Chapter Text
10/02/xx85
02:35
TM
---
Tara, who is completely clear-headed, hastily shoves as much as she can into her backpack-- spare clothes, toothbrush, some jerky and crackers she's hoarded in her room. Her cheek is stinging and her nose is stuffy. She's shoved every moment before this one deep into a cupboard in her head, so no memories or lost options can taunt her. Tara, completely lucid and sane, washes the streaks of makeup from her face and straightens her back, ready to face whatever consequences there are.
Slade looks at her coldly when she joins him in the car, and doesn't ask her any questions before setting off. Tara watches the city scroll past them, apartments and drugstores, a bar and a church and a run-down office building. She wonders if she'll see it again for a second, but she quickly slaps away the sentimentality like a mosquito. She can't afford to be weak anymore. She's used up her weakness supply.
Raven's kind eyes are haunting her.
---
There was a poem about that-- there was a poem about taking unpopular roads. “I took the road less traveled by and my wife got pissed,” or something like that. Slade drives on roads that are almost empty. Once they're out of the city, Tara rarely sees headlights. The darkness is like a blanket over the car, trapping them in with the warmth of their ugly thoughts.
Slade's face in the shadows, not looking at her. The headlights are off, and that scares her. Tara knows better than to point it out right now. She's in hot water already. She's lucky that the worst she got was a slap in the face. He can get mean when he's angry. Tara secretly hopes that this time driving will cool him down, give him a little while to settle so that whenever they get where they're headed he won't be mad at her anymore.
Where are they headed? Again, she's not going to ask. She doesn't want to remind him that she's there.
---
As the hours pass, she finds her head drooping.
She dreams once more of a cathedral, but the white-gold light is gone and the pews are empty. She walks to the casket in front of the altar, and oh, the cushions inside look so soft.
She wakes up with a sore neck.
---
10/02/xx85
10:13
TM
---
The window is cool against her cheek. Tara only half-looks out, her eyes lidded heavily. The trees blur and flicker. She's not thinking about anything in particular. The cupboard is closed. She imagines it as being freshly-painted, sour-smelling. All of her memories are stacked up inside, from foggy toddlerhood to nine hours ago. She doesn't have to look at them. All she has to do is smell that sour wood.
The car slows. She opens her eyes all the way and sees that they're on the side of the road. This doesn't look like any kind of destination to her-- there are no buildings to be seen, not even a parking lot.
“Don't tell me this is where we're headed,” she says.
“Let's go on a walk,” Slade says. The door on his side unlocks. “You can leave your bag in the car.”
Cold floods her body. This was where they were headed. She hadn't considered that it was a one-way trip for her.
All the same, she takes a breath, unlocks her door, and steps onto the faded, cracked asphalt. She smiles. Slade gestures for her to follow and Tara does, taking long, proud strides.
Things that might happen:
-
He abandons her in the woods and drives off.
-
CON: She can use her powers to get a vantage point and direct herself to civilization. At this point she may or may not have revenge on him.
-
-
He kills her and leaves her in a shallow grave.
-
CON: While this isn't improbable, he wouldn't have to go this far to dispose of her. There are plenty of places to get rid of a body in and around the city.
-
CON: She's capable of fighting back, and he must know he's making her suspicious. Wouldn't it be more practical to catch her by surprise?
-
CON: She's not disposable to him. He wants her around. He hugs her and kisses her and tells her she's done a good job. He cares about her. Right?
-
“Don't murder me, 'kay?” she says cheerfully.
“I'd like a little context,” Slade says, not looking at her. She keeps up, despite the likelihood of something awful happening to her. “For our situation.”
“Oh,” she says. Somehow, she hadn't even considered this as an option, despite how obvious it was. “Of course.”
“You said that it was Raven who found out.” Cupboard. Feelings in the cupboard. “You've had a hard time with her, haven't you?”
That doesn't begin to describe it. “...Yeah,” Tara says. She was all creepy and I wasn't sure she believed me.” That was how it began, no matter how it ended.
“You said you were sleeping when she found out.”
Every muscle in her body is primed to run, but she doesn't, because that would make things much worse. “Yeah.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
What does it mean? What does it mean? It means that Tara likes to hold Raven closely at night, but that's not a subject she wants to breach right now. Tara searches her useless brain desperately for a good lie. She's a good liar. Why can't she think of anything?
“She...” Tara is standing still. Her feet are glued to the ground. “She went in my bag and saw the notes I'd been writing.”
“She took them, I assume?”
“Y... yeah. To show the other Titans.”
He turns to face her, and she can see that he isn't calm, even though his voice is even and his expression neutral. “I didn't know you'd been taking notes. I would have liked to see them.”
She smiles like a shithead. “They were making me study these homeschooling books, so I got in the habit.”
He grabs her by the front of the shirt and slams her against a tree so hard that he head spins and the breath is knocked from her lungs.
“I thought you were a better liar than that,” he says, and his body is massive, dwarfing her, turning her into a bug about to be squashed.
