paradisalogs | against the tide we struggle with the skin we’re in

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against the tide we struggle with the skin we’re in

Who: Clementine and Lee
What: Clem wakes up after being unconscious for a week and a trip home.
When: January 2nd
Where: Clem's room
Rating: S for Sad, most likely. And spoilery!

Clementine wakes up with a sharp, startled gasp. She immediately regrets sitting upright in her bed (her bed? a bed? both seem wrong) because it sends a sharp pain down her arm. Her head hurts too, but that pain is a new one. Still, her arm calls her attention first and foremost. She looks down, past her blood-stained sleeve, cringing at her sloppy stitching. The bite still weeps, and she can see in between the puckered flesh. Better than before, but still bad. Probably safe from infection, but the pain is still the same.

Paradisa. That's where she was. Worlds away from that cold, broken shack.

Did she have to worry about sickness here? No, most likely not, but that thought doesn't comfort her. Paradisa. She's back, years later. There aren't any walkers here. No reason to scan the room for weaknesses in the walls or eye the windows as if something will crash through. She reaches up for her hat, only remembering when her hand touches her hair that it's never been here with her. It took it. She'd been okay without it--if only she had that knowledge at home. She could have been more willing to part with it, and things would be different.

There were a lot of things she'd do differently.

But being here again means that she left. Somehow. Everything is foggy, but between her aches and pains she can feel a pressure squeezing her chest. She went home. She never, ever, ever wanted to go home. A little taller, a lot thinner, and a lot more tired is the girl that's come back. And she feels guilty for it.

All she can do is sit in a bed in a room that's both familiar and unfamiliar. The brightly colored bedding and toys littering the corners seem like they belong to someone else. They used to be hers. Are hers? She has no idea.

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This has been one of the toughest weeks of Lee Everett's life. Of course, he'd thought the same when he'd been going through the murder trial; he'd thought it again that first week after the walkers had started roaming the streets, and countless other times since then. This had made every single one of them pale horribly in comparison.

The stakes were different now. His own life was over, no matter how hard he clung to the shadows of it here, but it was a different story for the little girl who was supposed to be in his care. Except she'd been asleep, hadn't stirred for days, and the this particular brand panic was one he had stopped being so used to months ago.

It's mere minutes after Clementine wakes up that he's slipping back into her room - he's never out of it for long - clearly exhausted but freshly washed, and out of habit he nearly moves to the chair that's sitting not far from the side of her bed. Except she's sitting, and her eyes are open, and his breath catches uncomfortably in his throat.

He stops where he is, momentarily frozen. In a moment, Lee will notices the changes, the age, the thinness, but for now all he can focus on is the fact that she's awake, her eyes are open, and that she's here.

"Morning, sweet pea."

It comes low, and there's absolute no way to mask the relief dripping from his voice.

Meanwhile, she looks like she's seen a ghost. The last of any color drains from her face and her eyes go wide--Paradisa and Lee went hand in hand, of course, but her brain hadn't bothered to remind her of that because she'd gone so long without him. All she had was what she learned from him. Memories that she held on to when Christa blocked her out, or when she wondered what point there was to struggling on as she did.

Lee was alive in this place. That's why she never wanted to leave. She didn't want to be the girl that had to kill the man that taught her how to survive. She didn't want to be alone. But here he was, living and breathing and not looking at all like those last moments. He looked like he did in the photo she had of him, healthy and whole. She tried hard to remember him that way.

Seeing him that way now though, just feels like her insides are being gripped by ice.

"N-no, no, no," are the first words out of her mouth, but she's not sure why that's the sound she's stuck on.

Edited 2013-12-29 20:15 (UTC)

Her face is different. Older, and while Lee knows next to nothing about kids, that much would be impossible to miss. So time had passed -- how much, exactly? Lee's throat tightens, and when Clem starts to speak, the stuttered nos have him forgetting momentarily how to breathe.

No to what? Is it just shock, or does she have an actual reason for not wanting to see him?

