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seventh ♢ private + spam

private, thursday } ben

[She wasn't lying or exaggerating or being overdramatic: she meant what she said. To Ben, and to everyone. She needed time. She did understand, does understand, the differences between there and here. She knows that Ben is on her side.]

[It's just that she needed time to remember the Ben who came before the one who let other people hurt her, the Ben who is kind and doesn't like being called a good person. She remembers him now. And, true to her word, she gets in touch.]

[The video clicks on to reveal her on her bed. Everything is tidied now, a good indication that she is at least stable, if not necessarily stable in a good place. She's holding the teddy bear he gave her, making it kick its little feet.]

I bet you've never carved a pumpkin before.

spam, saturday } nathan

[Abigail doesn't realize she's affected. Not yet. After this, she's going to go hole up in her room and pretend she's invisible until the urge to be super super nice goes away. But for the moment, she's going to do her job.]

[Which, right now, means re-organizing everything that exists in the art room. All the paintbrushes go in cups by order of size. She finds herself thinking fondly and only fondly of Hannibal, for the first time in a month, of the way he keeps things perfectly tidy, and wonders if he would be proud of the work that she's doing here. The oddness of that thought doesn't occur to her.]

[Whenever Nathan shows up for his shift, or she happens to notice him, she gives him one of her brightest and most genuine smiles, the kind she ordinarily saves for the known-as-damaged, for Harvey or Ben or Arkin. For Elena.]

Hi.

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[Ben, too, meant what he said and has followed through; he gives her space and doesn't attempt to intrude, doesn't hover for all that he's still paying as much attention as he can given his own condition. He's long since regained his feet, so to speak, and only feels slightly more easily fatigued, marginally foggy in a way he absolutely knows how to function through. The twinge of pain every now and again when he bends too swiftly or too sharply is quite literally negligible.

He's reading when the feed opens and once he sees the source, he's quick to activate his own side as well. So quickly in fact that he's still stretching out from where he'd been curled up himself, small and close and curved over the book he'd propped against his tented knees, silent and rapt.

He doesn't smile because he doesn't smile, but his eyes are bright and warm - and then confused, but curious.]

Hello, Abigail. No, I have not. I've never had reason or occasion to do so. Have you?

[She's happy to see him, and it shows - relief in the relaxation of her shoulders as she glances up at him, then back to the bear. Its little feet kick again.]

Yeah. It's what we used to do for Halloween. Me and my mom mostly. It's the best part. You carve out the top part around the stem and take it off, like a lid, then pull out the inside. Roast the seeds and use the rest of it for -

[A slow blink. It's a pumpkin. Ben doesn't make pie. It doesn't matter if they use all of it or not. Let it go.]

[She glances up at the camera again, sort of shyly.]

Anyway. You take out all the gross squishy parts and make a face in it. Or some other kind of picture. It doesn't have to be a face.

[He is pleased to see that she's still keeping the bear close; this is exactly how he'd intended it, and he's not quite conscious of the way his head tilts slightly as he glances down at it, then back up to her face.

He considers this for several long moments, as though the information she's giving him is something critical, something to be memorized and examined. He's aware of the existence of pumpkins, even vaguely recalls others doing something of what she's describing last year around this same time. He is also, of course, aware in the way that he is clinically aware of quite a deal of the holiday that has passed a week prior.

Finally:] Pumpkins are gourds. [Just to check that they really are on the same subject. Then:]

They are meant to be decorations, yes? Or is there some other purpose for them? I've read about Halloween and the traditions surrounding it, but I find the translations are not always accurate from text to application.

Or perhaps I merely misinterpret. This happens as well.

[Something about that - pumpkins are gourds - she can't even say what, but something about it draws brightness out of her. That's Ben. That's her warden. She feels abruptly safe again.]

Yes. Pumpkins are gourds. Like squash and melons.

[She smiles at him and tucks her legs under her.]

And on Halloween they're decorations. You put a candle inside and it lights up whatever you carved into it. It's really pretty.

Like a reverse shadow.

[This promptly, because whatever it is in her that has brightened, it calls to its like in him. And in him, who has seen what she's describing without taking much notice of it specifically, that brightness comes in the play of shadow and light, the definition of the warmth in the world by the darkness hemming it in.