“It was the notes,” Tara forces out. He can't know. This is too important. “I can't-- I can't show you them, because the Titans have them. My handwriting is bad, but I guess--”
He slams again, and her teeth snap shut over her lower lip. There is no air inside her lungs. The blood is acrid and poisonous.
“Tell me the truth,” he says. “And this is the worst I'll do to you.”
And Tara is filled with ugly secrets and rotten blood, and nights with Raven are sacred, but she's a blasphemer.
“She can see dreams,” Tara says. “I had a dream about you and she saw it. I'm not sure how much she got out of it, but when I looked up she looked like she knew enough.”
He releases her and she slides down the tree. She feels sick. Sharing dreams is the most intimate thing she can think of. In a weird way, that means Raven is closer to her than Slade is, and he's Tara's... something.
“I suppose that wasn't something you could have expected,” he says.
It was, but she still didn't.
He looks down at her. His expression isn't one she sees often. He looks... concerned? Guilty? No, neither of those things, but something in their family.
“You hit your head pretty hard,” he says. What? She hit her head? “Count down from ten for me.”
Huh. Vaguely, she remembers him doing this before. She'd fallen from a height and hadn't been able to catch herself.
“Ten,” she says. “Nine, eight...”
He nods as she continues, looking relieved when she completes the list. He pulls her up to her feet. She feels wobbly, and she doesn't know whether it's because she just got beaten up a little or because she just betrayed her friend (?) a little. He holds her shoulder while she walks, and she finds herself leaning against his side. He's firm and tall as usual, solid and real. He's probably going to be the realest thing in her life from now on, so she'd better get her act together.
He even opens the car door for her. It's weird. Sometimes she feels the most cared for after she's just had the shit beaten out of her. It's like seeing her hurt reminded him that he didn't want to see her dead.
This is somehow comforting; he's unlikely to leave her in a shallow grave.
---
10/02/xx85
14:00
TM
---
Alleghenies. It's an undulating word.
The road is high and winding, and the tiny world below them seems untouchable and fake. The squares of farmland are uniform and yellow, and the roads wind between the tiny houses and churches like crayon marks in a maze in an activity book. The gaps in the clouds cast patterns of light and dark across the landscape below.
“Hey,” Tara says after a while, putting down her teriyaki jerky. “What do you think they're doing down there?”
"What do you mean?" Slade asks, keeping his eye on the road. He can't turn his head often while driving; he hasn't got good periphery vision. She's asked.
"I've been watching, and that's the first town I've seen in a while. It's smaller than the fields."
"They probably aren't doing anything worth thinking hard about. They rarely are."
"There can't be that many people even living there. Do they go out every day and see nobody on the sidewalks?"
"This really isn't worth your time. If you ever get a contract in a town like that, you can think about it."
Tara nods. They still look a little fake.
---
An Interview With the Raven in Her Head
Tara: I fucked up big time.
Raven: Don't use that kind of language.
Tara: It felt right then like everything was going fine, but it wasn't. Slade and I were going to get you the next week.
Raven: Don't you feel ashamed?
Tara: …
(The audience mutters. Tara fidgets with the sleeve of her designer jacket.)
Raven: If you were feeling ashamed, then you should have said something earlier. Guilt can eat you up inside.
Tara: I'm a professional. I don't do shame.
Raven: In that case, why were you making that face when you left? I'm not stupid.
Tara: Maybe you're stupider than you think you are.
Raven: Pardon?
Tara: If you thought you had me figured out, then you were being stupid. You have this idea stuck in your head that you know what's going on and you're in control of what's happening, but the world is a lot bigger and meaner than that.
Raven: I wouldn't know. I'm a figment of your imagination.
(The audience laughs quietly.)
Tara: Don't talk like that when I'm trying to interview you.
Raven: Back to the subject, then. Aren't you ashamed?
Tara: What are you gonna do about it? Damn me to hell?
Raven: Demons can do that, you know.
Tara: Can they? I thought that was, like... a Jesus thing.
Raven: Again-- aren't you ashamed of what you've done?
Tara: I was doing my job and you interrupted. The next week, Slade and I were going to get you, and I was thinking about that the whole time we were together.
Raven: But are you ashamed?
Tara: Go back to--
---
The thunder snaps her out of her reverie.
Without her noticing, the sky's gone dark and fat raindrops have started pelting the windshield. She quickly becomes uneasy. The rain is rushing down the mountain, and the mist is so thick that she can only see a few feet ahead. Slade seems completely unshaken, but the sound of the rain is deafening and they're moving fast.
“We're gonna crash,” she says. “I'm gonna die like this.”
It would be a very convenient way to get away from the consequences of her actions. Whatever. It still doesn't seem like much fun.
Slade doesn't even bother to tell her she isn't going to die. He just keeps driving dangerously fast along a dangerously wet road.
The rain intensifies. She can't see the road or the side of the mountain.
