her feet, gun in a frozen hand. If she could see properly, she would have noticed his eyes, terrified, glued on her. The SWAT guy, crumpled beside her, had a bullet in his throat. And one in the back of the head. She saw his shadow, eye-level, lowering the gun, then dropping it. Frozen before her.
She stood up slowly, without assistance. It hurt. Willing the trembling in her body away. And then he snapped back, rushed to her. It seemed that he was breathing even harder than herself. And those eyes again, raking over her. He swept his hand and sleeve over her face repeatedly. She swallowed, dryly, and nodded. I'm okay. But still leaning on him, heavily. His voice as he called for an exit was a choked sob, none of the usual hardened monotone. His hand in hers was sticky with her own blood, gluing them together. She was in his arms, without a chance to protest, but he hesitated for a few moments. And then ran. It wasn't far.
Her forehead against his neck tattooed her frown into his skin, in flaking red.
His knees were finally still, now, as he sat on the infirmary floor opposite her. Not trembling anymore. She remembered him screaming at Morpheus for compresses, in a voice almost as rough as the one he'd always reserved for her, under different circumstances. Screaming at Morpheus and getting away with it. Jesus. She had blinked furiously, watching his hands on her in panic. He had slumped against the wall, then, after stopping every stream on her body, making himself small and calming down. She had sat up after a while, her feet barely reaching the floor. They still hadn't said a word to each other. She sighed. It hurt.
"Neo?"
He looked up, finally. The frozen look from inside exchanged for one of shame. At least it wasn't panic. He dared to look at her, and croaked:
"I was so scared", shaking his head a little. "So fucking scared. Couldn't fly." They remained there, a few feet apart. He kicked at the stained rags on the floor, in frustration. "Fuck", he choked quietly. This was too much, too much entirely. And not even the first time.
She exhaled loudly at the confession. All this time, and he still couldn't see. "It was my RSI, not me." The greatest cliché of them all. "And we can't afford to panic, you know we can't." This wasn't fair on him, she knew. But it was true, right?
"RSI my ass!", he rumbled. Looked up at her, eyes wild. "Not you? NOT YOU!? Fuck that, Trinity. Stop reciting the goddamn code of honour!" He was angry now. All this time, and she still couldn't see...
"Like you've never taken a beating?", came her frustrated voice. "You have, and you know how we're supposed to handle it."
"That's different."
No way. "No, Neo. It's not. It's no fucking different at all. You're not immortal, either. You'll never be immortal, and you can't always rush to me. I can handle myself." She gritted her teeth, and didn't look at him. He looked at her, pierced her. And then at his hands, as stained with her blood as his clothes.
When she looked up again, his palms were stretched out and open, for her to see. And his eyes, dark and dry. And his voice, a small thunder. "It"s always you. Don't ever tell me it's not you. It is always you." And his fingerprints, in that same blood, darker and drier with every moment.
Still on the floor, he bit his nails, tasting metal and skin. Didn't care. Teeth scraped flakes of flesh and copper from his bottom lip. Eyes shut too tight, he beat the back of his head against the wall a few times, lightly. He heard her breathe. She coughed quietly.
"Come here." It sounded like the plea of a proud person. She had always personified duality to him. A paradox, almost.
He moved slowly, unsurely, until his hands were on her knees, and his eyes hidden from her behind tense lids. But she touched his forehead, first with a hand and then mouth. He bit his lip. So hard. "I think I need to learn...", he whispered, not sure what he meant. Learn to detach himself, maybe. Or learn to trust her with her own life. Trust her with everything.
She was still, save the tiny kiss to his chin. "Know", she said softly. "I know. Me too." Trust him with her life. Just trust him, for fuck's sake. His lips soothed her temple. She thought she heard him sniffle quietly. She wanted to sniffle, but could just cough. Iron, on her tongue.
And with the taste of the quiet, still kiss, the difference came to them. The synchrony of it might have been too eerie for consciousness. But there it was. Something else, entirely. I realise you. I do.
One. Faith in chaos.
There is nothing to be known like the feel of sweeping force, in a world where there is no wind. Neo liked it, somewhat shamefully, that there was room to move here. He could sprawl out properly in bed - and sometimes, even though closeness was addictive, he wanted to. He could take real paces wherever he went, without having to watch his head or feet. If he felt like it, he could run, aimlessly, without actually going anywhere. It was liberating. On rare occasions, he got to raise his voice over the sound of innumerable drums and feet, sometimes even dance with her. Zion parties were insane, intimidating and guiltily arousing, all skin on skin and madly warm. There really was no wind in this world.
Dancing hadn't come naturally at first, but hell, what was natural anyway? Still, it felt right when she'd drag him away from the wall, the pressure of solid rock against his body exchanged for that of her hands. If he would have cared to look, he might have seen the marks her fingers left on his arm - first pale, then darker, and at last almost burgundy (blood, gathered underneath paper thin skin). Instead, he would turn to her, grin, and they would join the dancers. He'd feel a little awkward there, but confidence always grew, and before he knew it...
