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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[Her answer is the final twist of that knife - its name is hope, and its name is love - that pops a part of his armor loose. She doesn't need to speak any more loudly than she already is for him to hear her, and she wouldn't need to speak at all for him to hear that.

The problem is, until she said it aloud, he wasn't sure he wasn't only seeing what he wanted to see. His voice lowers to match hers, but not a whisper, not insubstantial. Steady. A promise.]

I am here. N'est-ce pas?

I try. When it suits me.

[And for one reason or another, it suits him to be helpful just now to her.]

Goodbye for now, Miss Hobbs.

[He lifts his hand whens he reaches out, brushes his hand against hers. Turns his palm up so that she can hold onto him, if she wants.]

Can I give you a hug?

[Normally he just would, but - with Abigail, it feels right to ask.]

[The name sends a twist of fury spiralling through her. He'd killed her and he'd killed Abigail too; he was an animal, a beast. She doesn't say what she wants to say - when I kill him, it will be for you too, for both of us. Abigail's relationship to Hannibal is something she doesn't understand, not yet.]

Do you hate him for it?

[Something changes between them, something in the air. Something in the way he is looking at her, as though he's let out a breath. Tears start in the corner of her eyes when he speaks, when he matches her, when he says he is here.]

[Did he ever really leave?]

Oui, tu est ici.

[Her voice crackles like plaster, her fingers still twisting together.]

J'ai confiance en toi, Ben. I remember - everything you taught me.

I still love you.

[Ben never left. Abigail did - or, more likely, she was taken. She went somewhere he couldn't follow her, though he would have tried, eventually. He likes to think he would have tried, except for the fear that he would be singularly unhelpful where she came from.

She speaks French back to him, exactly as he remembers, and he really does let out a breath. Something behind his eyes warms, not because it only just now came into being, but because he relaxes infinitesimally. It is a little bit safer, for them both.

Some of the rigid formality has worn off the edge of his voice, too, when he speaks - still low, still steady, but with more presence.]

Abigail, are you familiar with the common method for monitoring the spread of poison, or centralized external infection, in carbon-based life forms?

[She grips down on his hand, hard and unthinking. One tear falls, and then another one, but she tries to stop there, as if any more will be too much and she'll simply fall apart.]

Yes.

[It would be so much easier if she was manipulating him, but right now, she doesn't think she could figure out how.]

yes

and no

and yes

[She cocks her head at him, watching as he relaxes by minute increments. A tear falls, just one onto the back of her hand, and then she blinks them furiously away. He's asking her a question, posing her a question, and she wants to understand why.]

Poison.

No. I never learned that. Tell me?

[She leans forward, her hair falling over her shoulders as she listens intently. He is more here, and she thinks maybe she is too - with every step he takes towards her, she takes another, tentative one towards him.]

Why no?

[He notes the tear, but more than that the reaction to it. She is here. She is paying attention. She is still, after all, Abigail and he still believes in that whole heartedly.

He doesn't think he'll ever stop. Certainly not willingly.]

When it is discovered that a contact poison has been introduced, the first course of action is to use a marker or something similar to trace the outer edge of its area of effect, the boundary between poisoned tissue and healthy tissue. Treatment begins immediately, but with regular pauses to check the line, to draw a new one if the poison continues to spread.

There must be a concrete assessment of how severe the effects are, so that the efficacy of treatment can be monitored as well, and so that anyone administering them can know when the poison is approaching something of vital importance. Otherwise, it's only guesswork.

[He speaks quietly but with confidence, eyes steady, unwavering in his crouch except where he digs, just once, at the skin at the base of his thumbnail with the fingers of the opposite hand.]

We must map the boundaries, Abigail. It will take time, but it is entirely viable.

because I love him, too. because he showed me what I am.

[Now she understands. She is poisoned. Hannibal has poisoned her. In a way, this offends her; her brows draw together in consternation, and she shifts her weight, thinking, thinking. It's not wrong, but neither is it right. She loves - she hates - but if she was poisoned then it's poison she deserved, or poison she had no choice but to swallow. Poison she put into her own mouth.]