Slade sighs and slows down. They uneasily make their way down a side road to the edge of one of those fake-looking towns (it seems realer up close) and slide their way under the canopy of a run-down gas station.
Tara goes limp with relief when Slade rests his hand on her shoulder.
“We didn't crash,” he says.
"Nope," she says, though she feels oddly hollow after the high of fear earlier.
"You've been through much worse," he says. "You would have been fine."
"You think?" she asks, turning. He looks as calm as ever.
"I know." Is that affection she sees on his face?
Someone raps on the window. It's some chump. He's gesturing at them and at the store attached to the gas station and them again and et cetera. Tara doesn't want to talk to a chump.
“Let's ignore him,” Tara says. “He'll have to leave eventually, right?”
“No, let's talk to him,” Slade says, rolling down the window. Tara gets a better look at the chump. He's young and greasy and looks pretty stressed. He's wearing an apron, so she figures he's an employee.
“You're going to drown out here!” says the chump. “Get inside!”
“Let's not,” Tara says, but Slade shakes his head. He nods for her to leave the car, so she does, but she makes a point of not being happy about it.
All the same, she's not an idiot, so she smacks on her idiot face and grins at the chump.
“Heya,” she says. “Nice gas station you've got here.”
“My boss owns it,” the chump says. “I'm Benny.”
“Hi, Benji,” Tara says.
“Benny.”
Slade opens the car and by the way his jacket lumps up she can tell he's got his gun, so she decides not to be a jackass anymore.
“Geez, Dad!” she says. “Took you long enough! This is Benny.”
Benny greets him (Slade doesn't seem particularly charmed) and escorts them inside.
The store is small and yellowed, but it's dry and she likes the tobacco smell. That sparks up an annoying craving (she always wants to smoke when she's stressed), but she suppresses that and sticks to the situation at hand.
“Welcome!” says the schlubby old guy at the counter. “Benny, how's my ark looking?”
Benny rolls his eyes. Apparently, he doesn't stoop low enough to engage.
“Anyway,” says the schlub. “I've got some paper towels and coffee. Pretty slippy out there today. You two are lucky you're parked instead of stranded in a ditch somewhere."
Tara likes that word. “Slippy,” she says, taking the proffered paper towel roll. “I told him. He wanted to keep going, but I said it was slippy.”
"Where you coming from?" asks the schlub.
"Georgia," Tara says, because it's the first place that comes to mind.
"Really? Wouldn't'a pegged you for a southerner. I'm good with accents."
Slade squeezes Tara's shoulder in the universal shut-your-damn-mouth gesture. “Not native,” he says. “We were visiting relatives.”
The schlub seems to buy it. "Where are my manners?" he says. "I'm Ralph, and this is my manservant, Benny."
“David Hamilton,” Slade says. He pats Tara's shoulder lightly. “This is my daughter, Rhonda.”
Rhonda? “Ronnie,” Tara says. Give her a little dignity.
"That age," Ralph says. What does he mean by that? "Georgia's a ways away. Where you headed?"
“Chicago,” Slade says.
"Heard they're pretty friendly, despite all the crime," Ralph says. "If you want coffee, you can have some for free, since you had to deal with Benny earlier."
Benny considers defending his honor, but ultimately gives in. Pussy.
Slade seems relieved to have an excuse to get away from them, and turns towards the coffee machine. Tara lingers.
Benny stands awkwardly, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his worn jeans. He smiles nervously.
“Hey, Ronnie. You in college?”
Tara's a little flattered by that. For one thing, people tend to read her as a kid, so being mistaken for older than she is is kind of cool. She hadn't thought she looked someone who could get into college, either. She tends to feel a little trashy. “Nah,” she says, suppressing the spark of pride. “You?”
“Dropped out,” Benny says. “Wage slave.”
So, chump with no work ethic. Whatever. “How much do you get?” she asks.
This seems to ruffle his feathers. Tara remembers too late that it's taboo to ask so blatantly about money. “Four-fifty an hour.”
“Better than nothing,” Tara says. “I get an allowance.” Not to mention the hefty cut she gets of contract money, but she hasn't done a contract in a year. No high-profile crime, no movie tickets.
“Your dad said you were from Chicago, right?” Benny asks. He's leading up to something. Tara can perceive it with her keen perception.
“Yep. Chicago, Illinois.”
"We mostly get hicks around here, so are all city girls cute like that, or is it just you?"
What.
That is the lamest thing ever. Tara nearly chokes trying not to laugh, and she laughs anyway. Benny looks a little hurt. Somehow, she feels a little pity for him (maybe the stupid reminds her of Gar) so she grins and is about to counter him with something only a bit hurtful, but then Slade speaks.
“Excuse me,” he says, turning from the coffee machine. Maybe Benny psychically senses the gun, because he shrinks back fast. “I think the rain's slowed down.”
“Not really,” Ralph says. Maybe he wants them to stay. Lonely, much?