The pounding of beat and bodies, claiming the space as their own. No wind, but forceful gusts of breath instead. It always felt slightly unreal, almost pornographic. This couldn't be, nothing as unabashed as this could be. But she liked it, and so did he. A facilitative function, even though they didn't need any assistance. And then - retreating, back to where the drums could be felt rather than heard, vibrating through everything. They did that every time. However brief their visits were, they always felt like a rush to the head. Carefree in the space between two breaths.
One night, when he'd fallen asleep sprawled out on his stomach, Trinity raised her head from his shoulder, and looked for the marks of her fingertips. When she found them, she traced them gently, and heard a light snore, partly muffled by a pillow that smelled of them both. Later, she fell asleep clutching that thin arm tightly, breath leaving condense patches on his skin that disappeared a second later. When he woke up, the tiny ache brought everything back. The only time she got to see his Cheshire cat grin was upon opening her eyes and finding herself pinned to the bed, the madman above her humming insanely through that toothy smile. She'd loved it, taken it to heart.
But then, as everything began to accelerate around them - much too quick to allow for adaptation - things changed. Visits to Zion got fewer, their captain clenched his jaws more often and they themselves grew cautious, thinner, paler. They'd frown at each other for staring blankly at the nutritious meal from hell before them, yet sigh and leave their own. And they didn't quite know why. But always, always when Morpheus called them down for a run, they silently expected the worst. Three or two or one, digital bones were still only bones. It made them both lose their appetites.
Things were moving too fast, days and nights of permanent grey before eyes became a blur. And why? Exhaustion, probably, Neo thought. But Trinity knew better. Even the skin around his eyes is grey.
The Neb's usually much-needed food reserve went untouched for too long, so Link had to chuck it out one night when they were docked.
Trinity was sure that she had a cannon ball lodged deep in her gut. It weighed her down, from the moment she closed her eyes until she opened them again. She was fairly sure that for some reason, Neo never closed his at all. He had left her earlier, in the middle of the night, after yet another futile attempt at intimacy that had ended in dry sighs and apologies. She remembered his slow, callused hands on her, and his chapped lip caught between her teeth. And though bodies usually took over in situations like these, this wasn't working. His eyes had nailed hers with a dull glow, and he had sighed.
"This isn't working", he had mumbled with defeat in his voice. She could only shake her head. And instead of touching her that way he did - with lust and maybe a little too rough enthusiasm - he'd spooned her to his chest, and she had let him. She thought that maybe it was best like this, for them to be quiet and sleep.
A little sting of disappointment, because he didn't want her at that moment, but she realised that he probably did. Yeah, he probably matched herself in that department. But somehow the signals didn't connect the way they should. And even under his fingernails, the skin was greyish. They lay there, and the only certainty present was the impassionate clasp of hands, and his body, stiff behind her. Then he left, and she didn't flinch for one moment, even though she was awake.
He drank, even though he knew that he was usurping someone else's ration. Didn't matter, he needed some water. On his way into the mess, fingers against wall for support, he'd stubbed his toe against the door frame. Hopefully it hadn't woken anyone. He thought that maybe, he should try to learn orientating himself in the dark. Because this, failing to sleep, failing to forget that...dream, and having to leave in his small shame at failing to give Trinity what she wanted, this had happened a lot lately.
Maybe, Neo thought, they'd started taking things for granted. Like yeah, we're lovers, I love you and we're here. Not always going to be here, flashed a brief realisation. And his breath caught, mid-sip. He choked for a moment and shrugged the thought off. Maybe it was the overload of normalness in their contact, the hibernation of life on the Neb, that had put them here. Even more likely than that was the fact that they just didn't eat. Trinity was hardly more than cling film over sinew and bone these days, and he knew that he probably matched that.
And that dream...you're insane Neo, your brain is fucking with you. But still, it was there. No way. No way. This needed to end, and now. Because contact, he thought, had indeed become addictive. He stared into compact darkness for a few minutes, then carefully drew two mugs of water and headed back.
She was there, eyes blue and alert, when he came back. A slight enquiry in her look at his goose bumped skin and mugs in his hands. Neo forced himself to return her stare, even though it scared him, for some reason. But tenderness won out. They'd got through the suspicious phase long ago.
Trinity saw the veins, almost fluorescent, wired over his hand as he crouched before her on the floor and handed her one of the mugs. "Thought you might be thirsty." Nothing else, no explanation, no flicker.
