More than not wanting to, he just doesn't know what to say. He can't apologize for what happened, what he did, what he was told not to do. Explicitly told not to do. He entered Eva of his own free will, and piloted Eva of his own free will, in spite of the risks. He took control of Eva, again, and he nearly destroyed the whole of reality, again. He killed Kaworu-kun. He killed the only person who could have helped him. Soon, very soon, he will be punished for all he has done to ruin the world. That's why his life is flashing before his eyes.
But his eyes feel like sandpaper when he blinks. He looks around, suddenly noticing that he isn't standing on the red sand anymore. He isn't being pulled along towards certain death anymore. This keeps happening: his mind drifts away, and it returns in a new place, having lost minutes or hours to idle nothingness. He isn't even standing anymore. He's sitting on a small bed, but at least he's still wearing his plugsuit. There are a bunch of beds arranged together like a line of graves. The floor in here is dirty, caked with dust and dirt. Maybe this is an outpost or something, where they're spending the night. It's clearly abandoned. He spots a broken doll sitting near to his feet.
Doll. Doll. More of those memory bubbles: Asuka's little doll with the stitched dress, the one she thought she could hide but everyone knew about. Asuka, Asuka, Shikinami Asuka Langley--where did she go? Shinji is sliced through with fear, wondering if he's been left all alone, until he hears the door opening behind him. He actually turns his head to stare at Asuka with a little less slack than before.
Asuka stands there in silence herself for a few seconds before walking towards him. It's funny, how, fourteen years later, she still has nothing and everything to say to him. You left me. You idiot. You brat. She'd thought at first it would be satisfying to call him out, ream him, make him feel guilty. He should feel guilty. Instead, when he'd gone, left with that shell that looks like Ayanami, she'd watched the crew replace the shattered glass pane, the one she'd punched through when greeting him, and then stalked back to her room, feeling emptier than ever.
Nobody's given her direct charge over him, but she feels she's owed it, Katsuragi and the rest be damned. Shinji had flopped like a fish, pliable as bread dough and twice as mushy as she'd lugged him around. He's so thin (no, she's so strong) that it hadn't taken much effort. Irritating. This ratty barracks that she's repurposed for them is a far cry from the reasonably sterile Wunder, but at least it's large enough.
She peels an overloaded backpack from her shoulder and drops it at his feet next to the doll. Not a peace offering so much as a necessity. It's crammed with bland pastes and concentrations, crackers, and a bunch of MREs. Sustenance. She narrows her eye at him-- will she have to feed him by hand, too? isn't this enough?-- before opening the backpack, yanking out some of the supplies and putting them on his lap.
Asuka appears to be alone. That isn't right. There should be someone else with them-- Ayanami. Ayanami. Even though Ayanami isn't Ayanami, even though he honestly hates her for that, Shinji finds himself searching the rest of the room for her. She was walking with them, wasn't she? Where did she go? Where did she go? Where did she go? Is she okay? Did Asuka do something to her? Sluggishly, Shinji returns his dull gaze to Asuka, hardly reacting when the crackers and tubes of paste land on his lap. His fingers twitch a little, but that's all. He's so tired that he can't even make out what's written on the packaging. Even if it were filet mignon, he wouldn't decide to eat it. Not hungry. Just not hungry. Never going to be hungry again. At this rate, he will be no more substantial than a pile of sand.
He stares at Asuka instead. It's almost like an out-of-body experience, this inability to control his body. Even if he wanted to say something, he can't figure out how to get the sound out of his throat. His tongue is a chunk of lead and his teeth seem insurmountable.
Asuka likes to believe she's accepted her lot in life, and the dreary fact that she's not what she used to be, and not at all what she intended to be. Only when Shinji's looking her in the face is she forced to remember what that was, and his stare right now is more intimidating and more unnerving than her own face in the mirror every morning. Shattering. She swallows.
He's been like this awhile. He can't handle it. Shinji never could handle anything, the coward, the fool. Asuka's first to glance away for all her bitter thoughts, reaching over and grabbing a tube of paste. The label claims it's beef-flavored, but the taste begs to differ. But it's what he needs. Ripping the tube open with her teeth, she takes a seat next to him, kicking the doll aside. Like him, she's still in her plugsuit. She pushes the tube to his mouth, wrinkling her nose and her lips.
"Take it. You're not allowed to die on me now after all this."
Shinji flinches. The paste smells like the same awful stuff that NERV gave to him twice per day through a chute in the wall. Only the unidentifiable pink sludge was a selection he could choke down. Even then, it took some cajoling from Kaworu for him to eat it with relative regularity. Kaworu was worried about his health, and he didn't want Kaworu to worry about anything.
What is Asuka worried about? Shinji isn't wearing the DSS Choker anymore, but he's no less slated for the execution chair. Whether he dies now or later, the outcome is the same. He can't be trusted to exist, much less move about on his own. In the best-case scenario, Asuka's superiors will lock him up at the bottom of the blood sea, in a metal casket that has been welded shut. Suffocation is only a fraction of the horror he deserves.
He tilts his head down and away, his refusal obvious. He can't imagine that she'll deign to hand-feed him like a baby. It would be better for everyone if she reported him as an enemy killed in action.
In Asuka's opinion, he's suffocated himself already. Every particle of him is frustrating, infused with self-pity. It's so like him. He hasn't changed a bit. No. No, that's a lie. That's a lie.
She's not a good enough reason for him to want to keep going. Neither is what passes for Ayanami these days, probably-- Asuka hadn't meant to lose her, but she hadn't kept track of the clone, either. She'll probably be back later, sniffing around with that same deadened expression that isn't as far off from Shinji's as it needs to be.
"I said take it." She moves the tube of paste along with his head, trailing his movement, and then squeezes the top of the tube lightly, just enough to make a little paste push out into view. Inching it against his lips is easy enough. Reaching out to grab his shoulder, grip tight and unforgiving, is harder. She doesn't want to hurt him, not the way she used to, but when her irritation is this high, it's difficult to remember that. "Open your mouth. Don't think I won't feed you myself."
If prisoners on death row can choose their last meals, then Shinji should be allowed to choose nothing at all. It's the last bit of free will that's been left to him. Asuka has no right to infringe on his self-determination. She shouldn't have dragged him out of the entry plug in the first place. Like flint striking stone, Shinji feels a spark of anger in his chest, behind his eyes. It's hot and unsteady. He refocuses on her, somehow incensed, even though his head is still turned away. It isn't quite a murderous look, but it's telling her to back off before she goes too far.
Then she squeezes his shoulder a little too hard. He squeaks in pain, folding in on himself, running away as quickly as he can. By the time he opens his eyes--when did he close them?--his tongue is nudging against the supposed dollop of beef. He grazes lightly, blankly, unable to taste a single particle of it. The gunk is wet enough to slide down his throat without difficulty.
"Nn," he says, the sum total of his disgust. He doesn't need to taste it to know that it's gross.
It's going down a little bit. He's accepting it, however unwillingly. It's okay if Shinji hates her for this, as long as he takes the nourishment. Her grip on his shoulder loosens and then breaks away as she holds the tube steady, squeezing down to allow for another quarter-inch at a time to push through to the top. It's a barely-acceptable level of tedium when her nerves are still so frayed.
"It's better on crackers." She withdraws the beef-flavored concentrate, putting it on the bed, while she tears open one of the other packages. The crackers have a little bit of flavor, even, though that's mostly because of the salt. Asuka spreads the paste on every cracker before putting each on his thigh. Nothing for herself at first, but then, dimly, she grabs one, stuffing it in her mouth just to prove it isn't poisoned. Shinji should know better than to be afraid of her, but now, Shinji's so blank and pathetic that she's not sure what he feels about her at all. "Try it. I won't move your jaw for you."