“We should get going,” Slade says, and when he puts his hand on Tara's shoulder he squeezes so hard that it hurts. She realizes that she has made a terrible mistake. Slade starts walking, slightly pushing her along as she goes.
She looks over her shoulder at Ralph. Part of her wants to mouth “help” but that might make him too suspicious. What if he calls the police? She can't get arrested now. She's come too far for that. On the other hand, it's a little presumptuous to think any stranger would care enough to interfere. All the same, she meets his eyes and he has a confused, stupid kind of look about him. Slade walks through the swinging door, Tara close by him.
She's already mentally preparing for whatever's going to happen. She's still kind of sore from earlier. There's a bump on the back of her head that she can feel when she leans against the headrest. What if he breaks something this time? Do they have ibuprofen?
She'll be fine. She's gotten knocked around before. He's done some seriously violent shit to her and she's come out still kicking. In the end, he cares about her, even when he's mad at her, so it's not like he'd kill her or something. It's the anticipation that's scary.
She gets in the car, even though some scraggly animal in her head is telling her to run for it. Slade looks at her and she can't tell what he's thinking, but she's sure it's not anything good.
She takes a breath and smiles. "Man, he was coming on a little strong. He must not be getting any."
Slade seems unamused. "Tell me," he says. "What's missing from your life that you need to flirt with a dropout at a gas station to feel good about yourself?"
She wasn't flirting with him. He was pathetic and it was funny. She's not some kind of--
"Uh, I guess I've got a zit fetish?" she says, mouth dry. "I wasn't flirting with him."
Slade grabs her arm, and she braces herself. Her heart is pounding so fast that she thinks something might happen to it. He leans in.
He kisses her.
Sometimes he's kind of romantic about it, but this time she knows he's making a point. All the same, she practically goes limp with relief. He's a little prying, but this is so much better than having her ass kicked that she wants to cry. She feels his hand slide up under her shirt, creeping up her ribs to the bottom of her bra, and she thinks for a second that they're in public and this isn't very cool of him, but honestly she doesn't care at this point.
He draws back. "Don't waste your time on little boys," he says.
"Yeah," Tara says.
"Remember who you belong to," he says, releasing her.
Tara nods.
They back out from under the canopy into the rain, which has slowed a little. A beam of sunlight reflects a rainbow in an oily puddle.
(“The devil is beating his wife,” is what Mama used to say. “When it's raining but the sun still shines.”
“That's awful,” a small, stupid Tara had said.)
Who does Tara belong to? The proudest part of her says she belongs to herself. This is her own body, with her own muscles and teeth and fingernails. Hers is the only mind that can move it, so of course it would make sense that it would belong to her.
A preacher once said that a person's body isn't really their own, and neither are their actions. “God made the peas on your plate, and he puts every one on your fork.” That's why you don't sin in ways that only affect you (none of those unconventional piercings or those dirty magazines). Tara doesn't really believe that. She and Mama just went to those services for the brunch afterward.
Slade says Tara belongs to him. Sometimes people say that on TV and they're just being figurative or romantic. Like, “your love is mine, so only love me,” or something like that. Slade seems to take it a little further. His casual touches feel more intimate than other people's (a hand pressing her hip to straighten her stance, a finger creeping under the waistband of her jeans and lingering there as she lies against him), and maybe that's just because they're a couple(?) (something), but sometimes she feels almost as though they're connected, the same system of veins pumping blood from his body to hers and vice-versa. He usually picks what she eats, which makes sense because he owns the compound and pays for the food. He picks what she wears, which makes sense because, again, he pays for it. When she thinks about it, he has control over a lot of her life.
But does she belong to him? For that to be true, her mind would have to be his, too. Her motives would line up with his and she would want whatever he wanted her to want. At one point, the only thing Tara had needed was his approval.
At one point.
---
Once More, an Interview With the Raven in Her Head
(The opening theme plays)
Tara: So, today we're going to talk about wanting things. “Desire” is the word of the day.
Raven: You want to talk about the desire to be liked.
Tara: Bingo! Wanting to be liked by various people is a big psychological deal, right? If nobody likes you, you're as good as dead!
Raven: You know a lot about this.
Tara: When you're a kid, what you want is for your parents to like you, right? And if they don't, it's pretty rough to even like yourself.
Raven: You didn't want your father to like you.
Tara: Off-topic! You get the bug penalty!
(A loud buzzing sound. A plush moth on a long stick is waved from offstage. The audience laughs.)
Raven: That's not really a penalty.
Tara: I don't want one of the real ones. They're, uh, violent. I don't want to hurt you.
Raven: You wanted Slade to like you. Why was that?
Tara: Don't go all “wanted” at me. It's still happening. You want the person who feeds you to like you. Otherwise, they won't take care of you anymore! And, duh, he's my something and I like him, so it's only fair that he likes me back.
Raven (nodding): You want the Titans to like you, too, right?
Tara: It's “wanted.” That was a ruse. You can't infiltrate a group if they don't trust you. I don't care now that it's over.
