enodia_ic | (no subject)

Who: Enoch & Crysta Waldinger
When: Post-1am sometime in the last month, pre the power switch plot obvi
Where: Enoch’s room
What: Enoch gets a call and the walls are kind of thin late at night
Warnings: Waldinger standard really? bad parents, emotional abuse mentions, dark humor about deceased siblings

Due to the hubbub of the station, it’s rare that she can hear the goings on in Enoch’s home, but sometimes, in the dead of night, noise cuts through. Crysta’s tucked under her covers in the twilight stage of going to sleep, where she can hear the comfortable noises of Gordo snuffling in the other room, of someone’s shower going. Her mind grows heavy, all set to surrender. Another noise creeps through, though. Familiar footfalls and a snappish British accent. Her barely-there consciousness places this; it’s half a conversation she might’ve overheard at home, as a teenager or a child. A familiar gnawing fear begins to eat at her stomach. This is inevitably her brother, one of them but Gavin’s dead so it must be Enoch, talking to her father, or her mother. There will be unspoken tension, punishments, something as a consequence, now. Anxiety squeezes at her heart and triggers a hypnic jerk like she’s just jumped from a high tower to escape the conversation.

Her eyes snap open with a soft gasp. There’s no tower, and no childhood home. She’s at Enodia. Her skeleton’s on the wall and her egg chair is in the corner. The voice from the other room is more articulate, and she hears it snap out, “I’m a senior researcher in charge of my own lab, which you’d know if you—” A pause. She’s all the way awake now, not breathing because she wants to hear the rest. But it’s just, “No. Of course not. I apologise.”

And the defeat in that voice and the bitterness rising to her throat because of that charges Crysta to hop right out of bed, sleep tank and shorts and all, and stride purposefully out of her apartment, travelling all the way to the next door over, where she stops. She isn’t sure what she planned to do, exactly, only that there’s only two people her brother could possibly be talking to like that, and she won’t let either of them catch him alone this time. “Knock-knock,” she calls, but also follows this with several utilizations of his namesake, staccato and obnoxious, so as to not be ignored. He knows she has a key, too.

Enoch’s eyes cut to the door, even as his father’s voice drones in his ear, detailing his shortcomings. He supposes he should be grateful. He used to beg the universe for his father to remember he has a second son, and there’s an element of dark comedy in how his wish was granted.

“—no. I don’t know where she is,” he says stiffly, grateful for the distance of a phone call. He hasn’t told his parents about his evolved Liminal abilities, but they would’ve probably figured out anyway that he tastes acid when he tells a lie, seeing how quickly they jump on all of his other weaknesses. He strides over to his front door and opens it, holding one finger to his lips to shush his sister, even as he says into his phone: “Crysta’s probably shacked up with a lesbian DJ in Ibiza, blowing through the last of her trust fund.”

Which is a fairly harsh and frankly stereotypical assessment, but Crysta thinks it’s funny. And he’s not wrong. Had she not moved here, something almost exactly like that would’ve been her next move. That, or finally giving in to the recruiters from what she was sure was the Netflix project Too Hot to Handle in disguise. “GOD I wish,” she mouths, letting herself in the door and perching on his sofa’s arm.

She recalls, too late, that she’d noticed her mother’s calls starting to come in yesterday. She pulls out her phone and counts. Three calls, one text. All in the last 24 hours. And one from her father himself, about two hours ago. But then, it’s exactly like him to be ignored once and then make it someone else’s problem. She snaps her eyes up and makes the universal symbol for fuck him, hang up, which is a lot of violent gesticulation.

Enoch glares at her, even though she’s right on both points. He hates how powerless he still feels when speaking to his father, how some childish part of him quavers at the thought of how angry he’d be if Enoch just hung up on him mid-rant. It’s why he’s been avoiding these calls for months. He’s trying to think of a way to smoothly end it when his father asks an unbelievable question.

