versusnurture | nineteen ♢ video

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nineteen ♢ video

[When the feed comes on, the first thing there is is a wall and half of a desk. Those people on board who've been inside will know it as Abigail's room. There's a small blood smear on the edge of the desk, another dark spot on the corner of the lens.]

[She doesn't turn it towards herself, but the camera does move towards the desk, is set down at the edge of it. Two hands appear in the frame, blood-caked, palm-up. There's blood under her nails, too, drier blood that's oxidized to a deep, almost black color.]

[She doesn't say anything. But after a moment, there's a strangled noise, and she knocks the camera off the desk. The briefest flash of dark hair and a pale face; then it hits the floor and shuts off.]

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I was too. I was scared for me too.

It can't just be fun?

Or beautiful.

The truth.

[She doesn't look okay. She looks bloody, and off-balance, maybe, or confused, or - something else that he doesn't know how to define yet. Better to let her do that, let her set the parameters, so he knows what to operate inside.]

I knew what had happened too. Didn't make it any less gross to walk around in.

[ She sips at her coffee idly, more comfortable now that Abigail seems more... stable. ]

You're welcome to the shower. Call it a special occasion. Caked Blood Discount.

[ He hesitates, but he starts to lead her towards the bathrooms, first by the wrists - a guide - and then a hand at the flat of her back. ]

Come on.

[ It feels wrong in a way, off-kilter for reasons he can begin to explain. It's just different, it's a different kind of smile she smiles, tears running down her face. Abigail Hobbs, ever-changing and colorful in ways that he can never fully understand.

It's been some time since she's felt like "his", something shared instead. She's been taken from him, and then she's been taken away from him. This isn't the Abigail he knows. Who knows what's been jammed into her head along with everything else?

He understands the fact that the only reason he's probably alive right now is because of Hannibal's skewed "affection" for him. An attachment, a mutual understanding between the two, of sorts. He no longer has that mutual understanding between himself and Abigail, though he's not sure he ever has. Something different between them has been created, sets his veins alight and squares his jaw. ]

What did you do, Abigail?

[ A low voice, a voice meant to be a comfort even as he refers to the blood coloring her hands. The fear is easy to sense, an innate feeling. It's what starts to make his touches more minimal, the hand falling from her back. They just walk instead. ]

On it. Anything else I can do, just say.

[An escape. A family. It drifts in front of him, less cool and factual than it might have been had it come before all the nonsense the Joker brought to the ship. It's still controllable, though. That is what matters. That is what weighs more.

He folds his hands together, eyes traveling her face. She is new. She is someone else. She is a gift.

He can use this.]

Have you told Will any of this?

[A sigh. She has done wrong, she thinks; she knows what's coming.]

Some. Not all.

I didn't know--I didn't think you were here. [This is her apology. This is all she'll give, but for obedience.]

It's -- it's nothing. [He tries to retreat again.] But, you're welcome, all the same.

[He can't keep the tight, ironic wistfulness out of his voice though when he responds to the rest.]

Yes. The 'monster' I warned you about, once, he found a way to follow us back home.

Do you need anything? I'm death tolling -- but if there's anything you need, I'll see what I can do.

[The teddy bear, of course, is hers. He holds onto it while she speaks even though she's staring at it only out of some creeping sense of protectiveness, some vague concern that she will hurt the bear as she hurt him and, worse, in doing so hurt herself.

He unfolds his arm, keeps one hand craned back so that when the teddy bear falls loose of his grip he catches it again, and holds it out as he walks once more within range without hesitation. He does not move his eyes from her.]

I know you won't. I apologize for my mistake before - I should not have crowded you. [His fingertips pulse subtly tighter on the bear's back, but relax again just the same; it sounds like an afterthought when he adds,] I'm not angry. [But it's not.]

We are friends.

[She gnaws her lip, still staring at the teddy bear, not quite taking it yet. It's too-tangible proof of their connection; in that way it frightens her a little, to be that connected that deeply where other people can see it.]

[Only briefly does she look up at Ben, meeting his eyes with some unspoken question--is it okay? is it really mine? She doesn't say a word, though, until he says he's not angry.]

[She can't imagine why not. Unless it's pragmatism. Unless it's faith.]

