versusnurture | nineteen ♢ video

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[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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no. there's no other Ben.

[After another pause, during which she can't detect anything but honest goodwill and is slightly annoyed about it, Abigail nods shortly and takes another sip of her coffee.]

A shower. And then I should go. My warden will be back.

I'll leave you to it, then. Just, uh... don't poke around in anything if you aren't sure what it is. It might explode.

[ She's serious about that, too. A girl's gotta have her explosives, you know? ]

[Her fingers don't tremble when she takes the file from him. She is worried for a moment that they will, but they don't. They're steady, just like she's been steady. Strong hands help you survive.]

[The first thing that strikes her is a violent sense of deja vu. The second thing is that these pages are so thin, a whole life shouldn't be able to be contained on them. But here it is, her life, or at least all the parts that would be reported on television or the internet. Wouldn't Freddie Lounds kill to get her hands on this.]

[Her reactions are not so different than they were before. More muted, maybe. She reads over the stark descriptions of cannibalism without flinching. It no longer makes her want to throw up. It's just a fact: this happened, and she'll never get away from it having happened.]

[What stops her is the last mention of Alana. The file does not mention her death, just her fall, and that makes Abigail wonder. The other thing that catches her up is every later mention of Hannibal's name. Her fingers trace the name on the page, and sadness crosses her face. Or not just that. Sadness, regret, fear.]

[Eventually, she closes the file and hands it back, her expression shuttered, her hand tight on the teddy bear.]

Is he still here?

[She doesn't bother clarifying who she means. Ben will know.]

[Ben watches carefully, of course, because while that was not the point of his being here, of giving her the file, of anything, he needs information. Not all of it is contained in the folder in Abigail's hands, not the parts Ben needs to know most, not the spaces in between and behind lines. The events, the frame, the bullet points, the play by play, but not who Abigail is.

Whatever Hannibal left behind of her. Something in Ben's chest burns cold and for a moment it's visible through his expression, backlit behind his eyes, something cool and sharp and predatory. He knows who Abigail means.]

Yes.

[There are a dozen things he wants to add onto the end of that, threats and promises and questions, but Hannibal is sunk into the core of her now as Manticore is forever branded on Ben. He can't just be ripped free. He must be finessed into manageable compartments that Abigail can drop over the side as she goes, manageable pieces to leave behind her as she outgrows them. It will take time. Ben can give her that.

And see what she wants him to do about his answer, here and now, of course.]

[She's not happy to hear that at all, friend.]

How?

same way as last time. my throat was cut.

Who cut it?

[The trouble is she doesn't know. She doesn't know, she doesn't understand what this means, for her or for Ben or for Hannibal himself. It's been a long time since she trusted Hannibal implicitly, a long time since she saw him as anything but complicated and dangerous, long since she knew on some level that he would hurt her - that her only chance of staying not only alive but safe and relatively sound was to do exactly as he said.]

[That he's here is both a good thing and a terrible thing. If he hadn't been here, she could have been free. Now, though, she feels secure. A distant part of her recognizes this as terrible, but it is very distant, almost deliberately so.]

[More immediate is Ben's presence, the feel of synthetic fur under her fingers. She swallows.]

I don't . . .

[Doesn't know what to say to this, doesn't know how to respond in a way that makes him happy, doesn't know if she's happy. All she knows is this is what she's used to. In a way, it's what seems right.]

Please don't hurt him.

[The answer comes seemingly out of nowhere. She looks surprised to have said it. But once it's out, once she's examined it for a moment, she realizes it's the only true and genuine response she can give right now. She vaguely remembers that last time she was here, she wanted to hurt him. Maybe she will again. But all she knows for sure right now is that whatever happens to him, good or bad, she wants to do it.]

Someone you trusted.

I'm sorry.

[There is no pity in this. It sounds almost robotic, disconnected. Part of that's because she remembers that's what he's comfortable with. Part of it's because she still can't attach herself too closely to anyone's pain but her own. She just knows she wouldn't want to die. She can't imagine anyone else who would, either.]

same person as last time. hannibal.

[Her eyebrows raise. Then she quirks a grin, just a tiny one. But she means it, and is a little surprised, because she hasn't really smiled in a while.]

I'll try not to blow any limbs off. [After all, she's already missing an ear. She can't afford to lose much else.]

I've heard it from too many people already, my dear. You don't have to say it.

[In a way he's glad she's back. Perhaps out of all those he knows, that he's become close to, she might be the only one to allow it when he tries to retreat back behind his walls. Make things easy and mathematical again.]

Then I won't say it again.

[Just like that, she's done pushing. At least for now - at least until she gets her feet back under her. She doesn't think she could handle it if anyone pushed her any more right now, and she thinks maybe it's the same for him.]

[Sometimes when people push you, you push back. Sometimes you just break.]

[Please don't hurt him.

There's a moment, safely hidden at the far end of the distance Ben is currently bringing to bear for both of their sakes, where the plea makes him irrationally angry. He isn't sure why, when he realizes it, although he can recognize that it was there the entire time: he hadn't exactly noticed that indeed, he wants to hurt Hannibal. He wants badly to hurt Hannibal. Furthermore he knows that he can, and knows that there aren't many aboard that could stop him if he chose to do so.

The anger isn't for Abigail, not for asking; it's the fact that she asked. It's the fact that Manticore may have brainwashed Ben, may have conditioned him to dependence and loyalty, but he never cared about the corporation. This is something altogether more insidious.

His voice is taut, the hair thin split between curiosity and defensiveness, when he replies:]

Why?

[She glances up at him, suddenly uncertain, suddenly - afraid? Yes, she thinks she is. Not exactly of Ben, but of everything she's facing right now, every unknown and every wrong she's done. She knows he isn't angry at her, but it seems like maybe he's angry with what she's become.]

