okteiviakom | The Cape Rouge, Port of Fandom, Early Friday Evening

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The Cape Rouge, Port of Fandom, Early Friday Evening

Octavia's mood had not improved since the morning. In fact, it was significantly worse. See, her lack of sleep had eventually caught up with her, and without meaning to, she'd dozed off on her won boat -- Only to have woken up groggy and terrified, her heart trying to beat its way through her ribcage because of the things she'd seen. The bunker in flames, and everyone, everyone she had ever loved, turning away from her, one by one. Disgusted, disappointed, as if she'd done everything for fun, for herself, and not to keep each and every one of them as safe as she could.

And her, screaming at them to please understand.

So no. Octavia's mood had not improved.

She'd stayed on the Samsara as long as it had taken for her pulse and breathing to both even out. And then she'd stalked down the dock back over to the Rouge. And there, after some pacing, desperately needing something to do, she'd made her way down into the hold. They'd set up Duke's old, barely-used punching bag down there earlier in the week, for her to let off steam. And right now, she really needed something to take the edge off even a little bit of the mess roiling inside her.

She just barely had her hands wrapped before she took the first swing.

And then another. And another.

And another.

[ooc: For one. Kinda sorta taken from The 100 S6 episode 2. Content warning for the entire post for violence, magical manipulation, pain-as-therapy/magic-powers-as-drugs and generally unhealthy/self-destructive coping strategies. ETA CW also for suicidal ideation.]

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Duke was in a bit of a mood today himself. Though his was all magic water balloon based, and thus much easier to dissipate.

He heard her working on the bag just as he poured himself a drink, and headed down to the hold to watch.

"Rough day?"

The way Octavia kept hitting the bag like it was personally responsible for everything bad that had happened to her was probably answer enough in itself. It had to be. He wasn't getting one out of her. She'd barely heard him, and it had done nothing to the look of tight, grim determination on her face.

She could feel every hit reverberate up her arm. Knew she'd be sore later.

And welcomed it.

Duke nodded like she'd answered, anyway. "Knew I bought that thing for a reason," he said, sipping his drink and moving closer to lean against some nearby crates. "I'm not going to tell you not to beat up your feelings, but when you're done, maybe we can . . . talk?"

Karolina's advice about not assuming he knew what Octavia needed was ringing in his head. Maybe it really would help her to hear that he was struggling, too.

Octavia stopped. But her fists remained up, and then her posture seemed to tighten up even further.

"Don't want to talk."

She had no reason to assume he didn't mean he just wanted her to talk.

The next punch was harder. To an unnecessary degree, actually.

"Of course you don't." Duke wasn't able to keep the frustrated edge out of his voice. "Right, well. Carry on with your beating things up, then."

Octavia did not reply. Just kept hitting the bag. And not alternating punches, either: just a vicious right hook over and over again. And then she faltered, with a hiss, when a stinging sensation told her she'd probably split a knuckle.

But the pause lasted a couple of seconds, at most, and she didn't even check her hand.

Just went right back into it. Hitting, hitting, hitting, like the pain could drown out the echoes of the words she'd heard in her dreams.

Everyone wishes you were dead.

And Duke was here to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't just keep going until she broke something.

Like herself.

So when he saw a flash of red on her hand, he set his drink aside. "Okay, maybe at least switch it up?"

"No."

No, she needed this.

(She deserved this.)

She kept going.

"Octavia," Duke said, voice going sharper. He couldn't bodily pull her away, not if she was bleeding. "Stop."

"No."

Octavia had saved them all. Made them all into Wonkru warriors, fighters, even the ones who'd once been Skaikru. She'd given them something to believe in. And what had they been once they'd been up on the prison ship, before the multiverse had yanked her back again? Cowards.

Had she failed?

She hit even harder.

Edited 2020-07-03 17:22 (UTC)

"Octavia." Duke moved in, hovering a foot or so away, his hands up. He wanted to grab her again, like he had in her apartment, physically pull her back and out of whatever fugue she was working herself into. "Hey, come on," he said instead. "You're bleeding."

If only Octavia had actually heard him past sound of blood rushing in her ears, past how loud her thoughts were, how tight they were wrapping around all her senses.

And if only she hadn't already been turning to give him a shove away because she needed this.

The blood from her hand splattered onto Duke's as he automatically grabbed for her wrists to defend himself.

With adrenaline already pumping, fight or flight already activated, he didn't stand a chance against the wave of power and euphoria that thrummed through him when it absorbed into his skin.

Did she need him to shove back? Because his shove was a hell of a lot more powerful for hers, and aimed at the hold's thick steel walls.

It felt a lot like being hit with one of Eligius drill guns. One second her feet were firmly planted against the floor, the next she got tossed like a ragdoll. Her back took the most of the hit, but the back of her head still bounced off the wall in a way that made stars pop up in her field of vision, and she crumpled onto the floor.

She must've bit her lip or her tongue on impact, because even though she was momentarily too dizzy to really place the stinging, she could still feel the taste of blood fill her mouth.

Her laugh was a startled, wild sound.

Maybe she had needed a shove back, yes. And she was already struggling to get back onto her feet.

Duke stood just where he'd been, as though he'd grown roots. He dropped his shaking hands to his sides as his eyes faded from silver back to brown. "Shit," he panted. "Shit, shit, Tavi. Are you okay?"

Octavia had to lean pretty heavily on the wall for support to get back up. Her head was swimming, her gaze unfocused. And still, she pushed away from the wall to take a few slow, staggering steps towards him.

There was blood down her chin, and her teeth were red as her lips pulled into a smile. "Do that again," she rasped. Her voice sounded wet in all the wrong ways.

Everything hurt, and it was the best she'd felt all day.