[Slowly, she reaches out and takes the bear, then pulls it tight to her chest, tucking her chin against its head. It's a familiar gesture--to Ben, not to her--one of comfort.]

I knew who you were before. Not before I--you know. After I stabbed you, I figured it out. You gave me that knife, didn't you? You gave me the knife and this and . . .

You trust me. You said you shouldn't have crowded me, not that I shouldn't have done it. [There's a question in this, too. Why?]

[Ben's offer of the bear does not waver or falter until she reaches for it; he does not let go until she has secure hold of it, even if he exhales subtly when she collects it to herself, when she hugs it.

He doesn't let himself hope. It's anathema to whatever relationship they still have, at this point, to assume anything about her is leftover from before. He must learn her anew. He must let her learn him anew.

Ben lowers his arm, neither backs up nor comes closer, his gaze there to catch hers. He reassures her that it's okay, that it's hers, by his lack of protest or forbidding. He does not assume the familiarity of smiling.]

I gave you the knife. For protection, because you will need it here, and wherever you go.

I do. I trust that given the freedom to do so, you will make decisions that are right for you, and that they will not be necessarily harmful to those around you. But I also placed myself in a position to force your hand.

You should defend yourself, if you feel the need to do so, if anyone makes you feel like you should. Others should respect your discomfort, myself included. It will not happen again, nor will I allow others to make you uncomfortable to any degree against your will, as much as I am able to prevent.

Ben who lives here on this Barge? [His eyes are wide now.]

[Her eyes go wide and round at this explanation, as if she expected something else. Maybe she did. Maybe she thought he'd be more practical, less kind, less--respectful is just the word. But he speaks to her like he values her. This both surprises her and, on another level, on the level that seems to have known him before, doesn't surprise her at all.]

[She plays with the bear's ears and tugs on her lower lip with her teeth, considering.]

You're my warden, which means it's your job to protect me. And I'm your inmate, which means . . . [A frown here, like she's trying to remember something from a long time ago.] Which means it's my job to listen to you.

[Guiltily, she looks up at him. She hadn't listened before, when he said she was safe. Maybe she should believe him now. Her eyes catch on the file, though--what is it?--and she shrugs helplessly.]

I said we'd talk if you didn't die. We can talk. It's okay.

[And there's that other thing, this weird urge to comfort him. To protect him. That weird feeling that no, her job isn't just to listen. It's to respect him the way he respects her. To take care of him.]

[The monster. Upon prompting, she remembers that, too. That he warned her. That he was so serious. That she hadn't expected it.]

[That she trusted him.]

Is he still here? Should I still--[She tries to remember his exact phrasing.]--should I still run?

[Home, he says. Is this home?]

The truth?

[She feels like she hasn't told anyone the truth in years. She didn't tell Hannibal the truth, the whole truth; she didn't tell him how afraid she was. She told Will parts. She told Freddie parts, before, and now--now Scott wants her to tell him the truth like it's nothing, like it's all right.]

[She rubs at her dry eyes with the back of her hand, shakes her head.]

I'm not. I'm not okay.

thank you

you're kind

[She doesn't know if she trusts it, but right here and right now, it was the right thing.]

maybe later. I can come see you. once I remember more.

I don't know. I don't think so.

Hunt to eat. You're supposed to hunt to eat.

is there another Ben I should know about?

It can.

Do you have someone to - help you? With your hands.

[What did she do.]

[She almost laughs. What didn't she do? She wonders if he knows about Alana; if he doesn't, she won't be the one to tell him. Not here, not now, not ever. She can't imagine that he'd be talking to her if he did know, much less leading her kindly away. Why be kind to the killer of someone you love?]

I stabbed Ben.

[She slows down, leaning back against Will's hand, and glances up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see something there.]

He surprised me. So I . . . stabbed him.

He said he'd be okay. He said he'd go get help, and then come back. In half an hour.

[Unconsciously she parrots his exact words to Will. It's weirdly comforting. Ben means what he says, she's pretty sure of that.]

Really?

[She gives Steph a curious look.]

You're very generous. [Generally, generous people are totally full of shit. She isn't sure what to make of this. She should've brought the knife.]

I have a warden.

[Which . . . is neither a yes nor a no.]

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