AFTERMATH CATCH ALL FEB 19th ONWARDS until end of the month.

[tom_hanniger]

Who: Tom and You!
Where: Clinic
When: Feb 19th+ Just tag in with a date
Rating: TBA but mentions of death, blood, murder, all the lovely things that happened on v day. Give me ur prose and action, all is welcome.
Summary: And just like that, as though he were only sleeping, the Prodigal Son awakes.



"If I told you what I was,
Would you turn your back on me?
And if I seem dangerous,
Would you be scared?
I get the feeling just because,
Everything I touch isn't dark enough
If this problem lies in me.
--
A monster, a monster,
I've turned into a monster,
A monster, a monster,"


And it keeps getting stronger.

It's something rather unceremonious, the process of coming back to life. Like waking from a bad dream, all the strength in your body jumps into your lungs and limbs - a gasp tearing from your throat and into the world like an announcement.

I'm back.

And indeed you are.

-

Tom sits up with a sharp intake of breath, hands shooting to grasp his face only to find that he can't. He can't move his hands at all and, being too tired to fight it, has no option but to fall back against the bed. The darkness slowly crawls from his vision, spots tracking across his eyes with a slow burn that make them water. His heart is in his throat, lungs greedy, gasping, begging for fresh air.

Confused and disoriented, the world feels as though it were moving in slow motion and he slowly blinks the ceiling into focus. Somewhere beyond him he can hear the ticking of a wall clock, it's steady tck, tck, tck tracking the process of time, suspiciously in time with the beating of his heart. Both sound as through they're under water, swishing and churning in his ears.

His heart-

His body- Who?

Oh..Tom. Right, he's Tom..And he's awake and hadn't he been...?!

And then it all comes crashing back, like a bucket poised over his head it falls upon his face and shoulders, the grip of terror and shame and heart breaking agony tearing through him like a knife.

Like a shot.

Like a shot right through him and-

No. No, no, no, no, no..

And it's all he can do to keep from collapsing as he is, wrists turning in restraints he hadn't noticed before now, on a bed he recognizes as belonging to the clinic. Martha's clinic- Martha! He'd done that to her- To everyone- It was him all along. All this time, ALL THIS TIME.

It hits him in the forehead and he slams his head back against the bed with something weak and twisted escaping his lips. It turns his stomach and the bile rises, burning his throat and he slams his head back again- eyes crushed tightly closed, welled with tears he hopes will turn to acid and eat him whole.

No, no, no, no, no--

Comments

[lightgunhustler]

[She didn't want to go to the clinic. She didn't want to walk in and see him cuffed there, didn't want to have to look at him and find herself forced to accept that what had happened back in the hideout was real and not some nightmare -- if she put it off, she could pretend it didn't happen, pretend she dreamed it and everything was back to normal.

But she hadn't, and it wasn't. People had died, and looking back-- there had been warning signs. Reasons to worry that she ignored, things she overlooked because she thought it was just a part of being damaged, of having been through what the people back home had forced on him.

How much of that story was true? How much of it had he made up to earn himself sympathy? The future version of him, the one who had appeared during Christmas... he had to have been lying, too. He had to have been.

Because there was no coming back from this that she could see. There was no more trust and nothing salvageable. How could there be?

But as much as she wanted to stay away, there was too much left unresolved. She had to see him, to face this. The mansion wasn't that big a place. There was no running from it.

She pauses inside the door when she arrives at the clinic, looking over towards his bed and swallowing hard, steeling herself as she feels her stomach threaten to revolt against her. She doesn't say anything at first, but when she sees that he's restrained, she walks over to one of the chairs set out for guests and turns it towards his bed -- some six feet away before she helps herself to a seat.

She crosses both her arms and legs, the holster at her left hip becoming visible in the process.

She hadn't felt comfortable coming unarmed.]

... hey.

[tom_hanniger]

[He can hear her the moment she walks in, that certain light footing he's come to know so well.

Tom is laying towards the back, a folding screen keeping him from immediate attention. Really, he should be outside somewhere, strapped to a tree and left to slowly rot away. Chained down in the tunnels like the animal he is, left to starve and waste away. But no, he's in the hospital. Sick and nervous with thick leather straps holding him down.

Go away, he pleads silently, willing the footsteps to stop, to reconsider and then vanish.

But they don't. They still come and settle not too far away and he doesn't dare open his eyes and look because-

Well.