He's shifted to sitting cross legged in the chair, and now he leans his elbows on his butterflied knees, his book closed over his finger and forgotten where he's left it in his lap.]

Has something reminded you of this tradition?

Exactly like that. Light against the night.

[She remembers things that Ben never would, walking the dark between houses illuminated by yellow light through the scraped-orange walls of pumpkin flesh, skittering closer to decipher their meaning. They couldn't do something like that here, she knows. They could never make it dark enough, at least physically. But there was some strange camaraderie in being shadowed shapes passing in the night, faces covered, tripping over rocks and roots and weeds.]

[There was always someone to guide her, back then. Now she reaches her hand out to Ben, and he is always there.]

I think . . . a couple of things reminded me. [She pushes her hair behind her ears, settling the bear against her knee so that she can make little fluttering gestures with both hands.] I wear - faces that aren't mine. Not so much since we got back from there. It's mostly just been me. But mostly, I do, and I was thinking about that and I thought of Halloween and dressing up and . . .

But mostly, I think it's just that I missed you. And I like doing things with you, because you're my warden and my friend. And I don't . . . think that my mom would mind, if I did something with you that used to be our tradition, hers and mine. She'd like you.

[She would worry, maybe. But she would love Ben in the end.]

[Ben listens intently, the process of sorting out what he does understand from what he doesn't understand by now almost easy enough that he barely needs to devote attention to it. There is, he's found, startling little that Abigail says that he is completely without context to understand; when he glances down at the motions her hands are making, he's gratified to find that he even understands that half-formed, instinctive language. He watches them until they stop, then looks back up at her face.

The moment he understands that the faces she claims to wear are not literal faces, it all clicks into place and he straightens slightly with a kind of eagerness that is subtle, difficult to discern. She hides herself to keep herself safe. She does not present as a soldier, as a civilian, as a human, but other things. Harmless. Whole. Weak. All things that she is not, but that others would like to see her as, so she lets them so they look no deeper.

He is less certain what to do with the pleasant surprise that coils in his chest when she says she missed him; a moment later he understands the importance, of course he does, although it might seem strange for him to comprehend that when so many other things that run parallel to it are mysteries to him. He considers it carefully, along with the implicit offer, and finally makes a decision.]

I have missed you as well. Would it be more acceptable to teach me how to carve a pumpkin if I were to offer to share something with you in return? A private tradition for a private tradition.

[Even if her mother wouldn't approve, Abigail thinks she'd want to do it anyway. Will helped her start to realize this, right at the end: her mother is dead. It's sad, but it's true. She's dead and gone, and after all, one can't model oneself wholly on one's forebears. Can't cut joy out of your life just because bad things have happened.]

[As it stands, she smiles so hard when he straightens up, when he considers everything she's said in serious but not solemn silence, that her eyes crinkle at the corners, that her cheeks hurt.]

It'd be acceptable either way.

[But she thinks that maybe he's teasing her, just a little, and shrugs just once in delight.]

But now I want to know. So yes. Please.

Acknowledged.

[Now he does glance down at the book, noting the page number and setting it neatly aside before returning his attention to her, eyes bright.]

Where and when, Abigail?

[He has stopped concerning himself with whether people will like him or not; often the answer is not, and there is little enough he can or is willing to do to change that. It matters little to him, now that he is no longer alone in the world and dependent on one other person to translate it for him. That Abigail believes her mother would have liked him is not a statement made to soothe him, anyway.]

Now, [she tells him instantly. She's been afraid for long enough. Not afraid of him, but afraid of what she might do, of her own instincts and responses. She would like to see him now.]

[But then she hesitates. There's a snag in this plan.]

I don't know where to get a whole pumpkin.

[But Ben doesn't waver. He doesn't smile, or at least the way his lips curve just a little around the way he speaks would not count as a smile for anyone else.]

Where, Abigail?

[It counts. To her, it counts, and she smiles tentatively in return.]

My room.

[She can, at least, set out newspapers on the desk.]

Acknowledged.

[There's more of it, the not-smile in the splitsecond between when he leans over for the communicator and when it actually clicks off; he doesn't waste time after that.

Abigail cut off just before she told Ben about pies, but the truth of the matter is that he'd been collecting some of the pumpkins from around the ship just before they disappeared, intending to see if Riddick cared to experiment with baked goods and breakfast foods. He realizes when he arrives at the kitchens that he knows what to look for in a food item for the ideal, but not a pumpkin to carve for decorations.