Half a tube of synthetic food is too much for Shinji's roiling stomach. He has a very brief, but very intense feeling that he's going to be sick... It passes, thankfully, aside from a glottal noise in his throat. More than chewing, he just wants to lie down and go back to sleep. Preferably forever. The pillow is right there, probably teeming with allergens. He doesn't care. He just wants to lie down. He wants to go back to sleep. Preferably forever. The pillow is...
He squints at the smeared crackers when they're offered to him. So much effort on Asuka's part. Reminds him of a different time, in a different place, when he came down with the flu and spent a week suffering on his futon. Asuka didn't have any bedside manner whatsoever, but she knew how to retrieve water bottles. He apologized profusely for being a burden.
"Asuka."
At first, Shinji doesn't realize he said anything at all. It just happens out of the nowhere, like a stroke of inspiration, like finding a lucky coin in the street. He's too deflated to look up at Asuka; he's no less distant and destroyed than before. His voice sounds hoarse from screaming himself senseless.
But there's a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.
But she knows why without peering over. Asuka's never had a problem looking him in the face. Never. Not years ago, and not now, if he'll let her. She can't play into what he wants, someone to soothe him or pity him. There's not sorries enough for what he's inadvertently accomplished. The whole world might want his blood, but Asuka hasn't been part of this world in a long time.
Devoid of anything else to do now that she's relinquished the tube and crackers both, she reaches into the backpack again. She's not hungry (she's never hungry these days, but she eats), but there towards the bottom is a bottled water. She opens it and takes a harsh gulp, swallowing a little too hard, as if she'd expected to force down concrete instead of water. It hurts her throat for a fraction of a second.
"I don't want you dying on me." There. That's good enough. Asuka takes another gulp, eye on the doll she'd kicked aside earlier. There are times even now when she goes back to that threadbare, pathetic thing in the privacy of her own room. Talks to it. Throws it. "I'm not leaving."
Asuka might as well have started speaking in tongues. None of what she's saying makes an iota of sense to Shinji. Doesn't want him to die? She isn't leaving? She could have killed him while they were fighting with Eva. And she's allied with the very same people who want him dead. Kaworu-kun wouldn't be dead if WILLE didn't want Shinji dead. It's his fault. Oh god, it's his fault, isn't it? It occurs to him all over again that his best friend is dead and it's his fault. He had been enough of a coward to pass off the bomb collar to Kaworu. It should have been him. It should have been him. It should have been him instead of Kaworu.
He despairs in silence over his collection of crackers. Then:
"Misato-san."
He looks vaguely uneasy and queasy. Still, he has to find out what's going to happen to him. Not knowing something has never helped him before.
"Hates me."
He didn't listen to Misato's words of warning. Because he didn't listen, she has even more reason to hate him and have him restrained. There was so much blood when Kaworu died. Shinji wonders what his own blood splatter will amount to.
But she should. Katsuragi, for all her despising, hasn't gone through what Asuka has on his account. Asuka wouldn't be surprised if part of what's fueling the former Colonel is pure self-hatred, but it's hard to give enough of a damn to analyze her. Mired in bitterness, sometimes she catches her own expressions mirrored in Katsuragi's. It's terrible. It really is.
She could take him back to the Wunder. That's what she's supposed to do. This stopover wasn't part of her orders. She could vouch for Shinji-- Katsuragi doesn't have the guts to kill him, so instead she'll likely let him hang around her neck like an albatross. He would probably stay in his room there onboard until he killed himself or rotted, utterly anticlimactic. Something inside Asuka twists and worms around as if in protest.
I'm all you've got left. No competition. No Ayanami. No Nagisa. No one to support him. Nothing but an empty expanse of abandoned beds. It's so unsatisfying that her mouth twists and she has to take another swallow to keep from laughing harshly, thinking-- in the end, you really do get everything you want. She said she wouldn't leave him. She meant it. Her gaze travels to those untouched crackers as she stews, considering and reconsidering, as if this hasn't been on her mind since Shinji first fled WILLE.
Shinji finally forces himself to look up at Asuka's face. If he could, he would be hurling accusations by now: You're lying to me! Just like everyone else, you're lying to me now so you can hurt me later! Even Kaworu-kun omitted the truth to lie to him, never volunteering more information than strictly necessary. Shinji's grief cycle is spinning so rapidly--doubling back on itself, then jumping ahead--that it's left him breathless and in pain. He doesn't know if he can trust anyone at this point. Maybe Asuka is all he has left, maybe that's the truth, but she must have her own agenda, too. Shinji, as powerful as he is, would make for a decent bargaining chip.
The longer he stares at the bitter curl of her mouth, though, the more it dawns on him that she might be serious. It isn't anything relieving, but it's better than despair. He's just confused. Confused, and frustrated. At least WILLE's treatment of him would be predictable. Asuka, on the other hand, has given him crackers and told him not to worry so much. He's being a disgusting burden again.
"Where?" If not to the Wunder, then where are they going? Shinji tilts his head, a bit birdlike, and then asks, tentatively, "Staying here?" The outpost is nowhere near suitable for habitation. All the same, it's quiet and hollowed out, without the hateful judgment of men and women who have seen too much.
Asuka gives him a long-suffering look, her eye narrowing. God, what an idiot. She hasn't told Mari any of this, but she figures the girl suspected. She just hopes that Mari hasn't spilled yet. Back to the Lilin had been a pretty broad statement, after all. Asuka hadn't ever specified. Regardless, their time here is limited. Unless Mari's kind enough to misdirect her, it won't be long before Katsuragi pinpoints them both.
"No, idiot. Not for long. Probably the night." Three whole words at a time. Shinji's beginning to improve, however slowly, but it still doesn't mean that he'll buck up enough to be useful anytime soon. No, he'll drag her down no matter what. But the alternative's making her own way and knowing she left a fourteen-year-old ghost behind to fade. The alternative's giving him up. Asuka gets up from the bed suddenly, reaches down to pick up the broken doll. There's a large crack running from its lip to its chin, tufts of blonde hair missing, yanked away. At least for right now, Shinji's better company than it, for however long that lasts. She presses her thumb and forefinger against either side of the crack, as if she's hoping to mend it, before bringing it back to the bed and reclaiming her seat.
"There's a settlement a few miles from here. We'll go there first." It's a moronic plan, but there's also nowhere else to head, with an ocean turned to blood. Asuka hopes the foolishness is lost on him for now. "I salvaged enough food to last us two weeks, so we have a start."
Shinji squints at Asuka, more and more confused, as if he's trying to read the fine print of a contract. Too many questions. Not enough answers. This isn't the first time he's been a fugitive, but the stakes have never been higher than they are now. He doesn't understand why Asuka would make an accomplice out of him. If she's planning to defy an ironclad woman like Misato, she would be a lot better off on her own. Misato has never been willing to accept insubordination. Sooner or later, she will hunt them down, wherever they've fled to. Shinji will be useless in the face of that. He'll end up cowering in the nearest ditch and getting put down like a rabid dog. He's no better than a mangy mutt with every disease you can think of--
Stop it.
Self-flagellation is so goddamn destructive. Even his muscles feel like they're crumbling under his skin. "You..." He sighs, trying to summon the words. His fingers twitch, then lift up slightly, where they land near to his knee and one of those crackers. "Have to eat more," he mumbles, lightly tapping the edge of a cracker. "Eat these." He's trying to tell her that, since she's the only capable one, she should be eating and saving her strength. He's giving up his rations for a very good reason.
Besides, he's too tired for more eating, now that the day's long trudge is catching up to him. He would be lying down if it weren't for the crackers. He doesn't want to waste food. Shouldn't be causing more problems for her.
