Chapter Text
“Darlene.”
Her eyes blink rapidly, as if suddenly waking from a long sleep. She glances around the small room and takes everything in one by one: Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a couple of expensive-looking abstract paintings, a wide window showing off the brownstone across the street.
“Sorry.” She shifts in her seat and pays special attention to the way the worn leather groans with every movement. She briefly glances at the mahogany coffee table filling the space between them before finally making eye contact. “Uh, did you say something?”
He sighs and uncrosses his legs, clicking his pen before crossing them again. “Where did you go just now?”
She lets out a dark chuckle and shakes her head. “Nowhere important.”
“Darlene, this only works if you’re honest with me.”
She heaves a dramatic sigh and throws up her hands in defeat. “I dunno what to tell you, dude. I spaced out. Am I not allowed to do that?”
“I didn’t say that you couldn’t. I just want to know where you go when it happens. Maybe we can figure out why you space out.”
She laughs again. “Good luck with that.”
He adjusts his stupid tortoise shell glasses. “It’s been three months and we’ve made little to no progress. If you’re so unwilling to cooperate, why did you come here?”
She defiantly crosses her arms and stubbornly glares at the window. “Because I promised my brother I’d do this.”
He gives her a slight nod. “And why did you promise your brother you’d go into therapy?”
Is it just her, or does he gradually get more patronizing every time they have this conversation? “Because I told him that we would do this together.”
“Has he been seeing Krista regularly?”
She scoffs. “I’m sure you know the answer to this.”
“I do, but I want to know if you know.”
“Of course I know. Jesus.” She throws her head back against the couch and runs a hand through her tangled hair. “I get it, alright? Elliot’s making stellar progress, he’s the poster boy for recovery - a true underdog.”
He tilts his head, curiosity piqued. “Does his road to recovery bother you?”
Her eyes bulge at his question. “You’re kidding, right? Why would it bother me? I finally have my brother - my actual brother - back after God knows how long, after the complete fucking nightmare we just dragged ourselves out of, and you have the audacity to think that him actively seeking help and proactively taking steps to better himself bothers me?” She puffs out another indignant scoff, throwing one leg over the other and stretching an arm across the sofa’s backrest. “Fuck, dude.”
She can hear his pen scratching something into his clipboard. “You told me last time that he’s thriving at his new job and even cleaned up his apartment. Is it possible that you may be jealous of him?”
She stares at him like he suddenly grew a second head. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“It’s not a bad thing. It’s okay if you feel like you’re a few steps behind. The road to recovery isn’t a race. Have you talked to him about this? About how you’ve been feeling?” When she doesn’t answer, he tries a different approach. “What about your panic attacks? Have you been able to manage them?” He flips through a few pages on his clipboard. “You told me the last one you had was about three weeks ago, which is the longest you’ve gone so far. That's impressive.”
She shakes her head and laughs again, hoping she doesn’t look as anxious as she feels. “Hooray for me. Do I get a sticker for being a good girl?”
He’s just about to respond when the alarm on his watch goes off. Darlene visibly deflates with relief as he sighs, tucking his pen into his front pocket and reluctantly rising to his feet. “We’re putting a pin in this.”
“Sure, just like all the other things we’ve pinned.” She shrugs as she stands up, hoisting her purple backpack over one shoulder. She pulls out her heart-shaped sunglasses from her jacket pocket and slides them on as she makes her way to the door. “See ya.”
He calls out to her just as her palm curves around the doorknob. “Darlene.” When she groans and half-turns to stare at him, he gives her a defeated smile. “I want to help you, you know.”
The pity dripping from his tone douses her with an overwhelming sense of guilt. He’s looking at her like she’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever seen, and it only makes her want to leave faster.
“Yup.” She manages to utter, despite the rapidly growing lump lodged in her throat. She softly closes the door behind her and tries to walk past reception as steadily as she can, but her knees are quivering.
She nearly falls asleep on the subway ride back, but she wakes up just as the doors slide open on her stop. Once she’s back on the surface she makes a quick stop for coffee, then traipses down the street, past the usual dumpling restaurant, and up the steps to her and Elliot’s building.