“Who was the woman calling for me?” Enoch echoes, incredulously. Do you not recognize your own daughter’s voice? he wants to ask, but it’s a true achievement to have kept them in the dark for this long, and he won’t be the one to give Crysta’s location away. Horror shows on Enoch’s face at a fresh round of assumptions from the other end of the line. “That’s not… We will sooner witness the heat death of the entire universe than me bringing a girlfriend home for Christmas.”

He switches his phone off in disgust, tossing it on the sofa next to Crysta. “I’m billing you for any therapy I need after that conversation.”

“Please. I’d pay for you to go to therapy. You know, they never think it’s nice when I want to bring a girlfriend home.”

Crysta mutters, not at all hiding her amusement at the outburst, but also the sheer audacity of her father’s implied question. It was amazing how profoundly two people could live in denial. Or maybe she’d just confused them too much the last time she’d tried to explain “bisexuality” and it was her fault. Her eyes dart to Enoch’s with nervous admiration, reserved, like she’s still anticipating her father barging in the door. Of course, he didn’t really possess either omniscience or teleportation abilities, and she hates that in their eyes, he may as well.

“...What did he want, anyway?” Crysta tests out, looking at the phone beside her with unprovoked disdain, reminding herself that he couldn’t jump out of the phone. He couldn’t hear this.

Enoch tenses, his first instinct to lie as though he expects—what? For Crysta to report back to their parents? For her to agree that he’s not doing enough to promote his career? Maybe just to make fun of him, like it isn’t an old joke that his work is boring and impenetrable. Not wholly illogical, but he looks at his sister—her hair a mess, the faint imprint of pillow creases still on her cheek—and he can’t quite line up her presence here with a desire to undermine him.

“He saw a scientist from Enodia Research Station on TV, and wanted to know why it wasn’t me.” Which had spiraled into a discussion of why, if he insisted on working for IRIS, he hadn’t yet moved beyond Enodia for a more prestigious government post, and other opportunities he could be pursuing in the private sector with his skills. Conversations he’d overheard Gavin have with their father far too many times. Enoch crosses his arms, holding himself stiffly to combat the urge to pace or fidget. “He thinks… I should take my position as future head of the family more seriously. Which is absurd, of course. That contract he signed with the devil ensures he’ll live to be two hundred.”

“Not if I murder him.” Crysta reflects that this is actually a more potent threat than it would’ve been a year ago, however would require her father to be in a room alone with her and maybe Enoch. To her memory, that happened last when she was maybe eight.

“And I hope you told him the real scientists have far too much work to do to waste time looking right for the television.”

Crysta slips into her best impression of Enoch’s slightly more prominent British accent, but it’s the most complimentary thing she can muster. It isn’t fair. She’d seen and felt Gavin be swallowed away from her by the unrelenting tide of her father’s expectations, and there she was on the shore, paddling, unperceived, and a little bitter. And she’s still not sure how to change that, now the same tide’s pulling at Enoch’s ankles.

Enoch closes his eyes for a second, not quite repressing a smile at Crysta’s comments. They’ve made these sorts of jokes since they were teenagers, always out of earshot from their parents, posturing like nothing could rattle them and they were too smart to be manipulated.

“It’s easy to look right for the television,” he says, snapping his fingers next to his head. Black-framed glasses appear on his face, and his unruly hair settles into a perfectly coiffed helmet. “But I’ve been told I’m better off not speaking.” He opens his hand with a little twist, an obviously practiced gesture, and the illusion dissipates. Without it, he looks pale and tired, dark circles forming under his eyes.

“I don’t care what he thinks.” An obvious lie, but Enoch gets the words out smoothly. “What we’re doing here is important. You agree, don’t you?” His tone is cool, but there’s something behind it—a need for validation, an exposed nerve of insecurity that he rarely ever shows.

She lets that lie go, because it is the oldest lie, the one all her siblings, herself included, tell like it’s breathing, like drinking water. The most merciful thing to do is let each other say it without pressing back, so she does, hoping for the same grace next time it’s her turn. Crysta studies her brother from her perch on the sofa. She suddenly doesn’t remember a time he’s looked so worn, and her mouth twists, unhappy. She should pay more attention.