Because he didn't let them get me.

[Her voice is a hoarse whisper.]

He said he was going to protect me, and mostly - mostly he did.

[He made her something different than she was. But he didn't let Jack get her. That's something. That's got to count for something. That's got to be why she's so afraid he'll get hurt.]

[It's got to be. What else is there? She's afraid of him, too, and the fear makes logical sense, more than the love does.]

[She picks at her nails, doesn't look up again.]

[There is a moment in which Ben can clearly hear the snap of bone in his mind. He can feel the grinding crunch of vertebrae, peculiar from other bones and how they fracture, beneath his palm and he can compensate for the sudden heaviness of a body no longer holding itself up.

Ben has never been vengeful, never been a creature of hate, but in that moment he knows that if Hannibal were here in front of them, nothing and no one would be able to save him from the X5.

Outwardly, he is silent and still, only his narrowed eyes giving him away. He is not angry with Abigail. He is not disappointed, he is not disgusted - he has failed her. Abysmally. That is how he knows that despite the difficulty of the promise she's asking from him, despite the acrid taste it leaves behind in his mouth to consider it, he knows he must make it. He must try.

Finally Ben takes a step forward and drops, smoothly, into a compact crouch; he keeps his knees together, folds his arms on his tabletopped thighs, and folds down and down until he can rest his chin on his crossed forearms. From here, he tries to find Abigail's eyes.]

I can't promise not to harm him at all. If it becomes necessary in your defense, or in the defense of another Barge passenger, I will not hesitate; if we are set at odds by the situations that arise aboard the Barge and I do not know myself, I cannot stop.

But I will not harm him idly, nor will I exert more force than strictly necessary, to the best of my ability.

[He is so still until he isn't, until he's so close to her and looking for her eyes. For a minute she doesn't think she has any. She doesn't think she can see. She can't breathe. It's been so long since anybody got this close to her besides Hannibal, except for Will as she was dying, except for Alana as she fell from the window. It's been so long since she's been with people. Months and months, though it feels like years. She's been so alone.]

[She isn't alone anymore, and it's too much to take. Her eyes squeeze shut in the face of his search for her. Suddenly she's crying, her tears sinking into the teddy bear's fur as she makes no noise, no sound, she has to be quiet.]

Okay. Okay.

[Okay, she trusts him. Okay, she believes him. But it is not okay. She feels broken, and the way she's acting, she knows she must be.]

I wasn't strong, Ben. I'm s--

[But what else could she have done? Where could she have gone, when everyone was convinced of her guilt, when she was guilty, when she was so afraid of being caught? She would have been put in a cage either way. At least this way she got to choose it.]

[Her heart is constricted, beating too fast. She can barely breathe. She opens her eyes and looks at him and pants, desperate, weak. So weak.]

[Ben knows about being hidden away from the world, about being fed only the information his captors wanted him to have, about believing himself to be what they told him he was as a matter of survival; the difference is that there had been a sort of kindness to being shaped into a tool. He did not love Manticore or the people there. He knew he wasn't supposed to.

It's easy, looking back from where he is today, to know it's wrong. Some days it's harder, but it's not his own heart turning on him even then. It's merely the very real necessity of feeling safe, feeling secure, feeling as though he belongs that trips him up occasionally. Never love.

Ben waits while she decides what to do with his words, because if he doesn't hold perfectly still, if he doesn't focus on the slow draw and slower release of air into his chest he doesn't know what he'll do. He was a tool, a soldier, first: he was trained to kill, taught to respond with immediate and damning force. He is better than that now, but only when he wants to be, and right now he's not sure he does.

Later it will scare him a little that besides Abigail, the most powerful thing stopping him is the knowledge that on the Barge, it won't be a permanent end.]

Abigail. [He is there when she opens her eyes, bent over the blood on his shirt, still as the deepest parts of shade; his voice is cool and steady, not demanding, not soothing, but firm. He doesn't want her to apologize. He's not sure he can explain why she doesn't have to, not in a way she'll believe, not in a way she can understand. He doesn't know how to reassure her.]

It's okay. We will start again.

What makes you feel safest? No matter what it is, no matter how vague or how illogical, can you tell me?

[ Steph grins and shrugs. What can you do? ]

Atta girl. Lock the door behind you when you leave, okay?

[ And she gets up to leave. She was serious about that, too. She's serious about a lot of things, believe it or not. ]

[Whatever happened to her, either where she was or here, she's been beaten down. He can tell it clearly. It'll have to be someone else's job to build her back up though.

He won't push either. He'll simply leave this where it lies.]

Well. As I said, if there's anything you need from me. If not...I'll simply leave you alone.

You sound as if you could use it.

I'm here.

[He says it calmly, watches to see if she will take it as comfort or threat. He cut her throat, mimicked her father's last act, and Hannibal wants to know everything about why. But he doubts those are answers she can give him.]

Have you told Ben?

Yes.

It's -

[She told him all of it. Everything. Even things he wouldn't have been able to find out from the file.]

It's really hard to lie to him. [Because she trusts him. Because she loves him.]

You.

[Her answer is instant. Him. Ben is what makes her feel safest. His being here, his warmth, even the file tucked under his arm. She trusts him, but that's not enough; she trusts things she shouldn't trust all the time. More than that, she knows on a level logical, emotional, and soul-deep that he is worthy of her trust.]

[If he leaves, she doesn't know what's going to happen.]

[Her hands clench tight on each other, her knuckles going white.]

It's not . . . [Whispers, barely audible.] It's not vague, o-or illogical. It's just.

Not a thing. It's just you.

Yes. I could.

[She understands. And it helps, kind of. Now she knows he's here, and his coldness calms her down. She's no longer panicking. Just present, more than she was before.]

Thank you. You were very helpful.

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