It took some convincing, but her brother managed to get her to take Shayla’s old suite. After everything that’s happened, the siblings came to a realization that all they have now is each other, and if they're going to recover from the fallout the best way to do it is to do it together. Darlene doesn’t mind it so much - in fact, it’s loads better than her previous living situation, which was really just her crashing at whichever friend had an available couch at the time. This also means she gets to see him more often, which also means that she can make up for lost time and actually be a decent sister to him.
She lumbers towards the end of the hallway, but instead of unlocking the door on the right she raps her knuckles against the door on the left. It opens seconds later; Elliot’s still in his work clothes, which must mean he got back not too long ago. “Darlene.” He gives her his usual coy smile. “Hey.”
She snorts, eyeing him up and down as he steps aside to let her in. Flipper is excitedly hopping around her ankles, and she bends over to pet her. “I’m never gonna get used to this.”
His brow furrows as he looks down, staring at his forest green sweater, the off-white button up layered underneath, and his black chinos. “What? Does it look bad?”
She pulls out a chair and sits down, dumping her bag by her feet. Her sunglasses are still on. “No. It’s just a far cry from the hoodie, I guess.”
Elliot chuckles and takes the seat across from her, his hands clasped together atop the table. “How was therapy?” When she shrugs, he tries again. “Talk about anything interesting?” Another shrug. He sighs. “Darlene, you said you were gonna try.”
She raises her coffee to her lips. “I know, I know. It’s just...” She shrugs again. “You know how hard it is to talk about shit, especially to a complete stranger.”
“I get that, but Ben wants to help.”
“I know. He tells me every time I go there.”
“So you should let him help.” One of his hands twitch, like he’s thinking about reaching out to her. “The stuff we’ve been through, it’s fucked up - and...I’m not just talking about recent events either.”
She knows how difficult it is for him to talk about their childhood (Or lack of one), so this must mean he’s serious. “Isn’t it good enough that I’m talking to you about it, though? Five/Nine, the Dark Army, fsociety, our amazing parents - why does Ben have to know?”
She purposely left out one thing in that list, and judging by the look Elliot is giving her he’s fully aware of it. “I’m glad you’re talking to me. Hell, I’m glad we’re talking at all. But there are some things that Ben can help you with that I can’t. That’s why I still see Krista. I'm lucky that she still even wants to see me.”
Darlene takes a sip of coffee. “Yeah. I know.”
There’s a short pause. Elliot sucks in a breath, then finally unlinks his hands so he can lean forward and place one of them on top of his sister’s. “I’m worried about you.”
She can’t help but laugh at that. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”
His expression is grave. “You want me to get better, and I want to get better. I’m trying really hard to make that happen so you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
She squeezes his hand. “And you’ve been doing an awesome job with that.” She takes a quick glance around the apartment, noting how different it looks from what it used to be three months ago. Part of it is because of their landlord; thanks to #ecoinpayday he had more than enough money to remodel the entire building: The kitchen and bathroom got complete makeovers, the walls are repainted, the floor is made of new wood, and the ceiling is no longer stained with water damage. The other part of it is because Elliot wanted a fresh start and Krista told him that fixing up the apartment may help with that, so he filled the place with furniture and small personal touches. The small kitchen table they’re currently occupying wasn’t here three months ago. The bed is no longer a sad mattress on the floor; it now boasts a full frame, accented with end tables. He even squeezed a record player in the corner, complete with a small stereo system for his growing vinyl collection. It’s a nice reminder that Elliot, her brother, actually lives here now, and not Mr. Robot, or whoever that other person was. She tries not to give it too much thought.
“But I want you to get better too.” He squeezes back, his large eyes are tender, almost pleading. She forces herself to stare at her coffee instead. “I’m just scared that you don’t want that.”
She honestly doesn’t know how to answer that. Of course she wants to get better. Why the fuck would she even think of wanting to spend the rest of her life this way? He shouldn’t even be asking this, but she doesn’t want to argue, so she says, “I do. It’s just...hard, I guess. Maybe therapy isn’t for me.”
“Maybe it isn’t, but you should at least give it a shot - a real shot.” He squeezes her hand again. “Please, Darlene. Promise me you’ll try.”
He’s still giving her those dumb puppy eyes. She groans and finishes the rest of her coffee. “Ugh, fine. Whatever.”
“Good.” He smiles and rises to his feet, one hand rubbing the back of his head. “So, what do you want for dinner? I was just gonna order in.”