Just because.

Please, please go away, leave him alone. Leave him here to die-

And it's just as well because then she speaks and of course! Of course it was her after all, he knew it. And just hearing her voice is so painful he flinches. He can't. He can't do this.

It's a long moment before he even has the strength to make a sound, and when he does it's quiet. Hoarse. Pathetic.

He can't even manage words, just a small whine. He's heard her. Though maybe feigning he hasn't would be the better option. To ignore it and pretend to be asleep. To pretend to be anything except what he is.]

[lightgunhustler]

[She drops her gaze to her hands as she lets them come to rest in her lap, at a loss. She hadn't thought about this ahead of time, of what she could actually say to somehow make this better. It seemed impossible, really. There was no 'better,' and she wasn't here to soothe him or try to ease any of his suffering like she had so many times before.

She wanted to understand. That was all.

Understand how someone she had trusted, someone who had been her friend and then unexpectedly so much more during these past six months could turn like that, like someone had flipped a switch and turned off everything that made him Tom and left someone else in his wake, someone she didn't recognized.

Except it had occurred to her that she did, and it was all she could do to swallow down the bile that rose up when she remembered those brief encounters, half-forgotten, where Tom had been so unlike himself, and yet-- she'd thought nothing of it, because she'd let herself trust him so completely. Never questioned it.

Now those moments made her stomach turn. They had been glimpses of who he really was underneath.

She exhales slowly, looking back to him, and despite it all, it hurts to see him laying there, makes her chest tight to see him so far gone from the person she thought she knew.

How could any of this be real?]

I just wanted...

[She trailed off, pursing her lips as she considered what she wanted to say.]

... did you know? All this time, did some part of you know?

[tom_hanniger]

[This is when he buckles. There is no rolling clouded doubt that covers him, there's no excuse. He's laying there bare and sober and raw.

Tom lays there for a long while, body twisted in such a way as to turn as far in the other direction, away from visitors, as possible.

Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest and shoulders you might think he was still dead. He'd rather still be dead.

Then, finally, he answers. It's small, hoarse, but the cadence is definitely him. Rolling back to center, he opens his eyes a crack - peering out behind dark lashes. He looks grey, worn, like whatever weight he's been carrying this whole time has finally won.

And indeed it has.]

No.

[And there it is. A sob threatens to break through his chest. He knew he shouldn't turn over or look at her or even answer, but he did and now it's done and he has to deal with that.

Something in his face breaks and he has to look away, stare at the ceiling and blink back from the brink of tears.]

I didn't know.

[And that makes it so much worse.]

FEB 20th

[claimyourself]

[Lena hadn't wanted to believe it was him, and in a way, she still doesn't. Without the full story, all she knows is this guy who's always been nice to her suddenly went on a murder spree. And she's gotten used to this place doing horrible things. She's thought she was someone different before, though not to this extreme, of course. It's hard to know who's to blame: whether it's the Queen of Hearts or some other, more powerful force, but she doesn't blame him.

She's used to the truth being hidden from her. People did it all the time at home. So she doesn't know his backstory or all he's been through. She just knows that he was killed and now he's back, and that whatever had a hold of him is probably gone because that's how things work here, right?

Arriving at the clinic, she peeks her head around the partition blocking his bed from view to make sure he's not asleep before she stands by the foot of his bed.]

Hi.

[tom_hanniger]

[It's a long moment before Tom acknowledges Lena's presence, quietly pleading for her to chicken out and run away before she actually approaches him.

He hurts, everything hurts, but more than that the sheer pain of being conscious and in bed with the knowledge of his true self...it's torture, and every breath is pained and laborious when he wishes they would stop all together.

And so he waits, and she speaks, and he takes a slow breath before finally turning his head - just slightly - in her direction.

Lena. His heart sinks and he wonders if he'd hurt her badly. Things are blurry but he knows the deeds that were carried out were done so by his own hand.

And it's killing him.

He can't speak, the weigh of such immense depression stopping noise from coming forward. And what would he say anyway. What would she want him to say.]

[claimyourself]

[She's really not sure what she wants him to say. But she's been there. She once made a magical deal to save a life, not knowing that it'd take another in return. Her powers have gone screwy before too. Hell, she's even killed someone with them, though that was in self defense and she herself would have died if she hadn't. She knows all about guilt and having to live with it.