Raven: You wanted me to like you.
Tara: …
(The audience cheers, and the closing theme plays).
---
10/02/xx85
22:30
TM
---
Tara does not want to sleep in a tent off the side of the road. She has done enough outdoor sleeping for a lifetime. All the same, Slade has been driving for like a hundred hours and she prefers this to him falling asleep at the wheel and killing both of them.
So, she complains only a little and helps him set up the tent like a good girl. She eats a granola bar for dinner. This is giving her “thirteen-years-old” vibes and she doesn't like it.
She's relieved when he gets in his sleeping bag and lies down like a normal human being instead of trying to stay up. She's still kind of mad at him about not telling her they would be roughing it.
Tara feels a weird cocktail of emotions: on the one hand, he beat her up today. On the other, despite acting terrifying at the gas station, he kissed her instead of hitting her. On the third, terrifying mutant hand, he gave in to her pleas to stop driving.
No, she's still mad at him. Either way, she joins him in his sleeping bag rather than trying to roll out her own (it's packed so tightly that she's not sure she would be able to make it small again if she took it out). He's big and warm and despite everything, he's a comfort.
“If I'd known we'd be sleeping outside, I would have worn more layers,” she says. “Don't get any ideas.”
They lie in the dark for a while. She knows he's awake, because when he's asleep his body relaxes. For a few hours a night, he becomes vulnerable and mortal, like a fallen elephant. He seems human when he's asleep, even though when he's awake, there aren't many things more dangerous than him.
“You think there's anything dangerous out there?” she asks.
He doesn't answer.
She finds herself thinking out loud. “It wouldn't be a shock, you know. If there were bears out there.”
Still quiet. Maybe he actually is asleep.
“Are we stronger than bears?” she asks. “I think we might be more dangerous than bears. I don't think they usually want to hurt anybody, but we do. Gar was watching this thing on TV. When you hear them in the woods, you get loud so they know you're there, and once they know, they'll leave you alone. We don't leave people alone.”
“Go to sleep.”
Oh. He was awake.
“Right,” she says.
In a forest full of bears, maybe they're the most dangerous thing, because they can be cruel.
---
10/03/xx85
06:45
TM
---
“What are we going to do when we get where we're headed?” Tara asks.
“We're visiting an old friend in Oregon. We're going to stay with him for a few days while we regroup and figure out a plan so we can complete the contract.”
“The contract,” she says. How long will they be with that “friend”? How long does she have before she has to end things once and for all?
“We don't leave jobs unfinished,” he says.
“When the contract's over, what will we do?” she asks.
“Move on to the next one,” he says. “And the next one after that. There's no scarcity of work in our field.”
She feels a little sick. She hates thinking about this-- she doesn't know why she's even asked.
“You've chosen this life,” he says. “At this point, giving it up would be pointless. There's no going back.”
She thinks for a second-- she's spent three years on this. Does she really want those three years of her life to be wasted?
“You've chosen it too,” she says. Slade has spent even longer as a mercenary. “So you can't leave either.”
“I can't.”
“We're trapped in this together,” she says.
The two of them are bound to each other, maybe. Slade may have taught Tara everything she knows, but she has a hold on him, too. If she thinks about it, she's like a tick: latched on to him with her jaws, refusing to let him leave her. That's a disgusting way to put it, but, like a tick, she needs to stay attached just to keep going. If she's going to get all fancy and metaphorical, she can say that his blood is her blood, just as with biting bugs and their victims.
What she wants is to be more than a tick. She hates that she needs him more than he needs her. Slade could make it without her. She wants him to be as weak as she is, so they can be a connected organism. Symbiosis over parasitism. That's something vicious about her.
“This is the only way we can live,” she says. “I want to survive.”
---
10/03/xx85
12:14
TM
---
Tara could sing if he'd let her. Tara could sing “Teenage Rampage,” or “Monday Monday,” but Slade said she wasn't allowed to, so she's got to sit in the passenger seat being bored. If she were in Donna's car, there would be a radio and a cassette player and she would just listen to that and not have to sing “Teenage Rampage” or “Monday Monday.”
It's stupid to sing in front of people, but annoying him is fun sometimes.
When she's in the car with Kory, they sing.
Tara sulks.
---
They get shot at. They're just minding their own business, maybe trespassing just a little, and they get shot at.
Okay, it was a warning sign when the tire popped and they saw the spikes on the road. All the same, Tara isn't used to getting shot at when she hasn't done anything provocative like throwing boulders at people.
Slade drags Tara down beneath the line of the window when the gun sounds. Options race through her head: she could blockade the car with a rock wall, but that would be hard to get past when the time came to leave. She could go out and fight, but she doesn't have anyone to heal her if she gets hurt (stupid Raven). Slade is thinking too, his eyebrows all furrowed.
“Very into defense of private property,” Tara says. Slade reaches into the compartment between the seats and takes out his gun.
