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You have, by your estimates, died one thousand and twenty-five times for Rose.
Pearls are built to be very, very good at keeping track of meaningless details. Exactly how many Gems are set to emerge from a given kindergarten. Exactly what shade of pink to light the ballroom in for another pointless soirée. Exactly how many times your form has been destroyed over the past half millennium since you started fighting this war. But getting poofed is so disorienting, and by this point you’re sure you’ve either forgotten a few, or made a few up, or both, so you’ll at least concede your count could be a tiny bit off.
But not by much, not by enough for it to matter at such a scale. You know that, and Rose definitely knows that. You’ve proven your devotion to her time and time again—felt your consciousness be swallowed whole by an encroaching darkness as your form glitched into oblivion, and been filled with a powerful sense of satisfaction before blacking out entirely because you’d done it for her.
It’s all for her. It always was.
Rose would never call you stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact; she thinks you’re smarter than her, at least most of the time, and she tells you as much. But sometimes when you reform she looks at you with what you can only describe as pity, and sternly—sadly—tells you not to be so reckless, and that might as well be the same thing to you. You can’t even argue in the moment; you can only murmur apologies into her chest, and falsely promise you’ll be more careful next time, and hold her as though she’ll leave forever if you loosen your grip even an inch.
She couldn’t possibly understand how it feels, and it wounds you more than any injury sustained in combat.
You’ve come to crave that oblivion, that nothingness. The fundamentally organic notion of sleep doesn’t come naturally to you the way it does to her, despite her urging (and you’ve tried, oh, you’ve tried), but you imagine there are similarities at least in the abstract; it’s all just shutting the mind off and being dead to the world for a bit, isn’t it? It’s…almost relaxing, really, almost comforting. Restful.
Of course she couldn’t understand. You don’t think she’s even experienced it. But…she likes to sleep, as she likes to indulge in all those frivolous Earthly things, and you do have to wonder sometimes if she’s seeking out the same void you are.
These are your thoughts as you sit on the dirt floor of your base, watching Rose slumber beside you. She looks so peaceful—her eyes serenely shut, her cheek smooshed thoughtlessly against her forearm, her curly hair splayed out around her curled-up form. Programming be damned; how could anyone not love her?
It’s been four days since you last reformed—rushed and haphazard, it was a tense battle, they needed you back in the fight pronto—and already you’re tired of your hastily-constructed new body. Each simulated joint aches, like you didn’t quite model your base form correctly—which frankly, in your mad dash back to physicality, you probably didn’t.
Rose has been watching you like a Red Eye ever since. You had to beg her to lie down and rest, and here you are anyway, still eagerly waiting for her to rise. Maybe you can broach your concerns once she’s had some time to decompress herself.
In the meantime, you sit there, and you crack each knuckle in turn as if it’ll provide any relief.
—
Her dark lashes flutter, she begins to murmur semiconsciously, and you snap to full attention in an instant despite your form’s protestations.
“Pearl?” she slurs as her eyes start to focus on you, her voice still heavy with sleep. “You know you don’t always have to wait beside me for me to wake up, right?”
“I want to, though,” you reply, giving a slight shrug and immediately regretting it. “I miss you when you’re not here.”
Rose pulls herself to a seated position, and motions for you to join her, which you immediately do. “How’s the new form treating you?” she asks, running her fingertips down your arm.
You frown. It’s suddenly difficult to meet her gaze. “Well…about that, actually.” You shift around uncomfortably; the topic being brought up has only made you more aggressively aware of the pain. "I rushed things, and…it hurts. And—and I know it would be a massive inconvenience for me to be out of commission again so soon, but I don't think I'll be much use to you like this, so…"
Rose's face falls, and so too do your spirits. "Oh, my Pearl," she sighs, and plants a soft little kiss on your gem. Cold comfort, but some comfort regardless. "Are you sure it's not just taking some getting used to?"
"I'm sure." A frantic edge starts to creep into your voice. "Please, Rose, just give me a few days this time. Garnet said she didn't see any forces approaching for at least another three weeks, didn't she?"
"Pearl," Rose chokes, somewhere about halfway between a cry and a laugh, "what are you talking about?"
"Kill me," you beg. You can't take the pretense anymore. "Please, just kill me."
You clutch desperately at her skirt with one hand as you use the other to rummage through your gem. There’s something suitable in here, you’re sure of it. (Where is that dagger you pilfered off that Ruby, anyway? Did you file it under “dagger," or“knife”? Or maybe just “blade”? Stars, if only you could recall…)
All the while, Rose looks on in what is to you inexplicable dismay. “I—” she begins, startled and discomfited, eyes wide. “I’m…”
“Please,” you whisper, and you finally manage to meet her eyes. For whatever reason, she looks terrified; as you take her expression in, guilt bubbles up in the pit of your stomach, sour and sharp and screaming.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Rose manages, shutting her eyes like she can’t bear to acknowledge you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, panicking all over again for an entirely new reason. You should’ve known. Of course you should’ve known. “I’m so sorry, I—I can just go off and take care of it myself instead! Please forgive m—”
“Pearl, please stop talking,” Rose snaps. “You know I can’t handle it when you…”
She lets the implication hang in the air; you understand immediately. I hate it when you act like what you really are.
Pure shame washes over you, which is a problem, given that your typical response to such feelings is…well, exactly what you were just doing. And you can’t make things worse. You just can’t. So, instead, with a great effort, you pause. You just freeze, processing, trying to figure out how you can even proceed now. Are you meant to just persist with this ill-considered form until fate is kind enough to intervene? You suppose perhaps you’ll get lucky, and it’ll get so unbearable that you’ll just spontaneously poof on the spot, but that seems vanishingly improbable. Stars above, is this how humans live their lives, with their fragile little flesh vessels? Forced to bear every inherent agony of the form until it finally gives out?