[Still, it's good, thinking of it like this. Thinking of it like something that can advance without placing her at fault. She reels at Ben a little, the way he talks, the gestures he makes, the curious credit he's willing to give her that Hannibal never did. That her father never did.]

[Ben is not her father. Ben is her warden. Ben is her friend. She loves him. She shouldn't feel conflicted about this at all.]

[She feels very conflicted.]

I believe you. [She thinks she must have said this already.] I believe . . .

I believe it'll take a lot of time.

What are you? [What did he tell you you were?]

a monster.

He is your warden.

[He has power over her life, and she has gravitated toward those who do even as she tries to draw away from them. Hannibal does not find Ben difficult to lie to. He finds him polite and straightforward and more bothersome than not. But he is her warden, and that necessitates consideration.]

Do you still want to go away, Abigail? The three of us?

[There is an intake of breath. A shiver.]

Yes. More than anything.

[Because Will can keep her safe in one way, Hannibal in another. This is vital. The three of them, their constellation, is vital. They must be together.]

[Scott's hand closes on hers, gentle and loose. He doesn't pull her toward him, just steps closer and wraps his free arm around her shoulders. He holds her close, bending so she'll be more comfortable. He doesn't know if she's manipulating or not, but he wants to believe the latter. She's not a bad person.]

It's okay.

[He murmurs it over her shoulder, past her hair. It's not okay, not in the good way, but it's okay to cry, if she needs to. He won't tell anyone she fell apart, and he won't leave until she's put together again.]

[When he wraps his arms around her, the floodgates break. She sobs; it's all she can do to sob instead of simply imploding, her eyes squeezed shut, her chest aching from how she's hyperventilating. It's loud, she's so loud, and part of her wants to be quieter, smaller, more subtle, but she can't. She can't be any more together than this right now, any less vulnerable.]

[Digging her fingers into Scott's shoulders, she buries her face in his neck and wails.]

I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

It's okay.

[He keeps repeating those two words softly, but he doesn't try to quiet her. He remembers breaking down. He remembers crying in his mom's arms. Sometimes you just can't stop it.

When his hand brushes the back of her neck, he can feel some of that ache, and he takes it, removes one part of this meltdown. He's used to his chest aching, by now.]

[Eventually her sobs get weak, slow down. Some of it's because he's taking the ache. She can breathe normally again. But she doesn't understand what he's doing, doesn't even realize he's doing anything. If she did, she'd thank him, but she'd be afraid, too. New things frighten her now, at the same time as she's curious.]

[She doesn't pull away yet, just sniffles into his neck. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.]

I killed . . . someone.

[He doesn't draw back, and when the majority of the pain is gone, he slides his hand away, wraps it around her shoulders instead. He doesn't answer right away, remembering what she told him the last time he hugged her, in the middle of the night, a year ago. More, maybe, or less - it's too confused now.]

How come?

Because . . .

[She draws in a shuddering breath, breathes in the deodorant-and-boy-sweat smell of him. If only she could be safe. If only--]

Because someone told me to.

[The bare bones of this, Ben understands; he understands the ingrained loyalty to someone or something that, when considered from a step back, has done nothing but use and harm. He understands how that isn't a choice one gets to make.

He understands that it is this that is the real problem, that choosing to be loyal would be its own monster, but that being robbed of that is both difficult to undo and absolutely must be undone.

If Abigail chooses Hannibal of her own free will, without coercion, without pressure, then Ben will not be happy but he will respect her decision. Until then, it is his responsibility to slow, unerringly draw the poison back out to the point at which she can once again be free of its influence.]

It will. And it will take time that many, both intentionally and unintentionally, will not want to give to us.

Thank you for believing me. I can do nothing unless you allow me to.

[A short pause.]

I... don't think you are. I'm glad you came back.

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