Oh.
She's not used to this anymore. The Titans don't use guns. Guns kill people.
Why does she give a fuck about that? She's killed people. It's not a huge deal for her.
Why is the gun freaking her out?
“Okay, what's the game plan?” she asks, although she knows what the game plan is.
She can see their opponent in the distance, but she can't make out any details. Slade has always been weirdly good at this. He aims the gun carefully, and Tara, still not fully understanding her own motivations--
“Hey!” she says. “Maybe--”
The gun fires, but Slade's aim is off. The figure in the distance still falls. Why does she feel a little sick?
She forgets any sympathy (what?) she might have had for the shooter when Slade turns around, glaring. She's good and selfish and scared again.
“What the hell were you doing?” he asks. “You could have just gotten us killed!”
“S-- sorry,” she says, forcing a smile. She knows she doesn't look confident, but it's better than sniffling at him.
“We'll talk about this later,” he says.
Uh-oh.
He looks around cautiously and steps out to change the tire. Tara feels a wave of relief at the “later,” because later-Tara being in trouble means now-Tara isn't getting beaten up. It only takes him a few minutes, but she takes the alone time in the car to catch her breath.
A few minutes ago, she was feeling guilty and worried about someone she didn't know, who was actively trying to harm her. What the fuck? What the fuck? The Titans have been brainwashing her. This is completely unprofessional. What the fuck?
Slade gets back into the car and they start driving again. Tara does her best to look unshaken, but she knows he can see through her.
---
10/03/xx85
23:45
TM
---
People always seem more human when they eat, and Slade isn't any different. He had a little mercy on her and they went to a drive-thru. Tara got a cheeseburger and he got a chicken sandwich. She's never seen someone looking so serious eating fast food, and it's almost endearing. He doesn't put ketchup on his fries.
They pull into the parking lot of a motel (she thanks the god of indoor plumbing) and Slade gets himself looking all uncle-y so he doesn't scare the person at the desk. He's got this sweater and a fake eye and it's a pretty good disguise, but Tara knows him well enough to see through him: even though he swings his arms a little more and his steps are shorter, she can almost see the potential energy built up in him, like a coiled spring.
Waiting in the car, Tara is too worn out to even brood that much. She's mostly feeling relieved. He tends to hold grudges, but he seems to have relaxed a little. Maybe he'll just yell at her a little.
The room is positioned the way Slade likes it, on the ground floor with the door close enough to the parking lot that it would be easy to run for it if they had to. Everything's a dull brown-green color, except for a surprisingly vibrant painting of flowers right above the bed. Tara makes a beeline for it. She misses mattresses. She buries her face in a pillow, ignoring that it smells musty and suspicious.
“You're going to breathe something in if you lie face-down,” he says.
“If that's how it's gonna be, that's how it's gonna be,” she says, although she isn't sure he's able to hear her through the pillow.
He checks the room for bugs, which involves turning the lamp on and off, shining a little light, and staring at one of his many weird little devices (he says it's to pick up radio signals). Tara just appreciates the opportunity to lie down.
When he's finally done, he tucks away his gadget and turns to look at her. She's made herself good and comfortable. She's not moving over for him.
“Take a shower,” he says.
“Huh?” She props herself up. “I can tomorrow morning. Lemme sleep.”
“Now,” he says, and she can tell that he's had it, so she rolls out of the bed, grabs her bag, and heads to the bathroom.
It's a little yellowed, but clean. After spending the last couple of days only rarely encountering working toilets and sinks, it's downright luxurious. She showers quickly (at the Tower, she takes as much time as she likes, but Slade gets annoyed when she wastes time), brushes her teeth, and combs out the rats' nest that formed in her hair when she wasn't looking. She digs around in her backpack for something comfortable enough to sleep in, feels a t-shirt, pulls it out, and feels a sudden, massive pang of guilt. It's Dick's. She stole it from the laundry room because all of her things were in the wash and she never gave it back. Tara swallows, takes a breath, and pulls it over her head. It comes over wet around the neckline from her hair. Luckily, the sweatpants have no emotional connotations, so those are fine.
“So, TV?” she asks, leaving the bathroom door propped behind her to let out some of the humidity. “They show old SNL skits when the talk shows are over.”
Slade is sitting on the bed. “Come over here,” he says.
Oh. “Tomorrow?” she asks, though she knows it's pointless. She rarely tries to turn him down, but he's pretty persistent (to be fair, he rarely rejects her). “I bet you're tired, too.”
“Come over here,” he repeats, an edge of irritation in his voice.
“Later,” Tara says. She's not in the mood. She's still feeling bad about the shirt.
“Considering what's happened these past few days, you're really not in any position to make me mad right now,” he says. She thinks about the gunshot. Maybe she owes him. He walks up to her and rests a hand on her shoulder, cupping her cheek with the other (warm). “Be a good girl tonight, Tara.”
