versusnurture | eleven ♢ spam, private + open

spam } open

[The mask is secured in her room before she goes anywhere. She goes back to check on it frequently, bordering on obsessively, straightening it in its place of pride hung above her desk. She wonders what it's like to live life, day in, day out, in a few square feet, never allowed to breathe free air but through that grille. It's so much easier to imagine through Hannibal's eyes than Will's. She never imagined it would be.]

[She knew there was another man here who went by his name, but he never seemed real. Now - even though this artifact was never his - now it feels like a real, possible future.]

[What she doesn't do is lose time. She walks with even breath and utter confidence, anywhere and everywhere, feeling the simple joy of movement. She is afraid of nothing. She looks people in the eye, even if only for fleeting moments as she passes, and she doesn't even consider pulling a scarf on over the scar on her neck.]

spam } alana

[There's no way Alana doesn't have questions. Abigail doesn't feel obliged to protect many people, but Alana - she's been lied to all this time. Longer than Abigail was lied to. Hannibal was a colleague. And now . . .]

[There are probably worse ways to find out, but Abigail can't think of any. Besides death at his hands, anyway.]

[After a silent struggle with her conscience, she grabs the keys to Alana's room and hurries there, letting herself in before she can change her mind.]

spam } ben

[Eventually, she finds herself in the chapel. She has no question that Ben knows what's happened, or at least that something's happened. There was that brief moment of breathlessness, open for all to see on the network, and he'll have seen that even if he didn't watch her go with Dillon later.]

[She sits cross-legged in the pew and looks clear-eyed at the opposite wall. After quite a while - an hour, she thinks, maybe a little bit more - she sends him a message.]

Need your help with something. Not an emergency. You can walk.

[Then she turns the communicator off, lays it beside her, and waits.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Winston is on his feet at the first bottle in the trash can, alert and concerned. But when he sees that Alana isn't reacting with any sort of concern herself, he eases up. Still, he creeps closer into the kitchen to keep a close eye. He doesn't sit or lie down, he just stands.]

[Alana herself jumps at the first bottle. For just a brief second, the sound of the bottle crashing inside the trash can is the most real sound she's heard in her entire life. It sends a shock through her and makes everything feel more tangible - the good and the bad. She focuses for a time on just pouring the beer out, letting Abigail do what she wants in destroying the bottles, startling less and less with each.]

[Alana turns on the sink on the last bottle, washing down all remnants of the amber liquid before passing it off to Abigail to dispose of. It feels almost conspiratorial, the two of them there, destroying - in their own ways - Hannibal Lecter and his hold over them. Alana recognizes it's not permanent as she watches the water for a little while longer. Hannibal is, unfortunately, darkness. And darkness cannot be so easily staved off even if stepping into the light. She knows there's still the feeling of tendrils reaching and feeling out to pull her back in and suffocate her. But for right now, she's in the light and it's a safe and good place. She's got a small semblance of security and clarity.]

[Alana washes her hands. It's not necessary and she doesn't even particularly want to do it, but it's calming because it's normal. It's normal in the face of everything that isn't. She turns the water off and dries her hands, turning to face Abigail again. She doesn't know what's going through her mind and doesn't even pretend to attempt to right now. She has too much on her plate and she's happy to let Abigail feel whatever it is she wants to without being hindered by Alana's intrusiveness.]

If you ever need to come or stay here, Abigail, you're welcome to. That key isn't just for checking up on me.

[It feels like they're a team. She's never felt like Alana was on her side - even if now she knows that she could have been, that it was Abigail's own fear that kept them from presenting a united front. But now there is a power in Alana, a poised and regal sense of purpose and dignity, that's the exact opposite of Abigail's erratic, violent power. They can be powerful together, now.]

[She wants this. More than anything.]

[She glances up when Alana speaks, nods quickly.]

I know.

[She knew before. It's just that, before, she didn't have a reason. Today she did.]

[Tomorrow, the day after, it will be easier to talk herself into coming. But today was for Alana.]

[She cracks a smile, a weak one.]

Don't tell me you didn't need checking up on, though. Even you do, sometimes. Don't you? And I'm not your patient anymore.

No, you're not. But I'm also not your responsibility.

[Alana sets down the towel she used to try her hands and looks at Abigail. There's a small pause before Alana reaches out and places a hand on Abigail's shoulder. Her touch is light and gentle, nothing firm or guiding about it. Simply one hurt human reaching out and touching another. It's not exactly the sort of relationship Alana ever expected to have with Abigail Hobbs, but that doesn't make it a bad thing. They can rely on each other here. And though Abigail is not always stable nor the healthiest, even looking out for Abigail is better than nothing for Alana to fall back on right now.]

Thank you.

[Alana smiles a little stronger than Abigail and gives just a small squeeze to her shoulder before letting it go.]

[She jerks a little in surprise, but her hand is smarter than she is: it seeks Alana's out, laying itself atop hers and squeezing lightly, giving comfort back, what little she can. When Alana pulls away, she feels weirdly alone, but she knows it's a phantom feeling, a desire to cling to any measure of parental or faux-parental influence.]

[She weaves her fingers together, wringing them gently to feel sensation.]

I know. But I'm my responsibility, and I still . . . feel responsible. For bad things that happened because of the choices I made. You not knowing is a bad thing happening.

[Will being locked up, that's a bad thing happening. It's not wholly her fault, but sometimes it feels like it is.]

[She shrugs, anyway, and stuffs her hands into her pockets.]

You're welcome, anyway. Sorry you have to depend on crazy.

[Alana gives Abigail a wry smile.]

I'm not sure you can really call yourself crazy.

[And all things considered, Abigail is probably more sane than most people on the Barge.]

[Abigail sighs.]

I think I can call myself crazy if I feel crazy.

[She will draw a line between what she is and what she feels someday, maybe, but - there's no denying she's damaged. The mental equivalent of bones broken and never set, healed knotty and painful when it rains.]

[Alana can understand that feeling more than she could before. More than she ever wanted to.]

Fair enough. But you're not alone, Abigail. Not this time.

[She smiles, tentative.]

I wasn't before. But now I know it.

. . . Thanks. I mean. I don't want to sound ungrateful.

I wouldn't be that offended even if you were.

Yeah.

[A small smile.]

I remember that about you. You don't get offended easily.

No, that was never the dangerous part.

[Get Alana fired up and you best duck and cover. Even Jack Crawford knew better than to push her too hard.]

No, it never was.

[Hannibal's in trouble now, essentially.]

I trust you. I should have trusted you sooner. It shouldn't have taken dying. But, you know.

Better late than never.

All that matters now is that you make the most of the second chance you have, Abigail. Not for anyone else but yourself.

eleven ♢ spam, private + open

spam; you are perfect to me in your own way /waves hand

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