Despite the overwhelming urge to approach, to wrap her in a hug to prove that yes, she's still there, yes, she's awake, he knows better, and awkwardly lifts his arms, palms out in what he hopes is a calming gesture.

"It's just me, Clementine." Lee's tone is careful, even, despite the way his heart is beating hard in his throat. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Sometimes she thinks she misses Lee more than her parents. It's a guilt-inducing thought, but Lee's the one she wishes for when she's scared. Maybe it's just too hard imagining her parents going through the things they did. Doing the things Lee had to do.

Ultimately, they all met the same fate, so... it wasn't worth spending too much time dwelling on how things would have gone if they hadn't left her with a babysitter. Clementine does her best not to think about it. The thoughts often found their way in anyway. Lee, her parents. She'll never have both.

But Lee is here. Others, too--Ben, Carley, Molly. Her friends. Paradisa wasn't safe from everything, but it was safe enough. It's not difficult to remember why she wanted to live here.

Clementine clumsily shoves aside the blankets on her lap to run to Lee and bury her face into his shirt. He smells clean and real and feels warm. He's the man in the photo, not the corpse she had made the mistake of glancing at before leaving the city. It's more than enough to get her crying. She's cried a fair amount, but not with big, heavy tears and sobs. Not like this.

Her arm is on fire, wrapped around him, but she doesn't care. She would happily keep it there forever. Just as long as she never has to go home again. Sacrificing her own arm would be nothing. Just for a little more time.

In reality, it was only a few moments before Clementine shoved the blankets aside and came running for him, but that was more than enough time for his mind to kick into overdrive, to imagine a half dozen horrible possibilities for her reaction to be what it was. Did she not remember Paradisa at all? Had hink of any of thahe attacked her as a walker?

But there's no time to dwell when she's on her feet and with her face in his shirt, and he immediately winds his around her in return, pulling her tightly to him and taking a low breath in an attempt to steady himself. Lee can't say that he's thrilled that she's crying, but crying is far, far better than unconscious silence broken only by quiet, rhythmic breathing for days.

"It's okay. It's alright." He won't tell her to stop; she probably doesn't get a lot of chances to let go like this, and the thought makes his chest tighten uncomfortably. "Cry it out, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Lee," she squeaks out between sobs that make her shoulders heave. The walkie talkie, the stranger, her lies--if she had just told him the truth, if she had never talked to that strange man, then Lee might have lived longer. Killing him was the kindest thing to do, but she still killed him. She put a bullet in everything that made Lee Lee.

She imagines he doesn't know what she's apologizing for. That's okay. He can ask. That's okay, too. Lee knows his fate, and maybe in some sick way he'd be proud of her. It had hurt and been the most difficult thing in her entire life (now and forever), but she had pulled the trigger, found Omid and Christa. Kept her hair short. Kept moving. Avoided cities. The first step was always the hardest.

He can't imagine what she might be apologizing for, but right now, he doesn't want to ask. That can come later, when things are less emotionally charged, when he's less desperately grateful to simply have her awake again. Instead, he's just kneeling before he gathers her into his arms again, trying to tuck her face against his shoulder as he pats his hand against the center of his back.

Lee's own breathing is, somehow, impossibly level, even if there is a marked delay before he speaks again.

"You'd best be sorry. Thought I made it pretty clear that you'd be in charge of taking Copper out for his walks, and then you up and disappear on me." He has to make a conscious effort to relax his arms; they're on the verge of trembling.

Clementine's fingers clutch at the fabric of Lee's shirt. The motion makes her forearm feel like she's pulling it apart, but again it goes ignored. Her entire weight leans against him as she cries. It's not much. It's been a long time since she's had a real meal.

Copper. Copper? It takes a few moments for the name to register. That's right. She has a puppy. She had been so comfortable here that she wanted a puppy. It gets a little half-groan out of her as she clings to him. Dogs.

"I missed you," she says, and there's a lot more she knows how to give voice to now that she's older. Things she wished she had said to him before the end. "I miss you all the time."