Tara realizes that this is an attempt at a peace treaty. Suddenly, she feels quite relieved, but she doesn't let that show as she slips into character. “Is that what you're gonna call me?” she asks. “Am I really that good?”
“No,” he says, and she kisses him (beard bristling against her skin).
Tara gets down to business, pressing her lips to his neck and working at the buttons of his shirt. He sits back on the bed, giving her more room to work with (the height difference can get in the way). She slides to her knees and undoes his belt, and he places a hand on her head, pulling it lightly towards him.
---
After, her cheek is against his thigh as he strokes her still-damp hair.
“That's my girl,” he says quietly.
She smiles, wholeheartedly.
---
10/04/xx85
4:00
TM
---
Tara stares up into the darkness. She'd thought having a real mattress meant she would be able to sleep, but the blanket feels suffocating and her limbs are itching to move. She creeps out as gently as she can, trying not to disturb Slade (she doesn't want him driving sleep-deprived, because she doesn't like being in car accidents). She stretches and that fixes some of the antsiness, but even though she can't put her finger on any specific thoughts that are bothering her, her mind feels like it's racing.
She wants to smoke. She walks quietly to her backpack and pulls a pack of Camels out of the front pocket. She doesn't step outside to smoke like a polite person. It's a smoking room, so she's not going to go get murdered.
Actually, she could probably take the typical murderer. Whatever. She doesn't want to suplex anyone tonight.
The smoke is pungent and warm, curling in a tendril from her lips in the weak light of the desk lamp. The ritual is comforting, and she can almost physically feel her racing mind settling as quieter thoughts creep in.
Unfortunately, she doesn't like the quieter thoughts, either. Those thoughts say things like “I wonder how Raven is doing” and “I wonder if they've already fixed the window I smashed,” and they're unproductive and stupid. They're not that bad. At least she's not seeing anyone's face in the smoke like a Virgin Mary in a piece of burnt toast.
The cigarette gets shorter and her thoughts get more melancholy. She wonders how she'll look in a few years. Smokers get yellow teeth and wrinkles. She won't be cute anymore. Whatever-- it's not like she'll last long enough to get ugly.
Raven's going to stay pretty. She's got strong bones-- face bones-- she looks kind of severe, but it means her face won't get droopy, maybe. Tara doesn't know. She's not, like, a plastic surgeon. Tara can't imagine a Raven that isn't pretty. Even a droopy Raven would be pretty.
But she has to remember that Raven is her enemy. You're not supposed to spend too much time thinking about how cute your enemies are. Maybe if she was thinking something like “damn that Raven, who stays beautiful while I wrinkle up like a prune” it would be okay. Something vindictive. Sometimes Tara's vindictive about Kory's big chest. “Damn that Kory, who bounces wildly while I buy my bras from the junior's section.” Something a little vaudeville, like a real old-school villain, but with tits.
Tara's not really an old-school villain. She doesn't have the flare. All she is is mean, but she can work with that. The villains she's fought have relied on charisma rather than smarts. Some of them haven't had either; they've just worn fancy costumes and felt really cool about it.
She's suddenly startled out of her brooding when Slade props himself up and looks at her. She sees his face in the dim light; he's not wearing his eye patch, revealing an ugly scar and his empty eyelid. It's become familiar at this point. The first time they slept in the same bed, it threw her off, but now it's just another part of him to her.
“Bad dreams?” she asks.
“No,” he says. Tara wonders for a second what kinds of dreams he has. She's seen his eyelid flickering in REM before, so it's not as if he doesn't have them. “What are you doing?”
She shrugs. “Had to piss, couldn't get back to sleep after. You know the routine.”
There's a moment of silence, and then Tara decides to talk.
“What makes someone a villain?” she asks. “Like, the Titans always called their enemies villains, but what makes you a villain instead of just a guy who stole a car or killed someone or something?”
“Where's this coming from?” Slade asks.
“Are we villains?” Tara asks.
“We're professionals.”
“I think maybe you're a villain if you're too much for the cops to handle,” Tara says. “So much that you force the capes to think about you.”
“Maybe that's it,” Slade says. He's tired. “Come back to bed.”
Tara doesn't want to go back to bed. She's not sure she'll be able to sleep, and if she does, she's not sure she'll like what dreams she has.
“You don't have to do anything,” he says. “Just go to sleep.”
Oh well. She snuffs the cigarette and leaves it in the ashtray on the table, and walks to join Slade on the bed. She pulls up the sheets and turns to look at him.
“I'd rather be a villain,” Tara says. “I'd rather be someone big enough to think about.”
---
Yet Again, an Interview With the Raven In Her Head
(The opening theme plays and the lights shine on the stage.)
Tara: Tonight's topic is kind of a spicy one, ladies and gents! The word of the day is “desire!”
Raven: You mean sexual desire, right?
Tara: Whoa! Buy me dinner first! But yes. This is the kind of topic that shows up whether you're ready for it or not, so brace yourself.
Raven: I'm ready to discuss.