The rest of the evening passes quietly. They watch a few episodes of He-Man, get a little stoned, munch on broccoli beef and fried rice, and Darlene listens to Elliot talk about the day he had at work. By the time she leaves, it’s just past ten.
Her apartment is sparsely furnished. It only has a bed, which is really just a sad mattress on the floor, and a desk for her laptop. She probably should make it look and feel more like a home, but she doesn’t see the point. She’s barely in here anyway.
After tossing her bag on the floor Darlene heads into her closet - the only place in the entire apartment that’s actually full with stuff - and changes into one of the many old oversized t-shirts she stole from Cisco. She heads to her desk and pulls out her laptop from her backpack, idly chewing on her thumbnail as it boots up, but the second her screen flickers to life she slaps it closed and pushes it away. Not tonight, she tells herself.
Sighing, she falls face-first into bed, groaning into her pillow.
It takes her about two hours to fall asleep. She dreams she’s in an airport. She stares at the ticket in her hands - a direct flight to Budapest - and wonders if she may have gotten to the gate too early because she’s the only one here. She checks the gate number on her ticket and finds out she’s in the right place. Where is everyone?
Then the shots start firing. They come in bursts, popping in her ears, zipping in from all sorts of directions. They dig into the seats, crack the large windows, echo through the empty halls - but there aren’t any guns in sight, nor are there any people to fire them. She scrambles underneath her seat, clutching her head in her hands, heart pounding against her ribcage. She hears a bunch of men yelling, but it’s in a language she doesn’t understand. Her eyes clamp shut as she begins to sob. What is she supposed to do now?
She opens her eyes and she’s suddenly in the middle of the hallway, in between gates, looking up at a group of men wearing black suits and red masks. The barrels of their AK-47s are pointed towards her forehead.
“What the fuck do you want?” She cries, and her eyes go wide when nothing comes out. She tries again, but she can’t hear anything. She throws her head back and screams as loud as she can, but the airport is deathly quiet.
They raise their guns. One of them presses up against her forehead. The cool metal against her skin sends shivers down her spine. She closes her eyes again. She can’t watch this.
She jolts awake just as they pull the trigger. She can still hear the gunshots ripping through her eardrums. Her face is wet with tears, her shirt is damp with sweat, and her chest is heaving. Darlene rises on shaky legs and wobbles over to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She looks into the mirror and finds sunken eyes, pale skin, and tangled hair. She looks like a corpse.
She heads into her closet and changes into jeans and a flannel shirt. She steps into her boots, drapes her jacket over her shoulders, grabs her backpack, and steps out. She half-turns towards Elliot’s door, biting her bottom lip, but she decides against it and speeds down the hallway. In minutes she’s outside, shivering slightly in the evening wind. Her feet carry her to the subway.
Darlene doesn’t have to think about where she’s going. Her body goes on autopilot every time she has that nightmare, which has been almost every night now. She doesn’t even know why she goes home anymore, because she knows she’s just going to end up where she’s currently going anyway.
She transfers to another train and rides it for four stops before hopping off. It’s just a short walk from here, only a couple blocks. She jogs up the front steps, wrenches the front door open, and heads up another flight of steps. Once she reaches the door, she kneels in front of it and unzips her bag, pulling out a set of locksmith’s tools. It only takes her seconds to pick the lock; the door swings open just as she shoves everything into her bag, and she rises to her feet and casually walks inside, closing the door behind her. She carefully steps around the scattered pieces of that stupid Echo, still lying on the floor from when she shattered it months earlier. The chest of drawers is still perpendicular to the door.
Darlene takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes, revelling in the familiarity of the environment. The first thing she does is head straight into the bedroom, tossing her backpack by the foot of the bed, and undresses. She reaches for the oversized FBI shirt crumpled on the floor, still in the exact spot she left it in earlier this morning, and shimmies into it. She can spot the safe out of the corner of her eye as she crawls into bed, and she tries not to stare at it, but she always does.
She still remembers the combination, but she never thought to open it. She doesn’t have the heart to. There’s nothing in there that’s worth looking at anyway - at least not anymore.
She rolls onto her back, sighing loudly as her eyes drift towards the ceiling. It doesn’t take long for fatigue to weigh down on her, and in seconds she’s asleep.
It’s the only way she can get a peaceful night’s rest nowadays.