He hasn't noticed her arm - it's hard to, when he's busy just trying to hold her, to soothe her, and perhaps worse is the fact that he doesn't even think to check her for injury. That can come later. It can all come later. Nothing is more important than this right now.

"You got taller. Hair's still short." He shuts his eyes and makes another go at swallowing the lump in his throat. Goddamn. After everything he'd been through - one little girl had him unraveling at the seams. "Doing good for yourself, Clem... I'm proud of you."

Doing good? Not really. Christa was dead. She was injured. Alone. People thought she was bitten by a walker. Kept in a shack and left to die? Not really what Clementine would call good, but she can't talk about any of that right now. Not when she has Lee back.

She sniffles, but doesn't bother wiping away the tears that are still coming.

"How long was I gone?" Not as long as it's been for her, she's sure, but she can't tell. Days? Weeks? "I was... playing, with--Ellie, and then..."

Playing. With another kid. Ellie had seemed so much older than her back then.

"Just a week."

Lee draws back now, just enough to try to get a good look at her face. One of his hands moves to her shoulder, the other reaching to try to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "Longest week of my life, but just a week. All of the others--"

That's blood on her sleeve. Blood on her sleeve, and a sloppily stitched wound, and for the second time in a half hour Lee Everett forgets how to make himself breathe. No. No, not her, not like this, god-fucking-dammit, and the squeeze of his hand on her shoulder grows tight. Not painful, but probably uncomfortable, and his tone is quiet, shakier than her stitching.

"How did it happen?"

"It was a dog."

The words come out quickly. She knows what he must be thinking--it's what everyone thinks. This wasn't a walker.

While she kept it together when trying to convince the group at the cabin, the tears continue to roll down Clem's cheeks in front of Lee. She feels like a little kid again, nine years old and frightened. He had to believe her. If Lee thought she was lying, she wouldn't know what to do.

"I swear. It was a dog. It attacked me. I swear, it's not--I'm not--it was just a dog."

Even through the tears, there's a firmness to Clem's voice. There were hints of it when she was younger, but now she's able to grasp it and use it to make a point. An unfortunate encounter with a starved animal. That's all it was.

There's only a split second of conflict on Lee's face. The bite, right there on her arm - reminded him so much of his own, and how many nights had he spent dwelling on the scar that was still there? A coincidence that she was bitten there, but sometimes that's all they were: coincidences, sheer bad luck, and his hand loosens, his heart stops pounding so hard in his ears.

He takes her chin gently in his hand, lifting it slightly to inspect her; she's not feverish, not sick, and that wound is more than a few hours old. She would've begun reacting by now, wouldn't she?

"Promise me that you're not lying for my sake, Clem, and I'll believe you."

It's not condescending, not pedantic. Firm. He absolutely means it, and in no small part because he needs it to be nothing more than a dog bite.

She doesn't take it as an insult. For a moment, though, it's hard to meet Lee's eyes. It's been so long. The last time she really looked into them, he was barely alive. There wasn't any light in them. But she manages, trembling only a little because all she wants to do is go back to sobbing and clinging to him.

"I promise."

Clementine's thought about what she would do if she ever got bitten, plenty of times. Cutting off limbs didn't work. She probably wouldn't bother trying to sew herself up, either. It would all be over.

"Then we'll need to get you to the clinic as soon as we can."

He releases her chin, though, and instead just draws her back in for another hug. Embarrassed, maybe, that he'd gotten so worked up about her long sleep, but-

"Someone brought you some cookies. We'll have to talk and eat when you get all patched up, alright?"

"I just need to bandage it. I disinfected it and stitched it up," she says into his shoulder, trying both to not cry again and not think too much about this whole situation. She was here again. Lee was alive. She'd spent a lot of time trying to not let Lee's death drag her down, and two years later she had come to terms with it. As much as she could, anyway, being the one who pulled the trigger.

"Can we just--wish up some bandages and eat? Please? I don't want to go anywhere."

Or see anyone, not yet. She just wants time with Lee.

Reflex is to argue, to fight that - no, she needs to see a proper doctor, she needs to get that healed. But if the pain isn't bothering her, then what's the rush? If she doesn't want to go anywhere, then why should he push that?