Biting her lip, she hovers near the end of the bed for a moment before she moves to sit down on the visitor's chair. Tom's restrained, and she defended herself against him once, so she doesn't feel unsafe.]

I heard it was you.

[It's not that she isn't sympathetic, but she wants to get that right out of the way first. And then she pauses, unsure how to follow that up. Anything said in comfort wouldn't mean a thing. She knows, because when people tried to comfort her, it didn't mean a thing then either.]

[tom_hanniger]

[Lena is rewarded with a light snort. Humorless. But he doesn't know what to say to that. He's sorry? Would she like a fruit basket? Congratulations, you've been manipulated into befriending a monster and- the kicker is- he didn't even know he was one?

But, finally....finally he speaks. It's soft and hoarse, but it's definitely him - broken with grief and guilt.]

Did I hurt you..

February 19th

[goesdown]

After Blake leaves his room, Crowley doesn't have much to do but prepare himself for his own role in all of this. He's got hunting supplies on him--salt and iron that he's got to keep covered and touch with a glove--as well as a few useful hex bags and other such things. His pockets are full as he sits in the little chair and waits for Tom to wake up.

As he watches Tom, he realizes that he can't see much of anything about him that's not human. Maybe it won't show until he's alive again or maybe the tools he has aren't the ones he'll need, but he's got his device ready to dial Castiel in the event that there's something he can't handle on his own and he's pretty sure that that's unnecessary, anyway.

So he sits and he waits and he thinks about the mess that they've made together, because Crowley can deny a lot of things, but he can't deny that he knew enough of what would happen that sitting idly by does implicate him somewhat. Maybe Blake is rubbing off on him more than he'd like.

He sits and he waits and at the first sign of life in Tom's body, he sits up straight in the chair, face serious, as if it's his throne.

"Hello, Tom. We need to talk."

February 19th

[tom_hanniger]

The world is spinning when he wakes up, not sure if he's been awake before hand or not, but his body is acting like it's been suffocated and he lurches back into the world of the living. Limbs that do not know, claw forward and learn very quickly that they are restrained. Not expecting the motion, he falls back, too weak and disoriented to fight it. To ask why or what.

Tom slowly wills his vision back to something close to normal and catches movement at the end of his bed. (Bed? He's in a- Oh. Right. Hospital.. clinic? Martha's clinic. Martha his doctor, his friend, his victim. Jesus Christ.

But it isn't Jesus at the end of his bed, rather a man in a sharp suit he's never met before.

Who seems to know his name.

Of course. There are very few in Wonderland who don't know who he is and now he's certain there isn't a single sou who doesn't know (and curse) the name Tom Hanniger.

Some semblance of control is gained over his breathing, but he doesn't dare speak, knowing it would be painful and empty and aimless. Pointless. Much like himself. And instead of asking any questions he tries to focus on containing the acid crawling up in his throat. The crushing weight of realization over what he's done. He'd run to throw up if he could, but knowing he's tied down and this stranger is likely his new enemy or executioner, he tries to keep it down. Which is hard.

And so Crowley is given a small grunt in response. He's listening.

[goesdown]

Crowley rolls his eyes. How predictably uncouth. He's well-aware of how jarring it is to die and come back, but there's some semblance of dignity in him that Tom clearly lacks. Crowley is, of course, retconning the last several days of his life in the pursuit of his own dignity.

He leans forward with he elbows on his knees and smiles at Tom.

"You've been a huge pain in the ass these last few weeks." Months, really. Tom's been a pain in the ass since mid-December.

"But I'm still going to fix whatever caused that little episode of yours and then you and I are going to be good friends, aren't we?"

Oh, he's bound to fix Tom either way, but why not squeeze a little more out of the unsuspecting idiot. After all the trouble he's put Crowley through, Crowley needs a little more incentive.

[tom_hanniger]

This is a joke. A cruel, ridiculous joke isn't it.

But it's got Tom's attention, even if it's just the need to tell this guy to go fuck himself. He takes a breath and shifts, cracking his eyes open to peer down at Crowley from behind his lashes.

Tom looks pale, worn, like his body has given out from the burden of carrying this for so long.

He wonders...a great many things, but the words don't stack in his throat and he has to cobble them together, brows drawing.

"Why would you help me."

