chariot { lex + denali }

we don't need ghost stories
let's live in the moment

"Boop!"

Lex taps Denali’s nose with the beak of her completed whittling project. There’s no response from the Lyons girl, lost in catatonic panic over the worst memories carried within her heart and the realization that she didn’t leave all of her humanity in her little sister’s hands for safekeeping like she thought. That or maybe it regrows. All these old feelings keep bursting forth from empty places Denali told herself would stay unoccupied, at least until she returned home. Just because she doesn’t always allow emotion to touch her face doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have a secret refuge within her. That it does is the problem.

Something taps at her teeth, insistently naming itself as her new target for absent destruction. She bites on it softly, uncertain, but gives it a chance because the shape feels nice within her hand. "Hey Freckles, you still in there? Denali?" Lex’s voice sounds different than the rambling of her stories, edged with the smallest hint of concern instead of the casual tone of someone talking just to kill the silence. "Look..." And Denali does, meeting her eyes with an open stare. Numb, but attentive. "I’m no knight in shining armor." No kidding. "I’m just some bitch in a battle jacket." One corner of Denali’s mouth attempts to hook itself up, sending a little twitch across her lips that echoes momentarily between her eyebrows. "And when it comes down to it, I’m leaving your ass for the wolves if it means saving mine."

There has always been something suspicious about people who say things out loud that should go without saying. (We’re sorry for your loss.) It’s as if they’re worried that Denali might be able to hear the little contradiction of truth whispered in their head if they don’t make some kind of noise to drown it out. Lex clears her throat. "I’m not making a habit of saving you, so don’t make a habit of needing saving." The secret to being a good liar is not giving a shit that the words coming out of your mouth are half-truths, exaggerations, or straight up fiction. (I feel like I’m okay now and that home will just feel like home again. I owe it all to you for helping me come to terms with my emotions. Thank you — so much — for everything.) "Or do. You’re an adult. Do whatever you want." Lex’s ears burn, telltale color sneaking onto her cheeks, and Denali’s expression finally cracks into the deep frown of someone who wishes she didn’t speak this language.

"Don’t —" Picking at the hem of her gown with the hand that isn’t wrapped around the redwood bribe for attention, Denali’s fingers stretch and curl and stretch again, as if waking up from a long nap. "Don’t feel guilty about it. I get that we have to kill each other." Eyes dropping to the ground, she thinks of Oliver; of his sword and his spite. "But we don’t have to be mean about it. Like..." Toeing the cart, her boot clicks down a row in the steel gridwork. "If it comes down to me and you then just... don’t be an asshole about it. Just this one thing." Stress chewing a little more forcefully on the edge of the carving Lex pressed to her mouth, Denali rubs her palms against her knees, her fidgeting settling slightly with the burn of sweat in the fresh bite marks. "Don’t call me a bitch if you’re the one with a knife to my throat." (I hope you know that you deserve to feel pain.) "Don’t tell me I deserve it; don’t make that the last thing I ever hear."

Revulsion flickers across Lex’s face, caught off guard by actual honesty. Maybe they’d both rather face the wolves than a second round of cruelty. Denali only lies when the truth wouldn’t make a difference and she doesn’t want to waste her breath pretending she hates someone that she doesn’t; there are already too many opportunities in her life for sincerity on that front. "Sure," Lex blinks like hitting a panic button and her expression immediately flips to a smirk, "if I’m about to slit your throat it’d be rude of me not to compliment your eyes first." The snark hangs awkwardly in the air between them, despite how smooth the well practiced delivery is. It doesn’t take a lifelong relationship to recognize a signature move that’s already been busted out too many times to count within the intense stress of the past twenty-four hours. Denali snarls and gnashes her teeth when pushed over the line while Lex tries to pull a fast one on any trouble that finds her; they’re both too obvious for their own good. Like every other time, Denali rolls her eyes. "Well," the blonde relents, but moves her attention to a deeply fascinating corner of the yoga mat. "what do you want me to say?"

Shifting her weight onto her knees, Denali releases the carving from her lips and grabs onto the side of the cart, pulling herself up to prop her chin on the edge. Her head tilts in serious contemplation. "I dunno..." It’s a little startling when someone actually cares about an answer to a question they’ve asked her. (Denali, how do you feel?) There is a voice in her chest that warns her not to waste hope on what she wants from such fleeting companionship. "More nice stories about your dad and your cat," she hesitates — trying not to hit another switch — running a thumb over the bird in her hand, "and how you won’t go back and just be sad and drunk about how you killed me that one time." She doesn’t punctuate the statement with a grin or a laugh because it’s not a joke.

It’s quiet between them, but not the terrible kind. Lex keeps her face tucked out of sight, as if she can feel Denali’s shameless staring. Despite the silence, she doesn’t try to backtrack or begrudge the other girl’s right to take some time for herself. It’s only after a long stretch of minutes have passed that Denali finally attempts to explain her own catatonic shutdown. "That hole in Zion’s face... it wasn’t very good at keeping things in his head anymore." Running a finger down the middle of her eyepatch, Denali’s voice catches on itself. "So when we got him back — in this ugly crate that gave us all splinters," pausing, she dangles her arm over the side of the cart, offering a long, straight scar across her palm up for Lex’s inspection, "there was this cavern where his eye used to be and stuff had fallen in and gotten stuck. Packing peanuts. Sand. A dead fly." For a moment her voice is as flat and unresponsive as her expression following this morning’s fight. "Seville picked everything out with tweezers because nobody else could stand it, not even our dad. But my mom and I were the ones who bandaged Zi's head so there could be an open casket at his funeral." The scar on Denali’s outstretched hand continues to hang between them, bright white and permanent.