versusnurture | fourteen ♢ text & audio & spam

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[She wakes up screaming at what is, relatively speaking, three in the morning. It's a nightmare, the first really bad one since she died. She tries to remember what it was, what exactly, but it's all a blur; she remembers screaming in the dream, too; she remembers a lure; she remembers blood, lots of blood; she remembers a song. Ein Männlein steht im Walde . . . She remembers not being able to breathe. She remembers her mouth was full.]

[The first few nights, she calls people. She asks for help. After that, she wanders the halls, unable to get back to sleep, unwilling to lie in the dark any longer. Her hair is tied back, a scarf tucked around her shoulders, but her scar still stands out against the pale clamminess of her neck.]

audio } ben

[Night one, she calls Ben. She is crying, her voice muffled (she is using the bear as a pillow, as something with which to dry her tears).]

I'm not hurt. [She has to clarify this first, so he doesn't fear for her, so he doesn't hurt for her. This is how she protects him.] But I need you. Please. If - it's not too late.

audio } blight

[It's instinct to contact him. Maybe it's bad instinct. But it's what she reaches for the second night, once she's calmed herself down enough that she's no longer hyperventilating. Once she feels mostly human again.]

[It's midnight. She sounds as chipper as if it was noon.]

What do you know about brain chemistry?

text, filtered away from hannibal } public, april 7

who has nightmares

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I do not truly believe your death would have stopped your father. Without knowing him, without having your experience - or any at all with this particular situation - I should think you'd only have been killed, too.

And when that isn't enough - [Something Ben does have experience with, in spades.] - he would have gone on exactly as he did before. With more difficulty, perhaps, but all the same.

[But her eyes are closed and she's shaking her head, and Ben waits. He never had that kind of ambition, but he had wanted more from his life - for himself, for his family - than they had. Without any concept of what else there even might be, he had wanted it.

He's still working on wanting it, still working on finding out what is possible, but here and now he must draw from what he knows. Dreams are a particularly tricky opponent, because they cannot be anticipated, cannot be controlled or combated in any way that makes sense in the waking world.

But.]

No. Not here. But in your own mind, you can be anything you can imagine.

Or, if it is easier to believe, anything I can imagine.

[Abigail understands the pattern of serial killers, the way they seek the ultimate kill and keep killing even after they get it, because it will never measure up to what they wanted it to be. Still, she somehow thought her case was different. She still thinks that, because she still finds it so difficult to think of her father as a serial killer; he is her father, first and foremost, and she doesn't know how to separate from him as a part of her.]

[Her brows draw together in confusion. If she wouldn't have saved those girls, she doesn't understand what she's guilty about. Nick Boyle's death? Sometimes, but not very often. What his death made her? Maybe - maybe it's that. Maybe Nick Boyle's death really did change her, like Hannibal says. It could have made her something else, elevated her.]

[She folds her hands in front of her and shrugs, noncommittal.]

You can imagine anything, though. It's not exactly realistic, when it comes to me. I can't be anything.

[Ben has wrestled with guilt as a vague, shapeless thing, present but less pressing, less motivational than other emotions such as anger and fear. The intangible equivalent of a toddler's scrawl, inconsistent and unsteady. Awkward black and white.

He honestly feels more remorse for the things he doesn't feel than the things he does. But this time, he shakes his head, eyes still on her.]

Dreams are not realistic. You are not a deer. You would not be held immobile by hooks you did not see and could not fight. You would not be left to your fate.

They are not real.

But I was left to my fate.

[She looks down, away, no longer able or willing to meet his eyes.]

I died, and nobody even found my body, I don't think. The only way you couldn't say I was left to my fate was because Hannibal was there with me. That's real.

Nobody saved me. And I couldn't save myself. Just like in the dream.

All past tense.

[It makes him angry, all of what she says, in the way he's learned to detach and shuttle off to somewhere out of his immediate focus. He knows all of that, of course, both from speaking with her, watching her, and from reading her file. If he could go back and fix it some way, any way, he would not hesitate but he has long known that there is no way back. There is only forward.

There is only what he can control in and of himself, and whether or not he's willing to surrender that to someone else. Abigail looks away, but Ben does not.]

How much of that is still true? Here, today, right now?

[She wants to say she would be able to save herself now. That she could look after herself, be strong in her own right. That's what she wants more than anything, she realizes now - to not need help.]

[But she does need help. She is not strong enough to defeat someone like Hannibal. She isn't strong enough to defeat even someone like Anya.]

I still can't save myself. And there's no one in my dream but me.

[Of the two, Ben would easily rank Anya as more powerful. Her power is different but undeniable, the peel too thin and flexible to be cut, too tough to be torn. Glass framed in iron until it is unbreakable. Anya would destroy Hannibal if he gave her a reason to do so.

Abigail has the same kind of strength, tracing off a different way. A tributary of the same power. It makes Ben's voice steady with certainty.]

You will.

And until then, I will.

I believe that you will.

[She hesitates, gnawing her lip.]

At least, I believe you'll try. And part of me thinks you'll succeed.

I don't know. It's hard to know what's sure anymore. I feel like the ground is slipping away under me.

But you won't let me drown.

Then that is what is most important, for now. That is the hard part.

[Some people would be offended to hear incomplete confidence in them, but Ben is practical in this. It is better, to him, to have his intentions believed than unproven results. Abigail knows he'll try.

And he will.]

What would best serve you now? Shall I stay, tell you a story? [He hesitates, glancing quickly at the walls, at the light he turned on, considering them critically.]

[She pushes her hair back from her face, flips her pillow over to the cool side, and hesitates.]

A story. They make me think so much.

[Yes. Something else to think about. To dissect and analyze. That's exactly what she wants.]

I want a story. Please.

Then a story you shall have.

[While she gets comfortable, Ben moves to the floor lamp, tilts the shade of it a little before bringing it back with him. He passes his hand experimentally over the bulb, once, and then shifts it again.

When he's satisfied, he glances back at Abigail, uncertain for but a moment. Then he twists his fingers together and raises them between the lamp and the wall, casting a long shadow away from himself.

And then moving his thumb and his fingers to make the duck's mouth open and close before it breaks apart and comes together again: a bear, clumsy with his inexperience but recognizable, menacing for a black outline on a blank wall. He says nothing, but walks the shadow-bear along the impromptu stage, as she once did for him in a church when she was young and he did not belong.]

[At first she doesn't recognize it. When she does, the brightest smile he's probably ever seen passes across her face. Because even though she doesn't exactly remember, she does.]

From the church.

[Her voice is quiet, reverent. She feels like she's in church now. Glancing at him, she ducks her head, hiding the brightness of her grin so it doesn't blot out the shadow of the bear.]

[Then she forms her hands into claws and roars quietly, like you do when you're pretending to be a bear. It's a joint effort.]

fourteen ♢ text & audio & spam

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