Feb 20

[ahousedivided]

He'd heard the name again and again, Tom, but that had done nothing to help him finally put a stop to the mayhem. America feels partly at fault that it escalated too. He's virtually unkillable, an experienced solider, an experienced killer, and he still he couldn't even take down a human on a rampage. Not even the axe to his spine or the decapitation is any sort of excuse.

Frustration--with himself, with Tom, but mostly himself--crawls through veins thick with dead blood. A new heart seems to have (grown? spontaneously appeared?) taken home in his chest, at least he thinks so, it's a little hard to tell since his body has been shocked into a cold numbness. Doesn't matter since it hasn't started beating yet.

Somehow he's acquired his head again and all of his hurt and anger is compounded by the sight of bent frames and scratched lenses. Those were custom made glasses you shitlord. Something inside him snaps and he decides to express himself to Tom in a sane, healthy way that won't rattle their mutually fragile psyches.

That of course means that America bursts into the clinic with his severed, dirty head clutched in one hand and a lit torch in the other. Glassy eyes seem to stare accusingly at Tom even if his expression is set in the relaxed blankness of death. Shoulders stiff, bloodied stump tilted to show the full extent of the torn muscle and protruding bones, he stands in silent ire.

This would be the point for flicking lights and a dramatic thunderclap. Instead there is only the sterile clinic and yet another stupid yet accurate shirt adorning the bloody mess.

ghdfjgkd

[tom_hanniger]

Tom doesn't turn right away, he's been trying to slowly scoot himself as far away from the door as possible, twisting his body in such a way as to lay on his side, one cuffed hand training back behind him. It's awkward, but it's easier to hide himself. At least he feels like he's hiding.

But he can hear the approaching of foot steps, stopping by his bed and waiting.

The visitor doesn't speak, Tom doesn't move to speak either, and then finally he shifts back to see who it is.

And he's never umped back so quickly in all his life.

America has gotten the exact response he seems to have been looking for because he just scared the shit out of his attacker. Wide eyes and panicked, he leaps back with a strangled cry. Terrified, heart in his throat. Try as he might, he's still tied down. There's nowhere to go.

U DESERVE THIS TOM

[ahousedivided]

The fear is sweet, or it would be if he had a functioning tongue to taste with, but it's nowhere near satisfactory. It was agonizingly painful and, above all, humiliating to be torn apart on his pursuit of justice for Martha. By someone who, as far as America's aware, has no super human abilities. Unless being the Forgettable-As-Canada Dean Winchester Facetwin has granted him some sort of supernatural ability.

No sympathy is spared for a mentally ill man left to stew in the guilt of his actions. America doesn't particularly care why Tom suddenly decided to go on a killing spree. The walking corpse trembles slightly with frustration that he knows can't be alleviated if he decided to do unto Tom as Tom did to him, or at the very least wrap his bloodied hands around Tom's throat until the stench of dried blood and strong fingers choke the life out of him. Even if it might feel good to do so. Even though he only feels the slightest pang of guilt as he entertains the thought of ripping open Tom's chest cavity and absolutely none at the thought of strangulation, consequences be damned. Adding to Tom's pain wouldn't make America feel better, except maybe in the short term thrill of vengeance (which he would call justice). But as he steps closer, he thinks that it would be over too quickly. Hurting Tom might absolve him of responsibility and shift the blame over to America, and he wants Tom to feel the true terror his victims felt.

The moral of the story is to never incite the wrath of unhinged Americans.

Headless and distraught at absolutely everything, America decides to do the only sensible thing:

He lights his fucking severed head on fire and throws it right at Tom.

Minor burns might be temporary, but the trauma of burnt hair and flesh colliding with the man who took it off in the first place, with no way of escape as dead eyes stare at him even as they're roasted out of their skull, will last a lifetime.

YES THIS IS CLEARLY THE MORE COMPASSIONATE, HUMANE ALTERNATIVE TO CHOKING THE LIFE OUT OF YOUR ATTACKER.

FUCK YOU SO HARD

[tom_hanniger]

JESUS CHRIST

Is just about the extent of anything his brain can put together, steeped in shock and fear and sudden surprise when someone bursts into his area and lobs a fucking head at him. A head on fire.

How about fuck you, man. Fuck you.

And how else does someone react to this happening but to scream and shoot up, backing up on the bed as far as then can when their wrists are tethered to the railings on either side?!

So that's exactly what he does until he has the sense to kick it off the bed and onto the floor.