"I'm not hungry." Asuka's lack of appetite has gone on for years now. She doubts it's going to return, but she'll go through the motions. "I don't need much," she finally admits, sourly, after a bit. But the gesture's appreciated. It's a sign he still thinks she's worth caring about, at least a little. Wrapping the doll's hair around her finger, deliberately letting the silence continue. It's the equivalent of a staring game, seeing who gives in first. The trouble is, Asuka knows she'll lose.
The doll's hair has been braided and rebraided before she speaks again, flatly. She's thought about running away since far before Shinji really came back, but never made an effort, was scared out of it. Without piloting, she has nothing. But she doesn't see a future with it, either. Ten years from now, if she's still around, she'll be as hard as diamond and twice as miserable as she is right now. Eva won't be there for her forever. WILLE's budget isn't what it used to be, and anyway, those are just excuses. The fact is, she thinks defecting might keep her sanity a little better intact.
"We'll need civilian clothes. Shoes." Asuka spares a look at his feet, wrinkling her nose. She'll find them even if she has to steal straight from someone's closet in the dead of night. Plugsuits might as well be a beacon of abnormality. "After that, we can probably pass ourselves off as refugees. You'll let me do the talking. Try not to break down out in public."
It doesn't seem like Asuka is going to budge on the eating issue. Shinji lowers his eyes, staring down the crackers instead, wishing they'd just float into his mouth on their own. To an alarming degree, he has trouble closing his gloved fingers around the first of the crackers. His arm might as well be a thousand pounds for how arduous it is to lift it. Then, so sad that it's comical, he actually misses pushing the cracker into his mouth. It bumps against the corner of his lips, at best, crumbling into small, pale particles. There's paste smeared across his cheek. He can't feel properly humiliated, which is probably a good thing... He tries again. He gets a little closer this time, but he's just making a mess of himself. No way he's going to ask Asuka for help, though. No way. No way.
"Okay," he replies. If she wants him to follow her lead, not saying anything, he can handle that. It's what he has been doing for the past however long it's been. Regardless, he can't imagine much of the world beyond the four corners of this room. Of course there's more to the civilization than NERV and WILLE, but he has avoided thinking about that. Out of sight, out of mind is useful for ducking responsibility. That settlement is going to have no idea that a mass murderer is walking among them...
He licks the insipid cracker crumbs from his lips, then tries one more time to feed himself. Miraculously, he gets a corner of the cracker into his mouth. He nibbles on it weakly, barely moving his jaw around. Maybe it's better than nothing.
He's so broken he can't even eat correctly. Like a baby. It's frightening, really frightening. Is he going to be like this forever? Is she going to drag around a barely-animated doll for however long they're able to escape? Surely not. He can't do that to her. He'll have to get better than this. Sometime. He'll have to.
Asuka grabs the corner of one of the blankets, then stops herself. It would leave DNA from his saliva smudged all over. They can't leave traces like that behind-- she'll have to clean up plenty as it is before they leave. It's not paranoia. She wouldn't put anything past Katsuragi right now.
The plugsuit, then. It's fine if crumbs and paste get on the plugsuit. When he last knew her, she'd have yelped just at the thought of dirtying her plugsuit, but now she doesn't care at all. She won't be wearing it much longer anyway. Just thinking that feels strange, abnormal. She's spent half her life inside it, cutting herself off from the real world from her neck to her toes. Touch-me-not. Asuka reaches over and wipes his face with a gloved hand, thoroughly, until all the smears are gone.
Focusing on cleaning him up is easy. It keeps her from thinking about their paralyzing next steps and her near-total lack of a plan.
"Get one down for me. All right? Just one." Her voice isn't half so harsh. She swallows, and then starts to bargain. "I'll match you. For every one you eat, I'll eat one. Got it?" As if his inability to eat is because he's still concerned about how much she's fed. She takes the cracker from him, putting it to his lips. The paste and crackers both are plenty fortified. Lousy if you're used to better (she isn't), but even getting half the pack down will keep him from hunger for several hours. "Here."
That sounds like a compromise. Contentious, yeah, but it's still a compromise. Not the first time they've had to make one. Living together in Misato-san's apartment required a seemingly endless list of give-and-take. They would have strangled each other if not for the rules they negotiated for bathroom usage and whatever else. (Shinji quickly learned not to touch any of Asuka's hair care products...)
He can't believe Asuka hasn't made fun of his helplessness. Then again, she's fourteen years older than him: she must have a better grasp on maturity. Generally speaking. She yelled at him plenty, and even tried to punch him in anger, but she's acting rather low-key and prudent right now. If she's twenty-eight, she's about the same age as Misato-san was back then. How bizarre. Even more bizarrely, he feels betrayed because of the distance of time and space in between them. Asuka went on ahead and became an adult without him. He doesn't understand how adults function. He never has, and doesn't really want to. She's the only thing he has left and he doesn't understand her at all.
"Mmm." It's the sound--the same sound as ever--he makes when he's deferring to her. Opening his mouth, he allows her to deposit the cracker on his tongue, in pseudo-religious ceremony. Chewing is still more trouble than it's worth, but he goes through the motions. He swallows and then stares at her, expecting her to hold up her end of the bargain.
Asuka leans over and dutifully takes one of the untouched crackers still on his thigh, chewing all of twice before gulping it down. She barely tastes anything but those few slivers of salt and the gunky concentrate. Even Mari's array of sweets and junk food, shoved deep at the bottom of the backpack, probably wouldn't register as appetizing on her tongue right now.
He doesn't know that she's no adult at all. She doesn't have the power and authority of an adult. The surety. Never mind the maturity. Around Shinji, she's less than a teenager, even, just a screaming, petulant child, raging because she didn't get what she wanted when she wanted it, needed it the most. Unhappy because he'd left her alone, only to come back when it was too late for apologies. Maybe he could have helped her in those awful months right after her coma, months of therapy and rehab, when her life seemed like a series of prognosis charts and unknown variables. She'd thought he could have helped her. It doesn't matter now.
She raises the second cracker to his mouth. It's no more fulfilling than a make-believe tea party. "Your turn." And then, abruptly-- "Shinji. Talk to me."
There are so many things Shinji wants to ask about Asuka and what happened to her. He can't ask them. More like, he's afraid to ask them, because he doesn't want to upset Asuka anymore. Asuka's out-of-place eyepatch has haunted him since the first time he noticed it. Eyesight is a valuable commodity for a pilot, and he did something to ruin that, apparently. He wasn't there to apologize when she recovered from her coma. He wasn't even thinking about her at all, when it came right down to it. He tried to run away. He got pulled back in, but he tried to run...
He's more careless with the second cracker. His mouth closes around its edges, and her gloved fingertips, suckling like a newborn to get every speck of food. The longer he sits here, chewing numbly, the more he notices just how cold he is. The plugsuit hasn't spared him from the nighttime chill of a wasteland. He's ready to hibernate underneath the crimson permafrost.
"Talk?"
He's more than a mindless parrot, but he's doing a good imitation of one. Asuka used to tell him to shut up all the time. He was being annoying. Ignorant. An idiot. Didn't know what he was talking about. Didn't know the first thing about anything. And now she's telling him to talk to her? On purpose...?
"Talk. That thing with your mouth?" Asuka can just barely feel the muted sensation of his lips sucking on her gloved fingertips. Even dulled human contact is a precious commodity, honestly. She can't remember the last time anyone touched her on purpose.
She'll go crazy-- she has gone crazy-- if she has no one but herself to hear. The coma and the coffin were like that, nothing but the echoes of her own scream and her own frailties on endless repeat. She won't remotely blame herself for the mess that remains of Shinji. After all, she didn't kill Nagisa.