In the end he decides the standards must not be too far off, selects two, and carries them to Abigail's cabin. He doesn't bother being anxious. She's decided she's at least willing to try to be around him again, and he will trust that.

Hands full, he calls through the door instead.] Abigail.

Edited 2013-11-10 07:34 (UTC)

[Here is one thing about Abigail: when she makes a decision under her own impetus, with no outside influence, she makes the decision completely, thoroughly, and doesn't back down. She also doesn't change her mind lightly. She wouldn't have contacted Ben if she wasn't sure.]

[So she opens the door without hesitation. In the time between when he hung up and when he appeared, her smile has barely faded, and it comes back in full force when she sees him with a pumpkin in each hand.]

Ben!

[Another tiny shrug of happiness. She's not surprised to see him, obviously, just pleased. She holds the door open.]

You can put them on the desk if you want.

[A beat, and then, because she shouldn't hug him, she shoves all of her enthusiasm at seeing him again into:] Also, hi.

[He's mildly startled by the greeting he gets, and it shows in the way he breaks discipline and ducks his head slightly, shying into the room somewhat sideways before looking back up at her again, features bright.]

Hello.

[He hesitates several long moments, unsure if he should say or do something else. The answer is that he probably should, of course, but he doesn't know what so he clears his throat gently and glances around. He does put the pumpkins down on the desk, less because he wants to and more because she indicated he should; that and he recognizes what the newspaper is likely for as soon as he sees it while marking the other differences in the room.]

Is one each sufficient? There are three more in the kitchens.

Edited 2013-11-10 07:58 (UTC)

No, that's fine. Two is fine.

[She realizes as she says this that she doesn't know what she wants to carve anyway, so having several would probably be silly. Besides, her desk isn't big enough for more than two, and Ben said he had something to tell her, too.]

[Perching on the corner of her bed, she looks up at him eagerly.]

They're good ones. [Well, they're okay. But she's not that picky about pumpkins, frankly.] Which one do you want?

[Ben is looking between Abigail and the pumpkins and back again as she settles, curiosity plain in his gaze. The praise pleases him, relaxing the line of his shoulders, and then he fetches up soundly against the question.

If Abigail doesn't know what she wants to carve, Ben has no clue what he's even supposed to be imagining. Faces, yes, or something else, he doesn't understand fully what falls into an acceptable category and what doesn't; in turn, he thinks for a moment of requesting criteria by which to make an informed decision, but he understands this is meant to be recreational.

Cautiously, he looks back at Abigail.]

I do not have a preference.

[It's less that she sees his confusion and more than she feels it. There is something instinctive in her understanding of Ben now. What she lacks is a comprehension of her own functionality. What he lacks, often anyway, is an innate comprehension of things that are perceived as ordinary by people like her. People who have lived wholly different lives.]

[So she doesn't hesitate. She just pushes up off the bed and leans over the desk again. It's easier to pick for someone else than it is for herself. She chooses the one that's a little heavier, seemingly more solid, and turns to put it closer to Ben on the desk.]

That one's yours. [Firmly and irrevocably his. She doesn't give him an option, because she thinks this choice is okay for her to help him with. If not, he'll correct her. She's pretty sure of that, too.]

I don't know if the knife you gave me will work. We'll have to take turns, if you're all right with that.

[It's okay. In fact, he seems relieved when she acts so decisively, focusing his attention instead on the pumpkin he's meant to be working with. Glancing between the two gourds, he can't discern what exactly makes this one more suitable for him than the other, but he doesn't argue. He catalogs, and when he's finished observing, he reaches out with his hands to investigate the surface of it.

His fingertips are light but deliberate as he explores the smooth, almost waxy skin, marred here and there by the rougher warts and imperfections of anything that grows in the dirt; the sandpaper, almost-painful spurs of the stem; the irregular regularity of the grooves running vertically down the sides. She mentions the knife and, after a tentative rap of his knuckles on the pumpkin underneath his hands, he blinks at her.]

Likely not. [Then, realizing she had detailed more than just the single step - carving, there isn't only carving, there's something inside, seeds and something "squishy" - he presses his lips together.] What tools will we need? I will retrieve them from the kitchens, if they are there.