2/23

[oversight]

In the aftermath of many gruesome, awful murders, the world turns surprisingly quiet. Not normal quiet, of course — Wonderland's almost always abuzz with some kind of abnormal activity — but the kind of silence that always follows rough times. Victims suffer quietly, survivors bask in the illusion of relative safety, and those responsible, if they know who they are, pass the time trying to decide how to make things right. Or, at least, that's what Blake had done the last time Wonderland used his memories against all of them.

Too bad Blake's not entirely convinced he can blame Wonderland this time around. With the timetables and future Tom's warning, plus the suspicious lack of natives to announce the chaos, he's almost entirely certain there's more at play here than the average Wonderland event.

As he slips into the clinic, he tries to remind himself to remove his emotions from the scenario. Being trapped away for five days with the demon Crowley had been a special brand of torture, and even if John was able to get his jabs in on his way out the door, he still has a pretty sore spot from the whole ordeal. So, he's angry and he's frustrated, but he's not unfair, and he's not about to damn Hanniger before he gets at least the chance to speak.

"Tom," he greets, voice quiet as he steps through the shadows to the bedside. It's late, probably after what might be commonly accepted as visiting hours, but Blake prefers it that way. He doesn't want to be interrupted, and he doesn't want to be seen, save for Tom. There's a pack slung over his shoulder and where he's normally dresses for civilian appeal, he's taken on a sort of para-military stealth look, in dark colors and dense materials.

"You got a coupla minutes to spare?" Even as he asks, he's pulling a chair from nearby to invite himself to sit.

[tom_hanniger]

He was dozing. Being conscious has been proving too much to bear and, for the most part, he's been left alone with his thoughts and guilt - interrupted every so often by someone to adds to the pile.

Not that he doesn't deserve it.

He knows he does.

He just doesn't want to deal with it. Does that make him a coward? Maybe. Fragile. Sick.

Tom Hanniger is not a well man. And he's been fighting it for over a decade, but something has finally snapped and brought the whole carefully constructed facade crumbling down around him. He thought he was better than this.

A lot better, actually, because he hadn't known he was seeing things, acting without his knowledge. He didn't know he was hurting anyon-

Blake's voice breaks through the silence and pulls Tom out of the nothing he'd drifted into. Out of his own darkness and into the actual night.

Tom. Yes, that's his name. He's Tom, no one else.

He debates some small quip about his incredibly busy schedule but decides against it. He just simply doesn't have the will, and instead stirs and turns just enough to look at him. And even in the darkness it's clear he's not in a good way. Tired and worn and somehow ancient, Tom watches Blake sit down.

He's given up willing people to leave him alone. He's given up...well. He's given up.

[oversight]

Blake has no trouble recognizing the look. The way that Tom's eyes move, the way his head and the rest of him doesn't, paints a clear picture of his state, emotional or otherwise. It's a Hell of a sight, and John's not sure he'll ever get used to how familiar Tom's face has become. When he looks at the guy, he no longer sees a duplicate of his best friend, but instead a man in his own right.

Which makes it that much harder to sit bedside. Over the short time they've gotten to knew each other, and despite the occasional homophobic rhetoric, John's taken to Hanniger and his ways. There's no saying he hasn't taken care of Jo, either — or, there hadn't been up until recently.

John resists the urge to reach out, to be comforting, not because he doesn't want to offer some sense of support, but because he has a feeling Tom doesn't want any gentle pats or patronizing words. He's already beating himself up pretty expertly, from what Blake can tell.

Poor damn fool. John knows a bit how he feels.

"I'm here as a friend." It's said with authority and certainty, not because Blake needs to affirm this point for Tom, but just because it needs to be said.

[tom_hanniger]

"A friend." He croaks in response, matter of fact with no inflection to betray any feelings on the word friend.

Because the way he sees it? Tom doesn't have any friends. Not anymore. And anyone who would call themselves one is either a psychopath themselves or an idiot.

Or fucking with him.

And none of those above options sound appealing.

but then again, nothing sounds appealing when your own wish in the world is to simply stop existing.

A beat passes and he considers taking a sigh and offering John a seat in his office. Would he like a cup of tea, he can call the secretary..

But it's not funny and he doesn't have the energy for it.

"What do you want, John.."

Not to be curt but he doesn't have the will to beat around the bush.