She shrugged, unconscious of how angry the movement looked to him. "Neo-"
"I want you", he deadpanned. And then, God, he started speaking, eyes telling her what a struggle this was. "I'm sorry that I haven't been - well, you know, and I'm trying. I am. But there's just..." He chewed on his lip, dry flakes of skin rubbing off. "Look at us, Trinity! We don't even eat anymore, how are we supposed to-"
She moved to touch him, taken aback by words that made no sense. But she knew what he meant. She moved to touch his face, but he flinched away.
"I'm sorry. Okay? If you just tell me what's wrong, or what you want, I'll fix this." And she didn't say anything, and he was quiet. But his eyes pleaded silently, under their lids, and she knew that things were moving, maybe even in the right direction.
Her fingers brushed his briefly, as she took the mug from him, and she felt a tiny stirring. Look at us, he'd said. No pretty sight, she knew. But she wanted - she needed...
"Water's good", she started tentatively, eyes trying to pour into him that beating yes - yes - yes deep in her stomach. The cannon ball was rolling off. She took a loud sip, then another. Motioned for him to do the same. He did, still kneeling on the floor. They didn't touch each other, until she grabbed his wrist. Face open and lips less dry then, as he looked at her. "Drink" - her voice firm - "but don't swallow."
You don't need to fix anything, Trinity thought. She watched him gulp down some water, confused at her command. But trusting, always willing. Then she sat up properly, and took his face in her hands. His cheeks a little rounded, with the mouthful of water. And eyes - burning, again. The perpetual tightness in her jaw subsided ever so slightly. She nodded a little, and drew them together. Hands went to her sides when he realised what was going on, and with the lock of lips, all carefulness escaped. Left was only grey, turning slowly into pink, then red. And water flowed freely between them, and even the slurping sounds somehow seemed right. And the fluid motion of tongues and hands and sounds, wrapping them in cotton wool.
The day after, she woke up alone again. Found him in the mess, choking down water. "They're just dreams." Leave it. His skin looked a little better. She still looked like shit, but felt reassured, somehow. They had to leave quickly, then, and shed all thoughts of nightmares or worries. All part of the business. The world was closing in, much too fast, and things were about to...who knew?
What he did know was her brief sparkling look when Morpheus said that they needed to recharge. And that flash of rightness before his eyes.
Then they went to Zion, and anonymity was too much to ask for. No more carefreeness, maybe not even laughter. And they didn't enter the temple together. Nor did they dance. But anticipation, mixed with dull worry and uncertainty, made the meeting all the more potent. Oh yeah, all the more.
And after that, there was a knock on the door, and no turning back.
Zero. Shape without form, shade without colour.
In the faint whisper of aftermath, he may feel the dampness of a cold breath on his face. It is proof enough. Maybe she feels grateful that she can still speak. He might feel guilty at his inability to see. But here, there are no apologies. There is no need for them, no need for anything. And yet - she will speak. He will move.
And they may have run out of time, but choose to go on, just a little bit longer.
Maybe she will exhale, hacking silently, and will for hands to join. She cannot reach but wanting is enough. And he will know, somehow, and move. As if instinctively, his hands will just avoid the glossiness pooling beneath her. But elbow will plunge right in. His shirt will soak some of it up. Marked. She might be relieved that he can't see it. But maybe she will want him to. This is me. This is me now.
They will join hands, because they know.
Perhaps, when he realises, he will try to force his eyes open, on reflex, and bite back a cry when the pain jolts through him. Maybe he won't feel it at all. And when he realises, everything will slide, fade, burn away. When he feels her, broken flesh fused with ripped yarn by little pools of blood, he might wonder for an instant. Is this you? Is this you now?
Then she will watch him tremble, and he'll feel her soft calm, and tremble more. She will exhale and she will shut her eyes. There won't be a reason for his own eyes to open anymore. Nor for hers. The dark is the dark is the dark. But not yet.
She will start speaking, a distant whiff of stale iron hitting him in the face. And she will tell him what she's choked on before, because now, there is no need to choke. But he will - on the tears that don't exist. If she could move, she might have hushed him, like earlier. Moments, eons of time. With you. And now, with you.
And it will hit her, deliriously, that this could be the only time she's really done what she wanted. Not craved, not needed, just wanted. But she won't feel like she's been wasting her time, not right here with those fingertips on what is still intact of her. And scarlet will flash before her eyes.
He will stutter back bile. She will swallow back blood. Iron, on her tongue.
Then he will stop his trembling, and soothe. And she will ask him for it, simply, and he will answer. No words. Guilt will escape him, and maybe this is where he will feel it flashing, deep in there somewhere. The scarlet. And there won't be a need for eyes at all. There won't be a need.
Aftermath is a faint whisper, and all there is, is a sound of breathing, even and shallow. Aftermath is a faint whisper, but you are a scream, a final holler. Do you want to turn back? Would you? No. It's here, in the cold of the now, that you get what you want for one moment. Aftermath, right before nothing.
And maybe here, right here, is where you finally get it. The feel of a person.
(fin)
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