Tara: It might seem pretty crummy at first, but if you're born a person you're lucky, because ducks have corkscrew dicks and the lady ducks've got a whole maze in there to keep them out.
Raven: But that isn't--
Tara: Not to mention sharks. The guy sharks have to bite the lady sharks to keep them from getting away; we all know what a shark mouth looks like. Not on the first date, right folks?
(She smiles with her straight, shiny teeth. The audience chuckles.)
Raven: You're talking about what you don't want to do. Wasn't the topic--
Tara: And you can't forget bed bugs. They don't even have a pussy so the guys have to stab one in. Sounds like a “hole” lot of trouble.
(The audience laughs again, but Raven clenches her hands on the arms of her chair.)
Raven: The topic was desire. You're only talking about getting hurt. Isn't it supposed to be about wanting things?
Tara: Is it that huge a deal if I want to talk about how animals do it? It's educational.
Raven: It's not the topic!
Tara: The fellas aren't the only ones having fun. A girl mantis gets to bite the guy's head off when they're done. Anyway, wouldn't talking about, like, fantasies be kind of inappropriate for TV?
Raven: This is in your head. There are a lot of things you're afraid of, but is there anything you want?
Tara: That's all for tonight, folks!
(The ending theme plays.)
---
10/04/xx85—10/05/xx85
00:00-24:59
TM
---
They roll through the endless Midwest, past boring towns and boring fields and boring people, and Tara's overcome with a sense of flatness. She hates that feeling, but when it's gone she's thinking about people she hates and misses, so it's the lesser of two evils.
Tara or Slade: which of them is less evil?
That's dumb. That's the way capes think. It doesn't matter if they do “bad things.” They're just professionals getting by.
---
Hell is Real, announces a billboard.
No shit.
---
They buy gas and Tara is very careful not to make eye contact with the guy filling their gas cans, because that's practically making out with him in front of Slade.
---
Slade has MRE's in the trunk-- these instant army guy meals. They taste like shit.
“How old is this?” she asks.
“They don't go bad,” he says, not answering the question.
“You said earlier you were in the army,” she says. “Do these make you miss the olden days?”
“No,” he says.
She's pretty sure they do, but she doesn't argue. There's an “old times” kind of look on his face.
---
The Rockies are almost violent-- even though they stay still, in her head she imagines them making a crashing sound as they form their peaks, like waves hitting each other. She thinks for a second of Markovia, with its wild mountains and its hundreds of winding mines.
She thinks for a second of the people she killed with her juvenile loss of control. She thinks for a second of herself now: strong and precise, like a predatory animal. She thinks for a second of meeting that weak child, looking down on her.
She thinks for a second of destroying her child self and disappearing into thin air.
What?
---
She hopes the Titans are thinking about her. She hopes they're hurting.
---
She hopes the Titans aren't thinking about her. She hopes they've already forgotten.
---
She hopes that Raven is thinking about her.
---
“You don't have to think about them right now,” Slade says.
---
Tara sits in the bridal shop and fidgets. She doesn't really like it here; everything's all pretty and perfect, all lace and pearls and “congratulations!” and ladies with nice hair. She elbows her way between the tightly-packed racks of dresses, her view obscured by layers of organza and silk. She can't seem to find an exit. No matter which way she turns, it's all white and fluffy and impossible. Finally, she pushes her way through one last layer and stumbles into fresh air.
She's in the dressing room. Raven is sitting on the stool, looking at a magazine, in her damn underwear. She looks up at her and her face falls. Tara suppresses a twinge of hurt.
“What are you doing in here?” Tara asks.
Raven, guarded, says, “Go away. You've made your point.”
Tara is unable to keep a neutral face at this, so she smiles. “Ouch.”
“Stop trying to play with me,” Raven says. “I know already.”
“Know what?” Tara asks, bristling. Tara knows what Raven knows. She thinks she's so great, just because she's not evil. “Know that you're a jerk?”
“Look,” Raven says. “You've already told me that I'm a demon and I'm horrible and I want to do sexual things to you, so could you just--”
A noise escapes Tara's throat like a whistling kettle.
“What?” Raven says.
What indeed.
“Don't-- don't put words in my--” Tara stutters, face burning. “Why would--”
“You're the one who said it!” Raven says. “It wasn't my idea!”
“It sure as hell wasn't mine, you sicko!” Tara says. If it wasn't Raven's idea, was it Tara's? Does Tara want Raven to do that? Or, maybe, does she not not want Raven to not not want to do that?
Whatever. She's still mad.
After the initial shock, Tara feels herself calming down a little. It's not like Raven isn't pretty. It's not like she doesn't have pretty arms that Tara might like feel around her, or a pretty neck that Tara might like to kiss or pretty lips that... It's not like...
“You're not her, are you?” Raven asks. “You would have started mocking me by now.”
“I'm not who?”
Before Tara is able to get a clear answer,
---
Her eyes open. She has had an unfortunate epiphany.