"At least tell me what I can do. What I need to bring. Got it?" Asuka's got a supply list in her head, but it's limited to clothes and shoes. A matchbook. A flashlight. She's put the doll aside, pushed it under the covers. She doesn't reach for his third cracker, instead reaching up to pull off her headset. She'll take it apart in a few minutes. Use the components to trade. Sure, they're still traceable as WILLE's property, but if they get dispersed, the better for her. "I can't read your mind, moron. I've got to know right now."
Oh. Supplies. That makes sense. Asuka doesn't really want to talk to him--who would do that?--other than Kaworu-kun--but she does want to know what he needs to survive. It makes Shinji consider what his life will be like from now on. They might as well be two strangers traveling together on an alien planet. Surely, she's going to get tired of him sooner or later. Ditch him in the first settlement like so much excess baggage. But if she's asking him what to bring along, then...
"Blanket." He says that with a shiver for punctuation. But a blanket is the first thing that comes to mind; he's drawing on a blank on anything else. For the time being, he's ruled by impulse, not careful planning ahead. He lapses into silence and waits for her to feed him or prompt him again. He would be able to understand her hatred of silence, though, if she told him about it. That's why he was always listening to his cassette player, drowning out the noise and silence both.
"Music," he adds, then, hesitantly. He knows how unreasonable that is. It's a luxury compared to necessities like food and water. "A player. To play music." He seems to have misplaced Father's precious SDAT... did he drop it at some point...? "Please, Asuka."
Asuka nods. Another blanket or two should be easy enough to come by. Asuka's not the most adept at sneaking around, but she's got an unfair and ridiculous advantage strength-wise. If anyone catches her swiping items, they'll end up with fragmented teeth and a broken jaw, and that's if they're lucky. She can handle herself.
The music player, though, might be impossible. For a second, she thinks he means a radio, but then she remembers, slowly-- his tape player. The one he used to listen to all those years ago, just another means to shut himself off from the world. She hadn't gotten that luxury. Why should he? He's severed himself from her with surgical precision already, barely speaking, just sitting limp, a marionette with cut strings. Even if by some stroke of luck, she was able to find it, an outdated antique older than he is, he doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned anything but a kick in the face that she's not willing to give.
"I'll try." Asuka's long since turned her phone off and removed the battery, so Katsuragi won't be able to trace the signal. There's no easy way of knowing the time, but on automatic, she still says-- "I'll be back in about two hours. If I'm not back by morning, you leave without me. Understand? You get out of here."
Giving him water bottles when he was sick. Stuffing crackers into his mouth now. She's never been any good, and he knew that from the start. She can't summon up the will to tell him why she's doing this.
"And finish those crackers. You can have my water, too. And whatever else you want." She gets up from the bed, then, leaving her headset beside him and stalking off without another word, closing the door behind her, only to return an hour and a half later. There aren't any vendors out at night, of course, as if she'd expected there to be. Asuka had ended up raiding an abandoned house, carrying a plastic garbage bag behind her. It has three blankets, a dirty pillow, and several sun-faded, worn-out dresses, along with two pairs of sandals. A jacket. A pencil and a steno pad. All the electronics had been removed or looted before she'd ever arrived. Asuka brings the garbage bag to him, opening it so he can see what she's pilfered.
Shinji, too late, too delayed, can't stop Asuka from walking out of the room. His fingers close around thin air, and he stays that way, his arm stretched outward, awkwardly positioned like a model being painted by some art students. It takes more than a minute for his arm to fall back against his side. After that, he doesn't really remember what happens to him. He more or less stops existing until Asuka returns to the outpost with her garbage bag of scavenged goods.
He opens his eyes when he hears the distinct rattle of the door. He notices that he's lying horizontally. It seems that he's curled up on his side, on the bed, having given up and crumpled in on himself. The crackers are gone, too. He must have eaten them; he can taste the mush in his mouth, and there's an unsightly crust of saliva on his lips. His legs move weakly, less than an inch, proving that he can't sit himself back up. He exhales heavily. He has to wait for her to come closer. (Needless to say, there's no way he would have been able to leave by himself. If she hadn't come back, he would have stayed here until he starved to death, or something worse. Lawless, roaming raiders aren't known for being kind to young children.)
Stirringly a little more, he turns his head to look at the garbage bag. The verdict on the tape player isn't a surprise. Still disappointing. Not a surprise. Still disappointing. Truthfully, he would benefit more from a drink of water, but he's decided that screw caps were invented just to fuck with him. His fingers don't have the dexterity to deal with twists and turns.
"You... c-came back..." Maybe he sounds relieved to see her again. He's shivering more often now, the chill getting to him. He could have crawled beneath the ratty, filthy blanket on the bed, but he couldn't figure out how to do that, either.
It's not the most haunting image plastered in her brain, but it's close. Shinji is still on the exact same bed as earlier. The only change is that he's laying down now. Cold. He's cold. The idiot couldn't find the power of mind to get under the blanket. Asuka thinks uncharitably about the insane asylums hundreds of years ago. Relatives pawned off to the state like so much excess baggage, drooling, incontinent bags of bones. Shinji's not acting any better. He'll be a noose around her neck if he doesn't improve soon.
Since he doesn't look like he'll start rifling through the goods, she digs in herself, yanking blanket after blanket out. The dresses get piled beside him; the shoes are placed on the floor (she'd estimated his size-- at least if he gets blisters, he probably won't complain out loud), and what remains is shoved under the bed. It's a poor start, but people have built empires on less. Asuka's only ambition is making it for a month.
"Get under these. They should warm you up." Talk to me. Please, God, talk to me. I don't deserve this. I didn't do a damn thing to you. Her eye wanders from him to the bottle of water, still untouched since last she drank from it. At least he ate the crackers. The time without him hasn't done her any mental good, but at least as she was wandering back, she was able to construct more of a gameplan, however basic and laughable. "The Colonel's going to care more about getting you than me." Exhale. "That's why I got girl's clothes until we're farther away. If I find a knife, I'm cutting my hair." She's not sure why she says that last part. From the looks of it, it wouldn't make a difference to him if she'd decided to amputate both pinkies. "You mind?"
Shinji mutters something indistinct. Before she left, Asuka told him that he should set off on his own if she didn't return by morning, so he had to assume she wouldn't return. It was the least cruel way of saying goodbye, right? But she's here, she's here with him, softening some of his fears of abandonment. He actually finds the willpower to crawl under the blankets, which smell shockingly clean to him. Not like the LCL or the rust or the piles of rat droppings. The blankets are definitely warm, too. He relaxes into the warmth with a quiet, ephemeral noise that could be a sigh or a bird that's falling asleep. His shivering isn't so pronounced now.
Misato-san is going to hunt him down. Seriously, that's terrifying, but he's too exhausted to do anything about it. The only thing standing between him and oblivion is Shikinami Asuka Langley, who deserves better than to be his guardian. He still doesn't understand why she won't let him die. It would be better for everyone if he did. Especially Asuka. She lived without him for fourteen years, so she could live without him for many more. She could do that.
Besides, Shinji has the audacity to twist his lips and wrinkle his nose when Asuka asks about the state of her hair. "I like your hair the way it is," he says. That sentence is the most coherent thing he's said. Her hair is just that important to him--or, her hair not changing is that important. The eyepatch was bad enough. Shearing off all that familiar red hair will be too upsetting. He used to imagine running his fingers through it. Brushing it off of her shoulders, or away from her neck. He doesn't want her to look like a stranger on top of everything else.
But he can't do more than wiggle his foot in protest.
"You like my hair?" Now she's the one parroting in mild disbelief. She hadn't thought he'd care at all. Maybe a noncommittal chirp, maybe mild dismay in his body language, but that was it. Not actual protest. And he's not arguing about the girl's clothes, either, which is really weird, even in his condition. Shinji had never been much of a man, but his lack of concern is disturbing in its own right. It means she could do whatever she wanted to him.
