versusnurture | sixteen ♢ spam & voice

infirmary spam } after mirror barge

[Dying the second time . . . honestly, it wasn't as bad. This feels like a strange thing to think, but it's most of what she thinks in those days of the death toll that feel like death isn't quite over yet.]

[The difference is, her first death, her real one, was intimate. This was a mercy, sort of, and she doesn't totally regret it, but it wasn't. It wasn't.]

[The same.]

[It wasn't family.]

[She lies back in the infirmary bed and stares at the ceiling with a soft smile. It's very impersonal here, but that's a relief in its own way, too. She's not the only person who died, not by a long shot. She's not the person most choose to focus their attentions on.]

[She can just rest.]

spam } blight

[It's a few days after everything clicks back into shape that Abigail works up the energy needed for speech. She doesn't go back to her cabin, although she sort of wants to. There are pros and cons to everything, she thinks, and the pros of staying in the infirmary outweigh the cons by far.]

[Blight is here, for example. She can see him from across the room. His presence makes her feel safe, in a backwards way, simply because she knows he isn't what he was. He will not protect her, but he will be reeling as much as anyone else. Maybe more. He doesn't seem like a man who likes to lose control.]

[One more day, and she hoists herself up out of the bed and makes her way over to his. A soft, quick smile - an exhausted one.]

Who got you?

spam } hannibal

[She knows he isn't welcome in the infirmary. That's part of the reason she stayed. But halfway through her stay, she did begin to regret it. Because . . .]

[This death lacked intimacy. That's one reason. No one sang her songs. No one told her everything was going to be all right. No one apologized. There was no sense of closure.]

[And because he frightens her at the same time he comforts her. Because the uncertainty and insecurity of her relationship with Hannibal Lecter is secured with a love that doesn't seem to die.]

[When she is well enough to walk, she walks to his cabin, and she knocks on his door.]

inmate filter } minus hannibal

I know a lot of people who are here being - punished, or whatever - they've killed people.

How many of you hunted them?

private } ceres

I'm interested in your answer especially.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[His chest expands under her nose, filling out as he breathes in. He smells the antiseptic scent before she gives voice to it, but he lets her say it aloud.

She died.

His arms wrap around her - slow and protective. He is much stronger than his lithe frame suggests, and that strength is prevalent in his arms. But he is gentle, holding her: gentle and bracing. She died, and someone else is the culprit.

It is horribly discourteous. He pets a hand over her hair, down the back of her head.]

I'm sorry I was not there.

[She sniffs, or else laughs. One of the two.]

Sorry you weren't there to do it, you mean?

[But even she knows that's unfair. He wouldn't kill her if he didn't have to, maybe out of some twisted sort of compassion, maybe because he's pragmatic.]

[It doesn't matter. His arms are strong now, and she still aches from her death toll, so she doesn't think he'd kill her. His hand is heavy on her head.]

[She sighs, content and, if you squint, even safe.]

It just hurts, that's all.

I wish I could alleviate it.

[He does not answer her unfairness: she knows it is incorrect, at least in this situation. This is a gift, now, having her here, having her close. The teacup has pulled itself together again. He rests his cheek against her head.]

Will you tell me what happened?

Yes.

[She rests against his chest. He smells like well-laundered clothing, fine wine, and subtle cologne. He has a father-smell to him that wraps her in comfort.]

I was upset. And Ceres burned me alive, because I said I wanted to die.

I don't know if that's what I wanted. It's just what I said. It's what seemed like the right thing to say.

And then Ben . . . saved me. [There's a twist to her words. It was the wrong Ben, and it didn't feel like being saved at all.]

[Not Ben, not saved. He hears that in the twist of tone, and his arms tighten fractionally.]

Oh, Abigail...[He exhales the words softly, stroking her hair. Death be fire is beautiful in so many ways: it scours, but it leaves behind a husk. He knows what he made Georgia Madchen do. He knows it must have been painful.

But he did not care about Georgia Madchen. He cares about Abigail.]

Why did you say it?

Because I wanted everything to stop. Just for a little while.

[And because it seemed to be the answer Ceres was looking for. She is not immune to the appeal of a quick way out. Death doesn't mean the same thing here as it did at home. At home, she was afraid of it. Here . . . she doesn't know.]

[He is being so careful with her. She wonders if that's a bad sign.]

You wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have been weak.

You are not weak.

[It's half a lie, a small one, and he breathes out as little hairs on her head tickle his nose.]

You thought your options were shrinking.

[He would not have asked for it. He would have found another way, as he always does. He is the most important figure in his own life, that is undeniable.]

Come inside. I'll make you a cup of tea.

[She suspects a lie. It's all right. It's a comforting lie, and they both know about it, and she doesn't think it can hurt her. There are worst untruths to tell.]

[Pulling away, she keeps her hand in his, looking up at him with somewhat-dulled scrutiny.]

Thank you.

[In this moment, she'll follow him anywhere.]

[He squeezes her hand, lifts it to press a kiss against her knuckles. He is reminded by her scent of another, when he was younger and another girl was younger still. He smiles softly at the memory, at Abigail, and closes the door behind her.

Pulling out the tea set and selection Esther gifted him with, he opens the box and gestures for her to select a tea while he fills the pot.]

[She cards through her options with delicate fingers and selects a nice darjeeling. She does not consider the fact that there might be a reason he is being kind to her, that he's kissed her knuckles with an ulterior motive in his mind. It vigorously doesn't cross her mind that she will soon be betrayed again.]

[They're just two people having tea.]

[She smiles at him, and if it's distant, it's sweet, too. She loves him. She just doesn't want to.]

[It's a beginning. He will see it through to its inevitable end.

One day, he will make her eggs-in-a-basket again, and she will sit down to dinner as his family.

He lets the tea she selected steep, setting it down on his desk.]

I am loathe to ask, Abigail.

[His voice is soft, his version of hesitance without real hesitation.]

Why did you come to me?

[There is a heavy scent in the air. For once, it isn't her fear. She is not afraid. She is not sad or scared. She is just far away, anchored to this place by Hannibal's placid eyes and the black tea smell lingering between them.]

[She quirks her eyebrows at him, perplexed at the question - or at least acting it.]

Because I love you. Isn't that what you want?

Besides, if anyone can provide insight into death, it's you.

[He fetches tea cups and saucers from a drawer, pausing to consider the question. To consider her.]

If it's true, yes. [He pours the tea, hands over hers with practiced hands. He's never spilled a drop.] If it's insight you want, then we should seek it together. You must tell me more.

What else is there to tell?

[Thousands of things. It's more a test. She wants him to direct her - wants to see if he will direct her, one way or the other.]

[She takes the tea, which is hot and steaming.]

Did you drug this one? [Just wondering.]

While psilocybin may make the experience easier to relate, [and might even make her embrace death a little more,] I'm afraid there is a certain shortage aboard the ship.

[He smiles only faintly, debating the pros and cons to giving her the direction she wants. Gesturing to the chairs, he unbuttons his jacket and sits in one, crossing his legs.]

There is a great deal to tell, Abigail. [Direction it is. It's what she wants.] Why you were upset. Why you felt you needed to stop everything. Why you needed to make it stop in that way. What you felt when you died, and what you felt when you woke.

[He can talk about that, now, and it doesn't even feel strange or abnormal. It is, certainly, but in the end - this is just a new facet of their lives.]

sixteen ♢ spam & voice

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spam } cw; suicidal ideation

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