entrancelogs | {open} run from the one who comes to find you

Entry tags:

{open} run from the one who comes to find you

Who: Abigail Hobbs & YOU
Where: Anywhere around the mansion
When: The duration of the event (May 17 - 19)
Rating: R for gory imagery, discussion of cannibalism, murder, and trauma (will update as needed)
Summary: Abigail experiences her first event in Wonderland, which leaves her craving acceptance, and forgiveness for her part in her father's murders. As the days go by, though, she begins to also desire violence, and the feeling of power it gives her.
The Story:

Abigail has learned the hard way what she can and can't bear. Looking at her life from a distance, she wouldn't think anyone would be capable of living with what's been done to her, with what she's done, with the compromises she's made in the name of her own survival. But experience has taught her that she can endure it. There are nightmares, there is anger and guilt roiling just beneath the surface of her mind, but she can ignore them.

It's all just this side of bearable - at least, until outside forces see fit to intervene. With the beginning of the event, this plague of Famine churns up the semblance of order she's created for her mind. Suddenly, acutely, she aches for things she knows she can't have (and probably doesn't deserve). Understanding. Forgiveness. A feeling of power and control over herself and her life.

She can't get the faces of those eight girls out of her head. Every time she blinks she sees Marissa's body, naked and dripping blood, displayed as if she were a thing. She can't stop thinking about Nick Boyle, how he'd looked when he stopped breathing, how his body had changed when she dug him up months later.

Since she'd arrived here, the best thing had been her anonymity - the fact that so few people here knew anything about her and what she'd been through. But she finds herself yearning for people who understand what it was like, who can give her some kind of consolation that she is not the monster she thinks she is.

As the days pass and she gets very little sleep, Abigail's emotions shift from self-loathing to rage, from longing to loathing. Instead of thinking about how Nick hadn't deserved to die, she starts to remember how good it felt to kill him. How this time, she hadn't let herself get hurt. She'd taken control of the situation and watched him bleed out, seen the long slit down his belly and known she was the one who put it there. Maybe, just maybe if she felt that again, she could get some sleep...

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Selina is stealing a painting.

No really, she's got it in her hands, holding it to her chest. A nice small one, the only one that would come off the wall as she stops - caught.

"...Hi."

This is awkward.

The funny thing is, Abigail probably wouldn't have thought twice about someone walking around carrying a painting, if the woman hadn't looked so cagey about it. But it's written all over her body language, and the way she speaks, that she is doing (or thinks she's doing) something she shouldn't be. Abigail's eyes flick from the woman's face, to the painting that she's clutching tightly, and back up to her face again.

"Hi."

And then, because she's feeling antsy and on-edge, she asks, with an unsurprise that is just a touch sarcastic, "Let me guess, kleptomania?"

After all, it wasn't as if there were anywhere for her to sell the painting, unless she was going to trade it with someone for something. Or perhaps she just wanted it herself...

"A shrink tried that actually. Diagnosed me with it. It's not true - or at least it wasn't true until today."

She set the painting down at her feet, "I'm -" Holly, Carmela, "Selina Kyle."

As far as cravings go, the Doctor's gotten off lightly. His need for adventure and thirst for it has been increased quite a bit, meaning he's been running all over the mansion and grounds and not stopping, not even to catch his breath. It's a case of so much to do and see and so little time.

So he's in the process of going off to his next adventure when he passes by Abigail in a second floor corridor. As far as corridors go, it's not very interesting, but it's just the pathway to something more exciting.

He grins at Abigail as he passes, unable to keep the words from bursting out as he does, "Hello! Brilliant day, isn't it?"

Granted, she doesn't look as though she's having the greatest day ever, which is disconcerting, but his cheerfulness is just hard to tone down.

[ For the first time in this far too long weekend, Hannibal is content. Not a single urge stirs in him beyond the desire to cook. The smell of meat comes from the roaster behind him, a large enough one for a whole sow thanks to the wonders of Wonderland. He had been perturbed the last time he saw Abigail, sitting on a chair playing with Freddie, not for her sake but his own. Perturbed by his own dissatisfaction, considering the pros and cons of remaining in seclusion or reaching towards what he knew that Wonderland was making him need, rather than simply want.

That had been before visiting Will, before killing Clarisse, before figuring it all out. He knew what he could do and what he shouldn't, and while in a few hours he would be disappointed in his own rashness at killing the girl so soon and without as much grandeur as he could have mustered with patience and time, for now he's content. He's making himself his lunch, in fact, while he waits for his roast to finish.