[For a moment she lets herself just watch him explore the pumpkin, like a child tripping across a new and exciting animal that it's never seen before, certain that it won't bite but unsure how to handle it. This is one of the other things she loves about her warden: that he pays close attention to things that other people gloss over, the quiet beauty in the world that, for him, is a luxury to experience.]

[She'd like to think she's learning how to do that, too. But, she knows, she has a long way to go.]

[The question registers after a short delay, and she glances from Ben's hands up to his slightly consternated expression.]

Um, a big knife to cut out the top. A couple of smaller ones to do the carving. And - big spoons for the insides. Probably some towels too. And a bucket?

[Ben waits until she catches up to him, gaze steady and intent. He wonders, sometimes, what she's thinking about when she falls behind like that. He knows what it looks like in himself, how he's taking the time to process, to repeat what's being told him or what he's extrapolating again and again in an effort to remember it. She doesn't have to work as hard at the context, though, he knows.

So he wonders, but he doesn't ask. Instead he listens to the list and then steps away.]

I can do that. I will be back as soon as I can.

[And he is. He leaves, heads up to the kitchens for the majority of the items, and ends up retrieving the towels from his own cabin. Everything is neatly rolled, stacked, and secure in the requested bucket when he returns, the big French knife and the pair of smaller paring knives folded deliberately into the towel to avoid the sharp edges being dangerous to transport. He places the bucket on the desk between the pumpkins for inspection, glancing expectantly at Abigail.]

[While he's out, she fiddles with the gramophone. She only has one record that she can play on it, but she's played it over and over, so that she knows exactly where to set it to get what part of the waltz.]

[She plays it now, because it makes her feel happy, and because it's fun to do things with music playing. It's right as Ben comes back that she realizes how long it's been since she did anything purely for its own sake, because it makes her happy - since long before her father's obsession with protecting her became violent. She did things for other people, to save face, to cope with the tension and wrong-feeling-ness of her own home, but not just because.]

[So she seems a little off-kilter when she catches Ben's expectant look and steps toward him hesitantly, but catches herself on the upbeat (-two-three), smiling at him by the next bar. She's doing things for herself now.]

[She takes the French knife and lays it next to Ben's pumpkin, then points a vague circle around the stem.]

You have to cut the lid off. Like the lid of a jar. Not gently, but carefully.

[Or you'll ruin the meat.]

[The gramophone and the waltz it's playing is a pleasant surprise upon his return, and he glances at it curiously. It's a good sign, he thinks. Music, he thinks, always is. Music serves no practical purpose, not in and of itself; music is nourishment for the same part of people that Ben's stories speak to, he thinks. He hopes.

She smiles, and his theory remains unchallenged to his knowledge. He doesn't smile back, but only because he doesn't smile. She's off kilter, but he makes a note of it, and thinks they all are. Thinks it would be worse not to be.

He picks up the knife when she puts it down, eyes tracing the path her finger sketches, fingers loose and comfortable around the handle but without intent.]

I understand. It's hollow. [After a moment he pulls the pumpkin closer, sets the point against the waxy skin. Presses it through, carefully and smoothly, until he feels it give and starts to cut the circle as instructed. His attention remains on what his hands are doing, pressure and counter point, the harmless preparations of gutting a vegetable.] This is something all civilians do? This is... normal?

[She watches him carefully, attentively, ready to correct him if he does something wrong. Her smile is thin, not because she isn't happy but because that's as big as she can smile right now. His understanding is correct. It's hollow. It's normal. One or the other, or both.]

It's something that people in the United States do at Hallowe'en. It's something my family did. So it's . . . [She worries her lip and then settles on:] Common.

[But nothing her family did could really be classified as normal, even if it appeared normal on the surface.]

It's expected.

[That seems closer to the truth. It was a thing they were supposed to do, so they did it. For most of her life, they even wanted to.]

You're doing it right, anyway.

[Ben accepts the corrections to his phrasing with directionless attentiveness, making note of it for the future. It will, he thinks, come up again - the distinction between normal, common, and expected.

Put that way, he understands exactly why there is such a difference.]