Too bad he hadn't said that years ago. Asuka's kept her hair the exact same length and style for all this time-- though not for him-- the straight locks ending right at her bra strap. If her body wouldn't change, there was no reason to alter her hairstyle, make pretenses towards a maturity that wouldn't happen. She wonders, silently, if slicing her hair right in front of him would prompt a reaction. All she's looking for out of him is reactions now.
I like your hair. It might be the only compliment that's made her feel anything in half a decade. She glances away and twists a knob on her plugsuit, peeling off her gloves. Asuka's nose is hypersensitive enough to detect those trace cracker crumbs and concentrates still on the fingers. This plugsuit's more sleek than her old one, streamlined. Boring. After getting rid of the neckpiece, all she'd have left would be to depressurize the suit.
Asuka blearily remembers the last time he saw her naked. His face had turned crimson and she'd shrieked like a banshee for daring to peek. A Peeping Tom. A pervert. Then she'd been secretly pleased, wondering if he'd liked it. Deciding he had. Maybe the sight of skin might jar him a little more. It can't make him worse.
She sits down on the bed, removing the collar, looking at him. He'd probably close his eyes for her if she asked, but she doesn't ask before depressurizing the plugsuit and tugging it off her body, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Despite the chill, she's not shivering at all.
Well, Shinji hasn't realized some of the dresses are meant for him. They're in the same petite, cutesy style as the ones Asuka donned when she was an actual girl. Definitely inappropriate for him. Even in his addled state, he assumes that she has at least one pair of pants for him to wear. So, instead of lodging more protests, he sniffles and nods in reply. Her hair should stay right where it is, right as he remembers it.
His overall awareness is so muted that he doesn't think twice about Asuka's removal of her plugsuit. As soon as she tugs off the gloves, he knows what's coming next--she's going to get undressed--but he's expecting her to shuffle somewhere else. There's no way Asuka would disrobe in front of him... It's inconceivable, like a boy wearing a dress would be. It can't be happening. When she snaps open the collar, he doesn't avert his eyes; she should be stepping out of his line of sight soon. She wasn't the most modest girl back then--sometimes she allowed her bra straps to show--but she'd freak the fuck out if he saw too much of her skin. But, without warning, there's the milky reality of her neck and how it connects to her bare shoulders. There's an exposed clavicle and sternum. There's the meager swell of her breasts, capped with nipples that have hardened in the cold. He can't convince himself to look away, so he's treated to the slope of her stomach, her thin but still feminine hips, that dusting of red pubic hair. If she spread her legs any farther, he would be able to see her most private places.
Like a kettle that's slow to boil, Shinji's reaction is just the same. Pale pink embarrassment is leaking onto his face, and it cycles through shades, getting darker and darker. She stripped in front of him. She stripped! In front of him! In front of Ikari Shinji! He hiccups in what might be the fugue's version of a spluttering cough. His face is really warm, increasingly beet-red. It feels like he's swallowed a mouthful of hot water--it's traveling down, down, through his chest, into his stomach. The rush of blood through a body he can't feel the boundaries of is the strangest sensation in the world.
"Wh..."
Other than Ayanami, which was an accident, he has never been this close to a naked girl. His mind is unspooling like a broken cassette tape as he stares and stares and stares.
The thought doesn't come out of nowhere. Shinji's face is steadily darkening from pink to outright red. She doesn't meet his gaze for more than an instant at a time, but she can feel his eyes on her, eyes that haven't been on her in a long time, eyes that aren't wavering from her naked body. A part of her is sickly satisfied as he trails off, grateful. No. Satiated.
What is she doing? What is she thinking? But however long it lasts, this is the closest to the way he used to be that he's been in hours and hours. It's okay if she's had to use her body to do it. It has to be. Right?
Only it's not really about briefly snapping him back now. Her legs cross at the ankles instead of the knees, swinging nervously, childishly, as she sits on the edge of the bed. She's only looking at him in small, cowardly glances. She's unaccustomed to shame, buried as the feeling's been under all her layers of bitterness, but she is ashamed-- both of her immature body and for exposing herself like this, stripping down for a traumatized boy. No matter what her reasons, it's deplorable. Just awful. Asuka's head droops, strands of hair falling across her face. He's seen everything. He knows nothing's changed. She's still trying to get his attention, even under the most dire of circumstances. She hasn't grown up at all, just gotten older, too old for this selfishness--
She grabs the top dress without even looking at it, shoulders slumping, crumpling the material between warm fingers. She barely remembers what it feels like to really touch anything for more than the ten minutes she spends in the shower every day, as if she could wash away the lingering scent of LCL before stepping back into her custom-made prison of a plugsuit. It's nice. It's nice. She lets the dress drop into her lap, wishing she could coil up like a snake, tighter and tighter until she'd squeezed every awful particle of herself away. Do you like it and I'm sorry, I'm sorry compete on her tongue, but all she manages is a little, choked sound as she hangs her head.
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astrobleme) wrote2015-09-13 09:06 pm
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More than not wanting to, he just doesn't know what to say. He can't apologize for what happened, what he did, what he was told not to do. Explicitly told not to do. He entered Eva of his own free will, and piloted Eva of his own free will, in spite of the risks. He took control of Eva, again, and he nearly destroyed the whole of reality, again. He killed Kaworu-kun. He killed the only person who could have helped him. Soon, very soon, he will be punished for all he has done to ruin the world. That's why his life is flashing before his eyes.
But his eyes feel like sandpaper when he blinks. He looks around, suddenly noticing that he isn't standing on the red sand anymore. He isn't being pulled along towards certain death anymore. This keeps happening: his mind drifts away, and it returns in a new place, having lost minutes or hours to idle nothingness. He isn't even standing anymore. He's sitting on a small bed, but at least he's still wearing his plugsuit. There are a bunch of beds arranged together like a line of graves. The floor in here is dirty, caked with dust and dirt. Maybe this is an outpost or something, where they're spending the night. It's clearly abandoned. He spots a broken doll sitting near to his feet.
Doll. Doll. More of those memory bubbles: Asuka's little doll with the stitched dress, the one she thought she could hide but everyone knew about. Asuka, Asuka, Shikinami Asuka Langley--where did she go? Shinji is sliced through with fear, wondering if he's been left all alone, until he hears the door opening behind him. He actually turns his head to stare at Asuka with a little less slack than before.
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Nobody's given her direct charge over him, but she feels she's owed it, Katsuragi and the rest be damned. Shinji had flopped like a fish, pliable as bread dough and twice as mushy as she'd lugged him around. He's so thin (no, she's so strong) that it hadn't taken much effort. Irritating. This ratty barracks that she's repurposed for them is a far cry from the reasonably sterile Wunder, but at least it's large enough.
She peels an overloaded backpack from her shoulder and drops it at his feet next to the doll. Not a peace offering so much as a necessity. It's crammed with bland pastes and concentrations, crackers, and a bunch of MREs. Sustenance. She narrows her eye at him-- will she have to feed him by hand, too? isn't this enough?-- before opening the backpack, yanking out some of the supplies and putting them on his lap.
"Here. Eat."
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He stares at Asuka instead. It's almost like an out-of-body experience, this inability to control his body. Even if he wanted to say something, he can't figure out how to get the sound out of his throat. His tongue is a chunk of lead and his teeth seem insurmountable.
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Asuka likes to believe she's accepted her lot in life, and the dreary fact that she's not what she used to be, and not at all what she intended to be. Only when Shinji's looking her in the face is she forced to remember what that was, and his stare right now is more intimidating and more unnerving than her own face in the mirror every morning. Shattering. She swallows.