She wants to stay, so they'll stay, and he won't complain.

"Sounds good to me."

Maybe it's selfish, but letting the others know can wait.

Oh, it hurts like nothing else (Clementine remembers back in the pharmacy, when she cut her finger, and he took the time to mend it--she'd never imagine wounds like this on herself or having to fix them all alone), but the searing pain is put on the back burner because Lee is right here in front of her.

She pulls back so she can just look at him, try to get used to a face that isn't only in a photo.

"It's been a really long time," she tries to explain, though she's sure he's got that much figured out already.

"I can tell."

It was said quietly, levelly, and Lee holds his breath for a second when Clementine pulls back. He's going purely on instinct here, doing his best not to move too quickly, to let Clem go at her own speed.

A long time. It'd been a long time, and he knew he didn't have long left. He has to physically resist the urge to squeeze his fingers into her shoulders, just to reaffirm to himself that she's really still there - that she made it without him.

"About as tall as Ellie, now. She'll be glad to see you up." Okay. This was alright. This was good. "What do you want to eat, sweet pea? I'll get everything wished up."

"I'll eat anything," she replies, knowing she's starving but not feeling all that hungry right now. Anything put in front of her will be swallowed down, and later she'll spend some time wishing up all the foods she's missed.

As tough as this is for her, she knows it's tough on Lee, too. He knows he's dead at home by now. There's no way he's not. He's not there anymore to protect her.

"Are you okay, Lee?"

It's still strange to address him. Her voice cracks a little on his name and she clears her throat.

At her cracking voice, at her question, his own death is the last thing he's considering. He'd come to terms with that a long time ago here; there was no choice, not if he wanted to let his stay in the castle have meaning -- and he did, very much so.

"Right now, here? Can't think of a single thing to complain about."

He gets to work wishing something to eat for them, then - sandwiches, mostly, things that are easy to eat, before requesting gauze and antibiotic cream from the castle.

"Let's get that wrapped up before we talk. Alright?"

"Yeah, okay." She gives him a small smile, mostly at his cool. He always kept it together. So, she'll try her best to keep it together too, hunching over slightly to rest her arm on her leg.

She can do it herself, of course, but she's more than willing to let Lee handle it.

She can do it herself, he knows, but he's not going to let her. Not when he's there, not when he can, and he has to suppress the urge to try to make up for lost time. That isn't how it works. History has always fascinated Lee, but beyond scholarly interest, it certainly helps to cement in place the knowledge that the past can't be changed. The future, maybe, is a different story.

So, with careful hands, he begins to clean and wrap the bite up.

"How'd you learn to do something like this, anyway?" Lee's voice is still carefully neutral, but his eyes remain on her arm instead of his face. He isn't sure that he's ready for the answer just yet.

It hurts. Clementine grimaces, biting back any sounds she might make. This was nothing compared to before, or... what he must have felt.

"Christa taught me how to sew," she says after she's sure she's steadied herself. For clothes, Christa had said at first, but Clementine knew what else could need sewing. Flesh.

It's almost worse that she doesn't make a sound. This hurts, and she's a kid; she's not supposed to be used enough to pain to be able to choke noise like that back. Lee keeps hold of her arm as he finishes and she speaks, studying the wrap, before releasing it with a nod.

There's no way to keep that relief out of his voice.

"Glad we found them. She's a smart woman, Clem - I hope you're learning a lot from her."

Because she has to learn from someone. Has to disprove Chuck's prediction at any cost.

She idly inspects his work. It's better than anything she could manage, and it gives her something to look at.

"She taught me a lot. Omid, too. But they're gone now."

Somehow, even after so long, his kneejerk reaction is to ask how, and he bites the word back only barely in time.

"For how long?"

It's not much better, but.

"Omid... a long time. Christa and I got separated just recently, but I'm pretty sure she's dead." She heard the shots, heard her scream.

And all she can do is shrug. What is there to say?

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against the tide we struggle with the skin we’re in

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