"What?" Duke backed up half a step. It should have been further, but she was bleeding and part of him still wanted to help, still thought he could -- "No, are you kidding?"

Octavia was looking at him, but her vision was blurry, doubling up. Couldn't even tell what color his eyes were.

So she wasn't seeing him. Just his trouble. Just the promise of destruction. "Do it." She swayed in his direction. "They'd want you to."

Maybe after that, she could finally rest.

Duke was shaking his head, but froze at that. "Who are they?"

Well, at least the smile finally faded. "Everyone," Octavia replied, her voice growing more hoarse. Her temple throbbed, and she closed her eyes for a few seconds. "Everyone who wishes I was dead."

Her eyes fluttered open again, but just as unfocused as before. She wiped blood off her chin with a careless hand, really just smearing it further.

"Starting with Bellamy."

Duke was rooted in place again, staring at the blood on her skin.

Telling himself he didn't want to feel what it did on his.

"Why would your brother want you dead?"

Octavia didn't answer. She was looking at her bloodied hand. The wrap was stained red on both sides now.

Jus drein jus daun.

Blood was a debt to be paid.

And she could be free of this weight inside her if she felt nothing at all. Feed it to a power bigger than her, and let it consume her.

She staggered forward, tried to press her hand over his.

And Duke couldn't help but try to catch her. And get a whole extra load of blood to go with it.

He sucked in a breath, trying to fight down the paradoxical urge to strike back, to destroy the source of all this power. His eyes flared up bright and he wrenched back from her with a wounded sound.

"Tavi," he breathed. "Run."

Octavia did not run.

Octavia closed her eyes, and waited for the strike to come. Just like she had in the gorge.

She was ready.

Duke staggered back, pressing his hands under his arms as he doubled over.

She wanted it. He wanted it, wanted to let go and give in.

But he could still see the moment when he sent Nathan plummeting over the edge of the Rouge. When he'd nearly killed the first person he'd loved.

He would not do that again.

Nothing happened.

Octavia heard movement, and nothing happened. Her eyes opened, and the disappointment to the point of heartbreak was plain on her face. She didn't just want it, she needed it. The pain was crushing her.

Jus drein jus daun.

More. She needed to feed it more. Hurried, uncoordinated, scrambling, Octavia wiped both hands down her bloodied chin. Then rushed him.

Her hands reached for his cheeks.

"Tavi, no, stop --" Duke couldn't get away in time. Both her hands hitting him, all that blood hitting him at once was more than he could take. His head rocked back with a strangled moan, and his hand shot forward again.

Not to shove her away this time. To grab her, his hand locking tight around her throat as he lifted her bodily into the air.

He wasn't picturing Nathan anymore. He wasn't thinking about anything but the rush, the delight at being let loose.

He was a creature of destruction. And she was one that needed to be destroyed.

There it was.

Octavia's feet left the floor again, and her face twisted into a horrible look of triumph, even as the most primal of survival instincts kicked in to make her struggle against his hold, to make her try to gasp for breath.

Trouble was, her mouth was bleeding. Trouble was, that blood ran down her neck.

Trouble was Duke's trouble just. Kept. Going off.

His chest heaved as more and more adrenaline and endorphins flooded his system. "Is this," he ground out through clenched teeth, "what you want? Is it why you came back?"

"Their," Octavia wheezed, "absolution."

What her dreams thought they wanted.

What she needed.

Her vision was starting to go a little gray around the edges, and she didn't know whether it was the likely concussion or his hand around her throat. Made no difference. She tried to swallow, made a little choking sound. "Omon gon oson."

There. That. That choking sound. That was the straw.

Duke let out an aborted yowl and let her go, curling in on himself and dropping to the floor. Without the constant contact with her blood, his trouble started to taper off again immediately, and he could once again think.

No matter how much he wished he couldn't.

He scrambled back, knocking into the crate he'd been leaning on, sending his bottle crashing to the floor. He didn't care. Just wrapped his arms over his head and tried to breathe.

Octavia's feet did not make enough contact with the floor to actually hold her up after he dropped her, and so she ended up in a heap on the floor. Disappointment filled her in time with air filling her lungs again.

The tears came soon after.

"Please," she whimpered.

Duke jerked at the sound of her voice, a full body flinch.

"You can't --" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. "You can't do that to me."

He'd thought they were on the same side there. That his trouble was bad, to be avoided. He'd thought they were a team.

Octavia was on his team when she was where he was. But right now, she was in the gorge. (And in her office. And in the cave during the black rain.) And she'd been there since the moment she'd woken up back on the island.

She slammed her hands helplessly against the floor and rocked herself back and forth as she sobbed.

Relief wasn't coming.

And god help him, Duke wanted to give it to her. He wanted so badly to take away everything that upset her.

Even if it took away an important part of himself.

Which was exactly why he couldn't. He hadn't been able to save his father. He hadn't been able to win over his mother. He hadn't kept Nathan or Evi, and he couldn't bring Octavia back to who she'd been before Fandom had sent her home. No matter how many pieces he carved off himself trying.

"You can't do that," he said again, voice low. As much to himself as to her. "You can't. You can't."

And that would seep into Octavia's consciousness later, and crush her just a little bit more. But for now, she needed to cry out her anguish. She was curling up into a ball, her hands pressing her head down.

Everything still hurt, but none of it felt good anymore.

"I have to go."

Duke scrambled up, his feet slipping in the spilled bourbon and broken glass. He made it across the hold and out the door, just barely stopping himself from shutting and locking the door behind him.

Octavia didn't feel safe anymore. The Rouge didn't feel safe.

He wasn't sure anywhere would.

Octavia stayed on the floor. Barely heard him, then barely realized he left. Definitely couldn't do anything about either.

She stayed behind.

Still sobbing convulsively.

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The Cape Rouge, Port of Fandom, Early Friday Evening

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