He's been like this awhile. He can't handle it. Shinji never could handle anything, the coward, the fool. Asuka's first to glance away for all her bitter thoughts, reaching over and grabbing a tube of paste. The label claims it's beef-flavored, but the taste begs to differ. But it's what he needs. Ripping the tube open with her teeth, she takes a seat next to him, kicking the doll aside. Like him, she's still in her plugsuit. She pushes the tube to his mouth, wrinkling her nose and her lips.
"Take it. You're not allowed to die on me now after all this."
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What is Asuka worried about? Shinji isn't wearing the DSS Choker anymore, but he's no less slated for the execution chair. Whether he dies now or later, the outcome is the same. He can't be trusted to exist, much less move about on his own. In the best-case scenario, Asuka's superiors will lock him up at the bottom of the blood sea, in a metal casket that has been welded shut. Suffocation is only a fraction of the horror he deserves.
He tilts his head down and away, his refusal obvious. He can't imagine that she'll deign to hand-feed him like a baby. It would be better for everyone if she reported him as an enemy killed in action.
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She's not a good enough reason for him to want to keep going. Neither is what passes for Ayanami these days, probably-- Asuka hadn't meant to lose her, but she hadn't kept track of the clone, either. She'll probably be back later, sniffing around with that same deadened expression that isn't as far off from Shinji's as it needs to be.
"I said take it." She moves the tube of paste along with his head, trailing his movement, and then squeezes the top of the tube lightly, just enough to make a little paste push out into view. Inching it against his lips is easy enough. Reaching out to grab his shoulder, grip tight and unforgiving, is harder. She doesn't want to hurt him, not the way she used to, but when her irritation is this high, it's difficult to remember that. "Open your mouth. Don't think I won't feed you myself."
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Then she squeezes his shoulder a little too hard. He squeaks in pain, folding in on himself, running away as quickly as he can. By the time he opens his eyes--when did he close them?--his tongue is nudging against the supposed dollop of beef. He grazes lightly, blankly, unable to taste a single particle of it. The gunk is wet enough to slide down his throat without difficulty.
"Nn," he says, the sum total of his disgust. He doesn't need to taste it to know that it's gross.
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"It's better on crackers." She withdraws the beef-flavored concentrate, putting it on the bed, while she tears open one of the other packages. The crackers have a little bit of flavor, even, though that's mostly because of the salt. Asuka spreads the paste on every cracker before putting each on his thigh. Nothing for herself at first, but then, dimly, she grabs one, stuffing it in her mouth just to prove it isn't poisoned. Shinji should know better than to be afraid of her, but now, Shinji's so blank and pathetic that she's not sure what he feels about her at all. "Try it. I won't move your jaw for you."
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He squints at the smeared crackers when they're offered to him. So much effort on Asuka's part. Reminds him of a different time, in a different place, when he came down with the flu and spent a week suffering on his futon. Asuka didn't have any bedside manner whatsoever, but she knew how to retrieve water bottles. He apologized profusely for being a burden.
"Asuka."
At first, Shinji doesn't realize he said anything at all. It just happens out of the nowhere, like a stroke of inspiration, like finding a lucky coin in the street. He's too deflated to look up at Asuka; he's no less distant and destroyed than before. His voice sounds hoarse from screaming himself senseless.
But there's a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes.
"Why?" he asks.
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But she knows why without peering over. Asuka's never had a problem looking him in the face. Never. Not years ago, and not now, if he'll let her. She can't play into what he wants, someone to soothe him or pity him. There's not sorries enough for what he's inadvertently accomplished. The whole world might want his blood, but Asuka hasn't been part of this world in a long time.
Devoid of anything else to do now that she's relinquished the tube and crackers both, she reaches into the backpack again. She's not hungry (she's never hungry these days, but she eats), but there towards the bottom is a bottled water. She opens it and takes a harsh gulp, swallowing a little too hard, as if she'd expected to force down concrete instead of water. It hurts her throat for a fraction of a second.
"I don't want you dying on me." There. That's good enough. Asuka takes another gulp, eye on the doll she'd kicked aside earlier. There are times even now when she goes back to that threadbare, pathetic thing in the privacy of her own room. Talks to it. Throws it. "I'm not leaving."
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He despairs in silence over his collection of crackers. Then:
"Misato-san."
He looks vaguely uneasy and queasy. Still, he has to find out what's going to happen to him. Not knowing something has never helped him before.
"Hates me."
He didn't listen to Misato's words of warning. Because he didn't listen, she has even more reason to hate him and have him restrained. There was so much blood when Kaworu died. Shinji wonders what his own blood splatter will amount to.
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But she should. Katsuragi, for all her despising, hasn't gone through what Asuka has on his account. Asuka wouldn't be surprised if part of what's fueling the former Colonel is pure self-hatred, but it's hard to give enough of a damn to analyze her. Mired in bitterness, sometimes she catches her own expressions mirrored in Katsuragi's. It's terrible. It really is.
She could take him back to the Wunder. That's what she's supposed to do. This stopover wasn't part of her orders. She could vouch for Shinji-- Katsuragi doesn't have the guts to kill him, so instead she'll likely let him hang around her neck like an albatross. He would probably stay in his room there onboard until he killed himself or rotted, utterly anticlimactic. Something inside Asuka twists and worms around as if in protest.
I'm all you've got left. No competition. No Ayanami. No Nagisa. No one to support him. Nothing but an empty expanse of abandoned beds. It's so unsatisfying that her mouth twists and she has to take another swallow to keep from laughing harshly, thinking-- in the end, you really do get everything you want. She said she wouldn't leave him. She meant it. Her gaze travels to those untouched crackers as she stews, considering and reconsidering, as if this hasn't been on her mind since Shinji first fled WILLE.
"I won't take you back there. So quit worrying."
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The longer he stares at the bitter curl of her mouth, though, the more it dawns on him that she might be serious. It isn't anything relieving, but it's better than despair. He's just confused. Confused, and frustrated. At least WILLE's treatment of him would be predictable. Asuka, on the other hand, has given him crackers and told him not to worry so much. He's being a disgusting burden again.
"Where?" If not to the Wunder, then where are they going? Shinji tilts his head, a bit birdlike, and then asks, tentatively, "Staying here?" The outpost is nowhere near suitable for habitation. All the same, it's quiet and hollowed out, without the hateful judgment of men and women who have seen too much.
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"No, idiot. Not for long. Probably the night." Three whole words at a time. Shinji's beginning to improve, however slowly, but it still doesn't mean that he'll buck up enough to be useful anytime soon. No, he'll drag her down no matter what. But the alternative's making her own way and knowing she left a fourteen-year-old ghost behind to fade. The alternative's giving him up. Asuka gets up from the bed suddenly, reaches down to pick up the broken doll. There's a large crack running from its lip to its chin, tufts of blonde hair missing, yanked away. At least for right now, Shinji's better company than it, for however long that lasts. She presses her thumb and forefinger against either side of the crack, as if she's hoping to mend it, before bringing it back to the bed and reclaiming her seat.
"There's a settlement a few miles from here. We'll go there first." It's a moronic plan, but there's also nowhere else to head, with an ocean turned to blood. Asuka hopes the foolishness is lost on him for now. "I salvaged enough food to last us two weeks, so we have a start."
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Stop it.
Self-flagellation is so goddamn destructive. Even his muscles feel like they're crumbling under his skin. "You..." He sighs, trying to summon the words. His fingers twitch, then lift up slightly, where they land near to his knee and one of those crackers. "Have to eat more," he mumbles, lightly tapping the edge of a cracker. "Eat these." He's trying to tell her that, since she's the only capable one, she should be eating and saving her strength. He's giving up his rations for a very good reason.
Besides, he's too tired for more eating, now that the day's long trudge is catching up to him. He would be lying down if it weren't for the crackers. He doesn't want to waste food. Shouldn't be causing more problems for her.