And then, Rose makes an attempt at damage control.
“Please don’t cry.”
Huh. You are crying, aren’t you? With everything else going on with your form, and indeed your mind, the moisture pricking the corners of your eyes feels so distant that you hadn’t even noticed it until it was pointed out.
(How shameful. How pathetic. No wonder she doesn’t love you enough to put you out of your misery.)
She gingerly wipes the tears from your eyes with her thumb, and you try your hardest not to whimper. She’s so gentle with you, and for what? Doesn’t she realize that right now, you’d much rather she press those thumbs of hers into your throat until you disappear?
“I’m sorry,” you say again, helplessly.
“Please, don’t be.”
“I can’t do this.”
“I know.” She looks like she’s about to start crying herself, and you’ve never felt guiltier.
Still…
“Will you…?” you venture, a spark of hope suddenly lighting up inside you despite yourself. You reach inside your gem again; this time, you find the dagger. Plain, utilitarian, but perfectly lethal regardless. It’ll do just fine.
Rose frowns again, but gives a tense little nod anyway. Her hesitance ties your stomach in knots, but then again, so too does the prospect of pushing on in such a faulty form, and one of those you can at least both move past.
“I really am so sorry to ask you to trouble yourself with all this,” you murmur, holding the dagger out to her in offering. After a moment—a long moment, far too long for comfort—she accepts the weapon, and takes a moment to examine it. Turns it over in her hands a few times, as if getting a feel for its heft. And you embrace her, because really, what else can you do to express your gratitude?
She stiffens, as though unsure how to respond to your gesture, and then with a sudden motion, she stabs you in the back.
And yet.
The wound, you realize with a sense of dawning horror once the immediate shock wears off, is fairly shallow as far as stab wounds go; the blade remains lodged in the simulated flesh of your back, occasionally quaking and carving the entrance up further as Rose’s hand trembles. She’s still unable to commit, even now, and you blink back pained, frustrated tears.
“Deeper,” you grunt through gritted teeth, tightening your grip on her. “Please.”
Rose swears under her breath; you wonder if she really thinks you can’t hear her, or if she’s just trying to maintain some vague sense of decorum. At least, what little she still can under such circumstances. “S-sorry,” she half-sobs, and she pushes the knife deeper—slowly, jerkily, but it’s progress.
You’ll take it. You have to. You have no other option.
You let out a hacking cough, and a sharp, faintly metallic bile rises in your mouth as the blade punctures some poor simulacrum of some frivolous human organ or another. Nacreous teal liquid dribbles from your lips onto Rose’s dress, something that you’re well aware should not be happening, would not be happening to your form under anything but profoundly traumatic circumstances. And against all reason, and all sense of both self-preservation and shame, a heat rises unbidden between your legs.
You have no real framework for any of the aberrant things you think or feel, of course. If pressed, you could never adequately explain exactly why the constant low-level ache that stifled your movements was too much to tolerate, but this is—while, yes, objectively much worse—kind of…sensual, for lack of better phrasing. Is it just who’s doing it? Is thishow much you crave intimacy from Rose, that a blade through your back scratches the same itch that a kiss might?
Is this love? It has to be, right?
Rose, for her part, soldiers on, still choking back tears. Another shaky push of the knife, and you feel your chest abruptly seize up as something inside you ruptures. Your body slumps against hers, face flopping into her ample chest, and your mind starts to falter along with your senses.
Every sense, that is, except touch. The pain of the wound and your misaligned body, the warmth of her form against you, and yes, the building fire between your thighs. Mindlessly, with the last remnants of your strength, you grind your loins against Rose’s thigh, the only thing remaining on your mind being to seek out that stimulation before your form does you the kindness of collapsing in on itself. Why should you be ashamed, after all? It’s just the two of you—this is an intimate moment in its own way, is it not?
Dimly, you’re aware that Rose is crying now, full-on sobs. You don’t understand. You never could.
Maybe you have that much in common.
Your vision tunnels, you let out a thin, dissatisfied noise somewhere between a whimper and a rasp, and—POOF!
At long last you are safely ensconced within your gemstone, floating in the featureless void of your deepest subconscious. As much as you can think or feel anything, you feel fine.
It probably helps that you can’t hear Rose weeping.
—
It’s not that time works differently within your gem’s confines, or anything so fanciful as that. That would just be absurd. It’s simply that with your consciousness so diminished, so buried, you start to lose track.
You think, as you race back to completeness, eager not to keep her waiting too terribly long, that you’ve been out about three days, give or take a few hours. Just enough time to put a little bit of effort into your form, to fix any issues and ensure some semblance of comfort and usefulness.
More importantly, you think she’ll be pleased with what you've done with yourself. You've carefully reinforced the points that were so weak and sore before, so now she won't have to worry about you falling apart on her for a good long while! Oh, won't she be so proud of you?
She'll be happy to see you. Right?
—
You reform before her, still sitting in the same spot in the base, as if she'd never left. It would never occur to you that maybe she hadn't.
She blinks as she processes things, then rises, and pulls you into a crushing hug. "Please never do that to me again," she begs hoarsely.
It hurts, how little you understand her. "Am I being replaced?"
"No, no, stars no, Pearl, I just…you were out for over a week, I thought I'd…"
Oh, stars, was it really that long?
She buries her face in your hair, and through tears, she murmurs something that almost sounds like an apology.
One day, eons from now, you’ll understand why she’s so upset. For now, though, you understand nothing, and despite all the work you did on your form something deep within you still aches.