Her opinion probably does not matter to him very much in the grand scheme of opinions, but she can’t help emphasizing, “Yes. Of course I do,” spelling out each syllable, crisp, so that his lie detection can tell there’s nothing hiding, for once. It’s probably too much and far too sincere. But honestly, fuck it, it’s well past one in the morning. She can be excused. “And you’re invaluable to it. It’s not your fault he’s too stupid to understand.”

Enoch hears the truth with a little sigh. He almost thanks her, but doing so would expose that she’s done something kind for him—a blatant breach of sibling etiquette that would force Crysta to find some way to devastate his ego in the near future. It’s what he’d do, in her shoes.

Instead, he rubs his face with one hand, trying to banish his creeping exhaustion, and strides over to the office setup in the corner of the room. “You should go back to yours. Unless you want to look over my shoulder at the latest plans for the rift radiation detector.” Enoch leans over his desk, reviving his laptop for another hour (or two) of work.

This attempted dismissal holds no water at all, seeing as it’s half of one in the first place. “Aren’t you going to sleep?” Crysta demands, looking him up and down, pointed. A concern skewed into an insult is one of her favorite tricks, and she makes her face the most vacant, bratty version of itself, which is probably a clue as to her intent in the first place. “You look bad.”

She does, regardless, drag up a kitchen chair to his shoulder, and sinks into it, because she actually really does want to see the latest plans for the rift radiation detector, if she cannot convince him to stop being a psycho and go to bed.

Enoch is vain enough for that comment to sting, but he just shoots his sister a glare as he makes room for her chair. “I’ll exfoliate in the morning,” he says dryly. It’s a sign of trust that he’s willing to “look bad” in front of her, but Crysta has seen him in worse states than this, including his acne-ridden teenage years and every time she’s ruined his hair.

“And hydrate.” Crysta reminds him; there’s not enough pumice in the world to exfoliate away the exhaustion she already sees in his eyes, but she lets it go before he can turn it around on her. He’s seen her at her lowest, too. And she’s sure her hair’s a mess, but she doesn’t even bother running a hand through it. Her attention’s on the screen when Enoch speaks again.

“Here.” There are two documents open on his computer: one a page of complex calculations on how to measure the energy of rift_β radiation, and the other schematics of the latest prototype. He double-clicks the latter, filling his screen with plans for what looks remarkably like a cat-ear headband.

“Doc Yowell’s work.” He sounds torn between impressed and annoyed. “Do you think the explorers will like it?”

“Oh my god,” Crysta gushes, putting her elbows up near the screen to squint and really see. She didn’t grab her glasses, but it’s getting harder to not see cells in smudges and clumps even without them. She can tell, though, that these are extremely cute. “They’ll love it. They’re gonna look so stupid. How does it work, are the readings like…through the ears.”

“Yes,” Enoch sighs. “The ears are evidently non-negotiable. The next time we go out into the field together, I’m making you wear it instead.”

He sounds annoyed, but there’s an acknowledgment in his words: that he wants her here, and wants to continue working with her. Crysta is quick and clever, and surprisingly eager to absorb complicated concepts when given the chance. Enoch still uses his illusory crow as a work partner, but talking to Crysta has proven to be exponentially more efficient than talking to his own brain. He should just say it—it’s the truth—but somehow he just can’t make the words leave his mouth. He’s never told his siblings how much he enjoys their company, sincere and straightforward. He doubts Crysta would even believe it if he did.

But she hears it. In a way that’s shameful, probably chemical and automatic more than anything, her eyes light up because there’s an implied next time. She’s never really been able to swallow the spark in herself that lights up only with the approval of her older brothers, every scrap and morsel she can get. She knows it’s one of her worst weaknesses, and she grins to hide the impulse and ostensibly drive it away. “What, you mean you WON’T wear, like, a fun cat matchy costume with me if I whip one up??”

A better brother would immediately give in to that luminous grin, but Enoch has a lifetime of experience being unfun. “No,” he says flatly. “And stop thinking about it, I can see it in your eyes. This is a crucial piece of scientific equipment, not an excuse for dress-up.”