versusnurture | nineteen ♢ video

[She has laid her bait by now. She's done what she was trained to do, once and again by two men who she called father. She is a little calmer, but not much, sitting at the edge of her bed with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes closed. Now her hands are clean, the blood washed off in Stephanie's sink.]

I'm here. [She's here; she is present; she is alive; she is solid.] Come in.

[She trusts him and doesn't trust him. She doesn't trust the way she trusts him, instinctively, like there's no way not to. But she wants him close all the same, wants to cling to his shirtfront and cry, wants to talk to him like an adult, like she hasn't talked to anyone in ages.]

[It's all very confusing.]

[Ben has seen others come back without their memories, has seen them struggle, has seen their loved ones struggle to reconcile knowing them with not being known. He has done his best to help Anya with it, though he can see that she is more invested than he can imagine for a reason that is not entirely obvious to him. He has thought about it in the past three days, what he would do if Abigail came back and didn't know him, but he decided he would be glad she was back at all.

It's an easier thing to think than to confront, but very little about Ben's life has been easy. He is equal to the task. Ben steps in when he's bidden, closing the door behind him, and stays there by the door looking at her. He does not let himself be drawn in so effortlessly this time.]

Thank you. Do you know who I am, Abigail? [The teddy bear is secure between his ribs and his arm, tucked against the crook of his elbow. The file is under his other arm. His attention is solely on her.]

[She means to look up at him. She really does. She means to meet his eyes and look at him steadily, with all the confidence and put-togetherness she can muster. She means to seem ready for whatever he wants her to do.]

[But her gaze latches on to the teddy bear under his arm, and she can't seem to look away. Another few pieces fall into place. It's something he gave her because he doesn't like to be touched. Once she touched him and he was afraid. Once he saw her memory of church, playing with a bear. So he found a solution. When she is afraid, the bear will give her what he can't.]

[Her brow furrows. It's creative problem-solving. It's clever. It's compassionate. It's . . . Ben.]

[If she didn't remember before, she definitely remembers now.]

You're Ben. [She says it to the teddy bear, which she still can't look away from.] You're my warden.

You . . . saved my life a lot. I think we're friends. But we're not family.

You can come closer if you want. I won't hurt you again. But I understand if you'd rather not.

[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.

[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.]

[Ben considers this, is silent and still while she works it out for herself, while she navigates the dangerous path of her memories and her mind. He knows better than most how she is not necessarily more or less likely to be able to know herself than he is; sometimes it's harder to see from the inside. Sometimes it's so easy to get lost.

Carefully, firmly, but not harshly:] I am your warden and it is my responsibility to protect you. You are my inmate, but you do not owe me any manner of behavior. The obligation goes one way: from me to you. You must merely be true to yourself.

[This is important, though he has never said it so plainly. She doesn't have a job. Every ounce of energy expended, every safeguard in place here, every plan and every situation, is for Abigail, not for him. This is not true for every warden but for Ben, it is the only way he knows to be what she deserves.

However:] That does not mean I would not like you to want to listen to me. To feel safe enough to do so. But it is not a requirement, and I won't try to make it one.

[This is--]

[What is this? She doesn't understand. That is, she understands the words, but the meaning behind them is utterly mystifying. True to herself, what is that? She hasn't been true in so long. She hasn't been honest in so long. She hasn't had a relationship that only went one way in years, doesn't even know if she believes in that kind of thing anymore.]

[Unconditional love is a myth. It has to be. Because otherwise, looking at her life is too painful.]

[She takes a short, shaky breath, wrapping her arms around the bear and digging her nails into her forearms. The pain is slight, but it grounds her to make little half-moons in her skin.]

I hear. But I don't . . . understand. I don't think.

I don't think I can talk about this anymore. It's too--much.

I understand.

[The two words are an agreement, a pardon, a command to ease. She doesn't need to understand - he does. In asking for quarter, she is doing exactly what he requested of her, responding to her own needs rather than her perception of his expectation. She can change the subject. He won't press.

She folds the teddy bear up, closes down on herself a little, and Ben steps back to give her space. His fingertips itch to pull at the edge of his shirt, to pick at the stiff bloodstain, to seek out the individual threads of the stitched hem, but he schools himself to steadiness. He pushes it away, as he pushes himself away, just enough to hold himself separate.

Abigail. Abigail is the point, here. The fingers of his other hand press small, subtle creases into the cover of the folder, but his questions do not come first just now.]

What can I answer for you?

[She isn't sure he does understand. But something - her memories and her instincts - tell her that if anyone was going to, it would be him. They're similar, somehow. She knows that's true, not the way she knows someone is telling the truth but the way she knows there are seven continents and water is made of hydrogen and oxygen. Inarguable facts.]

What's that?

[She points at the file. It's a somewhat disingenuous question. She knows, more or less, what it is. It's her life. It's her crimes. But she also doesn't quite know how to ask what she means, which is: what's in it? What has he seen? What does it mean, for her, for him, for both of them?]

[He doesn't answer with words; he forces his fingertips to relax on the file, his arm to extend, and he offers it to her. She can read for herself, even if she already knows what's in it. Maybe the question is sincere, though he doubts it; he'll watch how she reacts, he thinks, and be sure to catch any hints there.

Abruptly he remembers the first time they did this, Abigail satisfied and smug in the chapel pew, Ben's skin creeping with discomfort and electricity snapping in the air that he wasn't entirely convinced actually existed; he remembers her pointed, coy questions, remembers her fishing, poking, prying for a weak spot. She hadn't found any because for some reason he didn't understand at the time, she couldn't identify the ones most people did, she didn't know that all of him was vulnerable, that it's how he learned to be strong. They hadn't been friends, then.

He holds the file out, pushes thoughts of its actual contents aside for now, and wonders if they'll be friends now.]

[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.]

[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.]

[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?

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.

[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?

[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 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.]

nineteen ♢ video

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)