What are your designs of choice for such a project? [It doesn't take him long to close the initial cut, nor to set the knife down and carefully lever the lid off using the stem. He's distracted for a moment, peering inside, startled by the scatter of seeds strung together in flesh webbing. He pauses, eyes tracing everything he can see, before he sets it down carefully and reaches to touch the bits of pulp sticking to the underside of the piece he pulled off: this is why the bucket, he understands immediately, and glances up at her.]

[She's silent for a moment, leaning forward on her hands a little to watch Ben pry the lid off. He's so careful, as though his hands are likely to break every little thing they touch, and maybe they are. Maybe that's how he manages gentleness so often, through caution.]

[When he looks inside, he seems surprised and then blooms with understanding. It makes her grin, and she peers inside, too, even though she knows what's in there, maybe getting a little too close in his personal space but too excited to register it.]

Gross, right? Sticky. But like I said, the seeds are good. And pie.

[She backs up at the question, frowning and trying to remember.]

I . . . used to make faces in the pumpkins. Scary ones or mean ones. My mom always made them smiling, but I thought that was dumb. You're supposed to be scared on Hallowe'en.

[A small, bittersweet smile.]

Maybe she was right, I don't know. I think I might just . . . make designs this time. Something pretty for the light to show through.

Perhaps I'll ask Riddick if he would make something with them, or Ned once he takes up baking again. Or both.

[Ben doesn't really react to her lean, except that he waits until she's backed off again to move himself. Now that he can see the interior of the pumpkin, several of the items she requested make a lot more sense and he's moving: he strips off his field jacket to keep the long sleeves clean, twisting to hang it on the back of a chair instead. Down to his t-shirt and BDU pants, he glances over at her as she speaks.]

I don't understand why anyone would choose to be scared. [A statement of fact, not any kind of judgment. Simple, honest. He looks at the pumpkin in front of him even as he reaches to move the bucket, begins to spread out a towel under the one he's already cut into. Then he picks up the knife again and reaches for the second one, more confident this time but no less careful.]

Unless it is because of the certainty of feeling safe despite it. Of knowing whatever caused the fear is not a viable threat. I think I would like to make a design as well.

[One of the things Abigail doesn't always realize she appreciates about Ben is the way he helps her deconstruct the weird things that people do from the outside. She could never have done that without him. He's right, too - it's weird. Why choose to be scared? Being scared is awful.]

I think that has to be right. Unless you know nothing can hurt you, being scared is - it's the worst thing.

[She pulls the pumpkin he already opened up towards herself and starts tugging out the insides, dumping them in the bucket. Besides a curious look sideways at Ben, she focuses most of her attention on feeling the cold eeriness of the inside of the gourd, the way it squishes between her fingers.]

[It's fun. She's having fun.]

What design are you going to make?

I know.

[Also simple, honest, his voice gentle in a way he normally isn't. They both know down to their core that being scared is the worst thing. Being powerless and choiceless. Ben doesn't stop, now, to acknowledge it more than that on either end, letting it stand for them both. His eyes never leave the work of his hands.

Soon he's setting down the second lid beside the first and, gazing sidelong at Abigail a moment after her own glance, watching what she's doing. He picks up the other spoon he brought and begins mimicking her, careful at first, then with more confidence.

He is learning. Ben likes to learn.

Constellations. [He states it definitively enough, but then there's a knife-quick glance up as if to check if that's right, if it's okay. He lifts his head then from his work, and leans to look more closely at hers.] What is the goal of the next step?

[At the warmth in his voice, Abigail ducks her head and smiles. She moves a little closer to him, too, not enough to make him uncomfortable; it's just that she wants to feel the solid protectiveness of him close by, the attention of his posture, the attentiveness of his gaze. She missed him so much. It hurt.]

Constellations. [She says this with some wonder: it's an excellent idea, and she's never considered it. But his question confuses her, and she looks up at him for clarification.]

The carving, you mean?

[Ben lets her come closer without protest; he's okay with proximity without expectation. It's only when he feels like he doesn't understand what it means, or that it might mean something different to someone else than it does to him, that he becomes anxious. He missed her as well, even if he was confident he would not lose her completely. Waiting was hard, not the least because he has spent so much of his life waiting for others to come back to him.]

No. [He holds up the strings of pumpkin guts, trailing off the end of the spoon and over his knuckles.] How much do we remove? What is ideal?

Oh.