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The doll's hair has been braided and rebraided before she speaks again, flatly. She's thought about running away since far before Shinji really came back, but never made an effort, was scared out of it. Without piloting, she has nothing. But she doesn't see a future with it, either. Ten years from now, if she's still around, she'll be as hard as diamond and twice as miserable as she is right now. Eva won't be there for her forever. WILLE's budget isn't what it used to be, and anyway, those are just excuses. The fact is, she thinks defecting might keep her sanity a little better intact.
"We'll need civilian clothes. Shoes." Asuka spares a look at his feet, wrinkling her nose. She'll find them even if she has to steal straight from someone's closet in the dead of night. Plugsuits might as well be a beacon of abnormality. "After that, we can probably pass ourselves off as refugees. You'll let me do the talking. Try not to break down out in public."
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"Okay," he replies. If she wants him to follow her lead, not saying anything, he can handle that. It's what he has been doing for the past however long it's been. Regardless, he can't imagine much of the world beyond the four corners of this room. Of course there's more to the civilization than NERV and WILLE, but he has avoided thinking about that. Out of sight, out of mind is useful for ducking responsibility. That settlement is going to have no idea that a mass murderer is walking among them...
He licks the insipid cracker crumbs from his lips, then tries one more time to feed himself. Miraculously, he gets a corner of the cracker into his mouth. He nibbles on it weakly, barely moving his jaw around. Maybe it's better than nothing.
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Asuka grabs the corner of one of the blankets, then stops herself. It would leave DNA from his saliva smudged all over. They can't leave traces like that behind-- she'll have to clean up plenty as it is before they leave. It's not paranoia. She wouldn't put anything past Katsuragi right now.
The plugsuit, then. It's fine if crumbs and paste get on the plugsuit. When he last knew her, she'd have yelped just at the thought of dirtying her plugsuit, but now she doesn't care at all. She won't be wearing it much longer anyway. Just thinking that feels strange, abnormal. She's spent half her life inside it, cutting herself off from the real world from her neck to her toes. Touch-me-not. Asuka reaches over and wipes his face with a gloved hand, thoroughly, until all the smears are gone.
Focusing on cleaning him up is easy. It keeps her from thinking about their paralyzing next steps and her near-total lack of a plan.
"Get one down for me. All right? Just one." Her voice isn't half so harsh. She swallows, and then starts to bargain. "I'll match you. For every one you eat, I'll eat one. Got it?" As if his inability to eat is because he's still concerned about how much she's fed. She takes the cracker from him, putting it to his lips. The paste and crackers both are plenty fortified. Lousy if you're used to better (she isn't), but even getting half the pack down will keep him from hunger for several hours. "Here."
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He can't believe Asuka hasn't made fun of his helplessness. Then again, she's fourteen years older than him: she must have a better grasp on maturity. Generally speaking. She yelled at him plenty, and even tried to punch him in anger, but she's acting rather low-key and prudent right now. If she's twenty-eight, she's about the same age as Misato-san was back then. How bizarre. Even more bizarrely, he feels betrayed because of the distance of time and space in between them. Asuka went on ahead and became an adult without him. He doesn't understand how adults function. He never has, and doesn't really want to. She's the only thing he has left and he doesn't understand her at all.
"Mmm." It's the sound--the same sound as ever--he makes when he's deferring to her. Opening his mouth, he allows her to deposit the cracker on his tongue, in pseudo-religious ceremony. Chewing is still more trouble than it's worth, but he goes through the motions. He swallows and then stares at her, expecting her to hold up her end of the bargain.
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He doesn't know that she's no adult at all. She doesn't have the power and authority of an adult. The surety. Never mind the maturity. Around Shinji, she's less than a teenager, even, just a screaming, petulant child, raging because she didn't get what she wanted when she wanted it, needed it the most. Unhappy because he'd left her alone, only to come back when it was too late for apologies. Maybe he could have helped her in those awful months right after her coma, months of therapy and rehab, when her life seemed like a series of prognosis charts and unknown variables. She'd thought he could have helped her. It doesn't matter now.
She raises the second cracker to his mouth. It's no more fulfilling than a make-believe tea party. "Your turn." And then, abruptly-- "Shinji. Talk to me."
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He's more careless with the second cracker. His mouth closes around its edges, and her gloved fingertips, suckling like a newborn to get every speck of food. The longer he sits here, chewing numbly, the more he notices just how cold he is. The plugsuit hasn't spared him from the nighttime chill of a wasteland. He's ready to hibernate underneath the crimson permafrost.
"Talk?"
He's more than a mindless parrot, but he's doing a good imitation of one. Asuka used to tell him to shut up all the time. He was being annoying. Ignorant. An idiot. Didn't know what he was talking about. Didn't know the first thing about anything. And now she's telling him to talk to her? On purpose...?
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She'll go crazy-- she has gone crazy-- if she has no one but herself to hear. The coma and the coffin were like that, nothing but the echoes of her own scream and her own frailties on endless repeat. She won't remotely blame herself for the mess that remains of Shinji. After all, she didn't kill Nagisa.
"At least tell me what I can do. What I need to bring. Got it?" Asuka's got a supply list in her head, but it's limited to clothes and shoes. A matchbook. A flashlight. She's put the doll aside, pushed it under the covers. She doesn't reach for his third cracker, instead reaching up to pull off her headset. She'll take it apart in a few minutes. Use the components to trade. Sure, they're still traceable as WILLE's property, but if they get dispersed, the better for her. "I can't read your mind, moron. I've got to know right now."
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"Blanket." He says that with a shiver for punctuation. But a blanket is the first thing that comes to mind; he's drawing on a blank on anything else. For the time being, he's ruled by impulse, not careful planning ahead. He lapses into silence and waits for her to feed him or prompt him again. He would be able to understand her hatred of silence, though, if she told him about it. That's why he was always listening to his cassette player, drowning out the noise and silence both.
"Music," he adds, then, hesitantly. He knows how unreasonable that is. It's a luxury compared to necessities like food and water. "A player. To play music." He seems to have misplaced Father's precious SDAT... did he drop it at some point...? "Please, Asuka."
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The music player, though, might be impossible. For a second, she thinks he means a radio, but then she remembers, slowly-- his tape player. The one he used to listen to all those years ago, just another means to shut himself off from the world. She hadn't gotten that luxury. Why should he? He's severed himself from her with surgical precision already, barely speaking, just sitting limp, a marionette with cut strings. Even if by some stroke of luck, she was able to find it, an outdated antique older than he is, he doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned anything but a kick in the face that she's not willing to give.
"I'll try." Asuka's long since turned her phone off and removed the battery, so Katsuragi won't be able to trace the signal. There's no easy way of knowing the time, but on automatic, she still says-- "I'll be back in about two hours. If I'm not back by morning, you leave without me. Understand? You get out of here."
Giving him water bottles when he was sick. Stuffing crackers into his mouth now. She's never been any good, and he knew that from the start. She can't summon up the will to tell him why she's doing this.
"And finish those crackers. You can have my water, too. And whatever else you want." She gets up from the bed, then, leaving her headset beside him and stalking off without another word, closing the door behind her, only to return an hour and a half later. There aren't any vendors out at night, of course, as if she'd expected there to be. Asuka had ended up raiding an abandoned house, carrying a plastic garbage bag behind her. It has three blankets, a dirty pillow, and several sun-faded, worn-out dresses, along with two pairs of sandals. A jacket. A pencil and a steno pad. All the electronics had been removed or looted before she'd ever arrived. Asuka brings the garbage bag to him, opening it so he can see what she's pilfered.
"I couldn't find a player. Sorry."