Soy-braised tongue and fried rice. He doesn't make fried rice often but when he does he remembers a street chef in Tokyo who deserved to be considered gourmet, and his patron who actually became gourmet himself.

He smiles to himself, only to himself, as he flips the meat to braise on the other side, allowing the rice to simmer and absorb the flavors of its own spices. ]

[Lindsey McDonald does not look well. Pale, shaking and red spots under his eyes he's sitting at a table with a number of objects in front of him. Raising a hand over one, a small urn - it shakes on the table but doesn't lift.

The effort leaves him pale and sweaty, but it might be worth a looksee.]

Abigail, her emotions even more mercurial than usual, lets the corner of her mouth curl into a tiny smile; one quick way to her good side is to make fun of the ineffectiveness of most mental health professionals.

"Abigail." She omits the last name for now, on the off-chance that Selina is someone who might recognize the name Abigail Hobbs. Better safe than sorry.

"So stealing's not a new thing for you?" Otherwise, why would a shrink make such a suggestion. Abigail says it pleasantly enough, but to make sure it's not misinterpreted as an accusation, she says, "I don't think anyone's really going to care if you take that. And if they do, I won't tell on you. Promise." She drags a finger over her heart in an invisible X.

Abigail's patience is wearing thin by this point; she'd been having a hard enough time coping with her life before all this started, and she's starting to think the event might be the straw that will break the camel's back. She's pacing the corridors, arms crossed tightly, trying to ignore half the thoughts going through her head. Most of the time, Abigail understands her own mind well enough. She's not the kind of girl who has random, violent thoughts - at least, not that often. Not as often as she has been today.

So to see someone else who is clearly having so much fun puts a spark to a fuse that she didn't even know was in her.

"No," she mutters, sullenly - quietly enough that it's possible he'll miss it, if he's not paying attention, "Nothing brilliant about it."

[ Abigail usually isn't one for banging doors, but then, she's not exactly in her right mind. She looked for Hannibal at his room, and when he didn't answer, she headed to the kitchen, shouldering the door open roughly and practically (but not quite) stomping in. Her body is filled with restless energy, but when she sees Hannibal, she goes still. Her body language clearly telegraphs that she is hesitating, not sure whether to go over to where he's cooking, not sure if she should tell him what she came here resolved to tell him. ]

Hannibal?

[ There's a tremor in her voice; she changes her mind abruptly, decides to keep quiet. What had she been thinking? She couldn't possibly tell him, couldn't admit the kinds of things she's been thinking all day. If he knew that since last night, her imagination has been conjuring up a kaleidoscope of blood-soaked daydreams, what would he think, what would he say? Abigail trusts Hannibal more than anyone else in the world, but that doesn't mean she trusts him entirely. Thinking quickly, she asks, as if it were the reason she came ]

What're you cooking?

[ There's far more emotion in the question than there has any right to be. Abigail shifts her weight from foot to foot, coming a little closer and peering at whatever is on the stove ]

[ Abigail doesn't mean to stare, at first; he looks like he feels like crap right now, and Abigail's not exactly at her best. She hates when people look at her, ask her if she's doing alright. So she means to just pass by, not to even greet him unless he spoke first. But then she sees the way he's holding the hand, and the way the urn moves, and her eyes go as round as coins. ]

You're doing that?

[ She's been told by various people to expect all sorts of supernatural things here, but this is her first real encounter with them. Could it be a trick? Maybe it's not telekinesis - maybe he's just an illusionist of some kind... ]

Abigail's lack of patience isn't lost on the Doctor, but he's a bit caught up in a feeling that's rather similar to euphoria to really stop to think about how his demeanor might be perceived by others. He just feels happy for some reason, and it's all but impossible to keep the smile off his face.

"Well, that's too bad. Really, I'm sorry you're not having a better day." He's been having a good one so far, and one might even say, he's been having the best day that he can remember since coming to Wonderland. It's all a bit inexplicable, really.

"I don't suppose there's anything I can do, is there?"

[Not an illusionist. He's practicing. Playing even. Smiling at her he leans back in the chair and raises his hand, watching it move.]

It's getting easier. Why, are you impressed?

On some level, Abigail understands that his disgusting cheerfulness is probably the result of this event, just as much as her foul mood is. That doesn't stop it from grating on her nerves. He's only trying to help, but it's infuriating to her. Everyone always wanted to help her, but no one ever did it.

"Not unless you have a time machine," Abigail says, with sarcastic sweetness, giving the Doctor a smile that somehow seems to say now go away.