[She grins at him. He looks silly, just holding the pumpkin's soft parts like that. Like a friend, but better than a friend. A friend who knows all your awful secrets and holds them in the warmth of his hands with no fear, no flinching.]

As much as possible. The more that stays in, the more quickly it goes bad. And you want it to last a while, so you can look at it for longer.

Acknowledged.

[He feels awkward just sitting there, but she's smiling at him, happy, and that makes him happy too.

He smiles back by dropping his eyes away, turning his head slightly, glancing back up. Away again to his task. Two spoonfuls more of seeds and innards make it into the bowl beside his knee, then he looks up again from craning his neck so he can see better down inside.]

Did you have somewhere in mind to display them?

[She is almost done scooping her own out by now, working more efficiently than him because she's used to this task, able to easily catch up. His question is a good one, and one which she hadn't really considered before now; she just wanted the doing of it, but now that she thinks about it, they ought to be displayed. They're going to be perfect and beautiful, after all. Obviously.]

Maybe the art room? If that's okay. I would say the CES but they might disappear, and someone might accidentally kick them off the deck into space. Like a soccer ball.

[Soccer gourd. These are serious concerns.]

[ Nathan has stayed well on the periphery of all things involving Hannibal; there's no court system, so there's no way to tackle that ...mess as his skills and knowledge would rightly suggest.

So he knows Abigail only from what he's said to Ryan: she's quiet and she wears what she's seen (or done) around the eyes. The flood is knocking his usual judgment a bit off-course, but it doesn't actually affect his behavior with her at all, and all this means is that he smiles back, as genuine but at lower wattage. ]

Hey. You in charge?

[ A little joke, one single revolution in the curve of his smile, but also a reasonable question. She certainly knows more about the workings of the art room than he does. ]

[It's not that funny of a joke, but her general goodwill-towards-man in combination with the effort pushes her smile straight into grin territory, happy and playful.]

Yep. That's me. Queen of the art room.

[Harvey would probably like that. Except for the 'art room' part, maybe. She turns her back on the excruciatingly-organized paintbrushes and steps toward him curiously.]

Are you looking for anything specifically or just figuring out the place?

[ There are two factors at work here: one, sometimes Nathan's jokes just ...are that bad, and two, more or less significantly depending on where a person is standing, his only real experience in interacting with anyone Abigail's age is in work; he doesn't have, for instance, young cousins as an example of what protocols to follow. Ergo he goes with what he knows, and what that tells him is that in relation to anyone smaller and more vulnerable - by virtue of age, size, vested authority, all those quantifiers ultimately meaningless and yet swimming large - it's his responsibility to put at ease what he can. Sometimes that means telling bad jokes. It doesn't really put them on an even keel, can't, but--it's an effort that direction.

He sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugs in a way that makes his shoulders smaller. ]

Just gettin' my bearings. Jesse'll be back when he's better.

[At a different time in this same place, with this same man talking to her in the same way, Abigail would be suspicious. She will, in fact, be suspicious later. Will assume the worst. Men who manipulate their words and posture to gain her trust are not to be trusted.]

[This is both a double standard and not. She manipulates her words and posture to gain trust. But then, she's also been hurt enough times by comforting men who lie that she wouldn't care about double standards even if she could see them.]

[This is her right.]

[For now, she's imbued with something along the lines of inability to mistrust - which could be dangerous in the long run, but in the long run she'll realize what's happening and retreat to her room. Instead of which, she just purses her lips at Nathan and nods demurely.]

Then I am in charge.

Did you volunteer or just sort of get stuck with it? [A pause, and then, low and conspiratorially:] You can say you got stuck with it if you did, you know. I'm not really a fan of art therapy if you want the truth.

[ Nathan lowers his tone to match hers, stooping slightly so their heights are closer, but not actually moving nearer to her. ]

Well, if you want the truth--

[ Dun dun dun. ]

Nah, I asked for it. Not art--therapy, 's not really my area, just art. [ He shrugs, and if this were active manipulation it would be quite a feat of 'aw shucks, ma'am,' but it's actually just this hard to articulate. There's a reason talking effectively about art generally requires a degree. ]

I like it. Can't do much with it, but--how colors hang t'gether, how t'lay 'em out...I get that.

Edited (speech patterns must be PERFECT) 2013-11-18 08:55 (UTC)

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