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He opens his eyes when he hears the distinct rattle of the door. He notices that he's lying horizontally. It seems that he's curled up on his side, on the bed, having given up and crumpled in on himself. The crackers are gone, too. He must have eaten them; he can taste the mush in his mouth, and there's an unsightly crust of saliva on his lips. His legs move weakly, less than an inch, proving that he can't sit himself back up. He exhales heavily. He has to wait for her to come closer. (Needless to say, there's no way he would have been able to leave by himself. If she hadn't come back, he would have stayed here until he starved to death, or something worse. Lawless, roaming raiders aren't known for being kind to young children.)
Stirringly a little more, he turns his head to look at the garbage bag. The verdict on the tape player isn't a surprise. Still disappointing. Not a surprise. Still disappointing. Truthfully, he would benefit more from a drink of water, but he's decided that screw caps were invented just to fuck with him. His fingers don't have the dexterity to deal with twists and turns.
"You... c-came back..." Maybe he sounds relieved to see her again. He's shivering more often now, the chill getting to him. He could have crawled beneath the ratty, filthy blanket on the bed, but he couldn't figure out how to do that, either.
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It's not the most haunting image plastered in her brain, but it's close. Shinji is still on the exact same bed as earlier. The only change is that he's laying down now. Cold. He's cold. The idiot couldn't find the power of mind to get under the blanket. Asuka thinks uncharitably about the insane asylums hundreds of years ago. Relatives pawned off to the state like so much excess baggage, drooling, incontinent bags of bones. Shinji's not acting any better. He'll be a noose around her neck if he doesn't improve soon.
Since he doesn't look like he'll start rifling through the goods, she digs in herself, yanking blanket after blanket out. The dresses get piled beside him; the shoes are placed on the floor (she'd estimated his size-- at least if he gets blisters, he probably won't complain out loud), and what remains is shoved under the bed. It's a poor start, but people have built empires on less. Asuka's only ambition is making it for a month.
"Get under these. They should warm you up." Talk to me. Please, God, talk to me. I don't deserve this. I didn't do a damn thing to you. Her eye wanders from him to the bottle of water, still untouched since last she drank from it. At least he ate the crackers. The time without him hasn't done her any mental good, but at least as she was wandering back, she was able to construct more of a gameplan, however basic and laughable. "The Colonel's going to care more about getting you than me." Exhale. "That's why I got girl's clothes until we're farther away. If I find a knife, I'm cutting my hair." She's not sure why she says that last part. From the looks of it, it wouldn't make a difference to him if she'd decided to amputate both pinkies. "You mind?"
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Misato-san is going to hunt him down. Seriously, that's terrifying, but he's too exhausted to do anything about it. The only thing standing between him and oblivion is Shikinami Asuka Langley, who deserves better than to be his guardian. He still doesn't understand why she won't let him die. It would be better for everyone if he did. Especially Asuka. She lived without him for fourteen years, so she could live without him for many more. She could do that.
Besides, Shinji has the audacity to twist his lips and wrinkle his nose when Asuka asks about the state of her hair. "I like your hair the way it is," he says. That sentence is the most coherent thing he's said. Her hair is just that important to him--or, her hair not changing is that important. The eyepatch was bad enough. Shearing off all that familiar red hair will be too upsetting. He used to imagine running his fingers through it. Brushing it off of her shoulders, or away from her neck. He doesn't want her to look like a stranger on top of everything else.
But he can't do more than wiggle his foot in protest.
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Too bad he hadn't said that years ago. Asuka's kept her hair the exact same length and style for all this time-- though not for him-- the straight locks ending right at her bra strap. If her body wouldn't change, there was no reason to alter her hairstyle, make pretenses towards a maturity that wouldn't happen. She wonders, silently, if slicing her hair right in front of him would prompt a reaction. All she's looking for out of him is reactions now.
I like your hair. It might be the only compliment that's made her feel anything in half a decade. She glances away and twists a knob on her plugsuit, peeling off her gloves. Asuka's nose is hypersensitive enough to detect those trace cracker crumbs and concentrates still on the fingers. This plugsuit's more sleek than her old one, streamlined. Boring. After getting rid of the neckpiece, all she'd have left would be to depressurize the suit.
Asuka blearily remembers the last time he saw her naked. His face had turned crimson and she'd shrieked like a banshee for daring to peek. A Peeping Tom. A pervert. Then she'd been secretly pleased, wondering if he'd liked it. Deciding he had. Maybe the sight of skin might jar him a little more. It can't make him worse.
She sits down on the bed, removing the collar, looking at him. He'd probably close his eyes for her if she asked, but she doesn't ask before depressurizing the plugsuit and tugging it off her body, leaving it in a heap on the ground. Despite the chill, she's not shivering at all.
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His overall awareness is so muted that he doesn't think twice about Asuka's removal of her plugsuit. As soon as she tugs off the gloves, he knows what's coming next--she's going to get undressed--but he's expecting her to shuffle somewhere else. There's no way Asuka would disrobe in front of him... It's inconceivable, like a boy wearing a dress would be. It can't be happening. When she snaps open the collar, he doesn't avert his eyes; she should be stepping out of his line of sight soon. She wasn't the most modest girl back then--sometimes she allowed her bra straps to show--but she'd freak the fuck out if he saw too much of her skin. But, without warning, there's the milky reality of her neck and how it connects to her bare shoulders. There's an exposed clavicle and sternum. There's the meager swell of her breasts, capped with nipples that have hardened in the cold. He can't convince himself to look away, so he's treated to the slope of her stomach, her thin but still feminine hips, that dusting of red pubic hair. If she spread her legs any farther, he would be able to see her most private places.
Like a kettle that's slow to boil, Shinji's reaction is just the same. Pale pink embarrassment is leaking onto his face, and it cycles through shades, getting darker and darker. She stripped in front of him. She stripped! In front of him! In front of Ikari Shinji! He hiccups in what might be the fugue's version of a spluttering cough. His face is really warm, increasingly beet-red. It feels like he's swallowed a mouthful of hot water--it's traveling down, down, through his chest, into his stomach. The rush of blood through a body he can't feel the boundaries of is the strangest sensation in the world.
"Wh..."
Other than Ayanami, which was an accident, he has never been this close to a naked girl. His mind is unspooling like a broken cassette tape as he stares and stares and stares.
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The thought doesn't come out of nowhere. Shinji's face is steadily darkening from pink to outright red. She doesn't meet his gaze for more than an instant at a time, but she can feel his eyes on her, eyes that haven't been on her in a long time, eyes that aren't wavering from her naked body. A part of her is sickly satisfied as he trails off, grateful. No. Satiated.
What is she doing? What is she thinking? But however long it lasts, this is the closest to the way he used to be that he's been in hours and hours. It's okay if she's had to use her body to do it. It has to be. Right?
Only it's not really about briefly snapping him back now. Her legs cross at the ankles instead of the knees, swinging nervously, childishly, as she sits on the edge of the bed. She's only looking at him in small, cowardly glances. She's unaccustomed to shame, buried as the feeling's been under all her layers of bitterness, but she is ashamed-- both of her immature body and for exposing herself like this, stripping down for a traumatized boy. No matter what her reasons, it's deplorable. Just awful. Asuka's head droops, strands of hair falling across her face. He's seen everything. He knows nothing's changed. She's still trying to get his attention, even under the most dire of circumstances. She hasn't grown up at all, just gotten older, too old for this selfishness--
She grabs the top dress without even looking at it, shoulders slumping, crumpling the material between warm fingers. She barely remembers what it feels like to really touch anything for more than the ten minutes she spends in the shower every day, as if she could wash away the lingering scent of LCL before stepping back into her custom-made prison of a plugsuit. It's nice. It's nice. She lets the dress drop into her lap, wishing she could coil up like a snake, tighter and tighter until she'd squeezed every awful particle of herself away. Do you like it and I'm sorry, I'm sorry compete on her tongue, but all she manages is a little, choked sound as she hangs her head.