versusnurture | nineteen ♢ video

[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.]

[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.

[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.

[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.

[This also confuses her. There are still things about this place that are fuzzy. She knows there are people who don't believe in shades of gray - who believe in the law, even though here there is no law. People like Jack, who would hunt her down and cause her damage. Maybe. Maybe she's imagining that part.]

[People who don't like her, that's more realistic. But what does he mean by unintentionally?]

[She gives him a wan smile, anyway.]

You could. But it wouldn't be effective.

[He wouldn't, though. She knows that.]

[Ben still remembers clearly the difficulty with people who simply don't understand what it's like to be conditioned to a certain way of thinking. How maybe it's harmful in the long run, obviously so even, but going against it still hurts in a way that can't be described; still makes the act of doing so feel unsafe, wrong. They mean to help, but often they end up causing more damage than they fix, and because they don't understand this they stop trying.

Ben doesn't argue. He wouldn't. Not willingly, not knowingly, not intentionally. Instead he nods.]

Do you require anything at this time, Abigail?

Nothing.

[She casts her eyes down and away. She doesn't want or need anything. There's nothing that can be given to her to make her better, no panacea. There's only time. In a distant way she knows that; on another level she wants to give him something to do. Something so that he'll feel active.]

[All she can do is not start crying again.]

I just . . . need to sleep.

[If it's all she can give him, he'll take it. If it's all he can give her, it's freely that he'll do so. That doesn't mean it's not frustrating.

It's not, however, her fault. This is his job. Ben drops his chin ever so slightly in a small nod.]

Then I will make certain you are not disturbed.

I... am glad to see you again, Abigail.

nineteen ♢ video

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