[ofletters]

[ Tom had visited him when he was in the clinic, and... ironically enough, it had turned out to be Tom who put him there. But Sam knows a thing or two about murders and other horrors committed with your own hands. He's been possessed by angels and demons who both killed, and had done some less-than-kosher things just as a hunter, whether he was doing it for the right reasons or just the easiest ones. This is why he heads to the clinic now, when he knows Tom will be back from the dead, hands stuck in his pockets.

Sam enters cautiously, not worried about being attacked, not now, but still armed. Cautious, hesitant, maybe a little betrayed, but willing to find out the truth. So, the younger Winchester stands, keeping his distance, nodding shortly at the man in the bed. ]

Hey. [ There's a long pause, and he tries to figure out how to phrase it, what he even wants to say. ] ... Mind if we talk?

[tom_hanniger]

[As much as he hates the idea of having to face anyone, he understands why people are coming to see him. He understands they want answers, that they want closure and they want it directly from him.

Even if he, himself, doesn't know exactly what to say.

Even if all he wants in the whole world is to stop existing.

He hears Sam approach but doesn't turn to see who it is. Still cuffed to the bed, he's turned himself in such a way as to face the opposite direction, one hand trailing behind him, limp in it's restraint. His shoulders tense when Sam speaks but he still doesn't move, brows furrowing in on themselves.

He knew it would only be a matter of time.]

It's a free country.

Feb 20th

[selfrespecting]

The fact that Martha's been able to sleep at all is a miracle. Some of it is the relief of knowing it's over. Some of it is pure exhaustion, as a person isn't able to push themselves for that long without crashing eventually.

The news had come hard, even though Dean had done his best to deliver it gently. Not that he's a particularly gentle person, but Martha imagines he'd done his best considering the circumstances. That stranger on the network had said it was Tom, but Martha hadn't wanted to believe it. When hearing it from someone she knew and trusted, though... she'd no longer been able to deny it.

Tom. Tom, who'd come to her and told her that he was sick, that he needed help, and she'd tried, but what had she been thinking? She'd been uncertain about it then, and she should have trusted her gut instead of refilling his medication.

What if that's what set him off? Everything had been fine beforehand, and so Martha's greatest fear is that she caused this.

It's enough to make her want to avoid the clinic, which means that it's only around the end of the next day that she finally gathers up the composure to show herself there again. Tom's been placed toward the back of the room with a partition around his bed, mainly to try and avoid attracting attention.

He'll be awake now, she knows, and so Martha stands there for a good thirty seconds, staring at the curtains.

Then she steps forward, pulling the curtains back to find Tom laying there, handcuffed to the bed.

[tom_hanniger]

It's gross, really. Plain straight gross that he would do what he'd done and then put in the clinic.

But that's where you put people when they're going to revive, isn't it? When no one wants to take responsibility for them in their own room. Then there isn't a prison facility.

Funny no one has thought to build one before now.

Funny, with all the things that happen in this place, no one had felt they needed to.

But somewhere along the way someone had decided he was sick, and sick people go to the hospital. There's no protocol when the patient has killed the doctor, however. And then another for what to do when they're both back form the dead and have to face each other.

He flinches lightly when the curtain pulls back, the noise jarring him from the silence he'd steeped himself in. Tom Hanniger wants nothing more than to simply fade away. He wants to cease existing and fall into oblivion and has spent his...free...time trying to do exactly that. Stop thinking and fall.

How hard can that possibly be.

He doesn't turn to see Martha right away, needing a moment to steel his nerves before he dares to venture a glance. And when he does every part of him pales and wilts. Jesus Christ..

There's a second when Tom opens his mouth to say something but the words stacked in his throat get clogged as many things fight to come forward all at once and as a result none come at all. For the best, perhaps, nothing he could possibly say can help this.

[selfrespecting]

It's just as difficult for her to look at him, to see his face and realize that it was hiding behind that gas mask. To realize that he's the one she'd been frightened of this whole time. Tom, poor sick Tom, who'd come to her and practically begged for help.

If only she'd known her help would only make things worse. How could he have been hiding something like this?

She wants to believe that he'd had no control over himself. The devastated look on his face, could someone really fake that?

After another long pause, Martha grabs for the nearby chair and drags it over to the bed, but she does allow some space between them. Even though he's cuffed, she's still wary, and could anyone truly blame her in this case?

Martha swallows, wrings her hands together, bows her head and lets out a low breath. "Did you know?" she asks, keeping her voice unexpectedly steady. "Did you know what you were doing?"