How are you doing it? [ Abigail pointedly does not comment whether or not she is impressed. In actuality, she is; even if it's a trick, it's a pretty convincing one. Hopefully, she thinks, if she withholds any sort of praise or admiration, he'll be spurred to earn it by explaining just what he's doing. ]

Actually, he's a bit cheerful on a normal day, but some of that is being accentuated by the effects of this event. And seeing how helping is what he does as a rule, if there's anything he can do, he'd move mountains to try and do just that.

"Well, I do have one, though she's not here at the moment, so I suppose I'm not much use. But I can do other things that might help you." She just has to tell him more about what she needs first.

[The blood. The blood is the life. He swallows hard before raising his hand again] All this kind of stuff comes at a cost. You want power you get power..But you pay a price.

[His hand slumps] ...God I'm hungry. Are you hungry?

[ Well that sure was a helpful answer. Or, you know, not at all. She'd been hoping for some sort of explanation involving magnets rather than ominous vague words that sound like dialogue ripped from a movie trailer ]

Not particularly, but apparently there's a lot of it going around. [ Hunger, that is. ]

Even though she's been confronted with supernatural creatures, angels, alternate universes and goodness knows what else, Abigail's still rather getting used to it all, so she just assumes that this guy is making a joke. Probably trying to help with humor, but she's not in the mood to be charmed.

He really doesn't seem to be giving up all that easily; Abigail looks at him, suddenly more shrewd than short-tempered.

"Let me guess, you're feeling an urgent need to cheer people up, or something like that?" There's scorn in the way she says it, but all the same, she won't deny that talking to him is, just barely, better than wandering around alone entertaining disturbing thoughts. So, with a somehow distinctly teenage sullen reluctance, she admits, "A distraction might be nice, but there's nothing to do around here."

Unfortunately for Abigail, this isn't something brought on by the event. The Doctor is just naturally cheerful, and what the event is doing to him is making him really, really hungry for adventure. And for the moment, this translates into trying to talk Abigail's ear off.

"No, actually, this is just how I am. It's better being happy than not, I'd say." He doesn't mind the scorn in her voice; he's used to coming up against some nay-sayers, if that's even the right word. "Well, I don't know about that. I find there's a lot of people to talk to, and even more things outside the mansion to see, if you like exploring."

And he loves exploring, in case she hasn't gathered that yet.

Abigail, who had only just begun to warm to the Doctor, turns icy once again.

"Better being happy? So what you're saying is you're better than me because I'm not happy?" It's not exactly what he said, but it's certainly what Abigail heard. She has heard plenty of this kind of rhetoric in her time. Nurses and other patients telling her she was the only one holding herself back, making herself gloomy. That she was responsible, essentially, for her own misery. Often enough they packaged it up with suggestions on how to improve herself (because obviously, she must want to), with suggestions ranging from doing yoga to forgiving her father because, apparently, she wasn't allowed to stay angry.

"I hadn't realized that. I guess I ought to try to be more like you, huh?" Her words are saccharine sweet and positively dripping with sarcasm.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all. Why would I ever say anything like that?" If that's how he sounded, then he's flat-out mortified, because that's not what he meant at all. He'd never tell anyone they needed to change who they were, and neither would he hold himself up as a paragon of anything. Well, alright, he might be quick to call himself a genius and brilliant and a dozen other synonyms all meaning the same thing, but he'd never do what Abigail's suggesting.

"You should be yourself, that's what you ought to do. There's only one you, after all. The world doesn't need two of me." Or two of anyone, for that matter. What it does need is individuals with different likes, dislikes, and personalities, and that is why he'd never say she should try to be like him.

"Oh."

Abigail deflates; he sounds genuine, confused, and even as the resentment still stirs in her gut, she realizes how defensive she must song. Best way to spot a guilty conscience: to wait for it to reveal itself. Had she been projecting? It seems likely to her. After all, she hasn't always been this unhappy. There are days she wishes she could find her way back to that happiness, but she doesn't know how.

"Sorry." It's grudging, but she means it. "I think this Famine thing's got me picking fights."

Honestly, Abigail baffles him a little bit, like there's something just slightly off about her that he can't put a finger on. But whatever it is, it's stirring up that instinct of his to want to help, however he can. If he can, because some things and some people just can't be helped.

But helping people, or trying to, is what he does, so if there's anything he can do, of course he'll try.

"Why be sorry? You haven't done anything wrong." He's the one making a bit of a mess of things, so far as he can tell. "What's that, then? What Famine thing?"

"The 'Event'," she clarifies, adding air-quotes with her finger - she's still growing accustomed to all this weird terminology, "The reason everyone's acting so crazy these last few days. Apparently, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse is to blame. That's what the guy on the network said, anyway."

She's keeping a healthy dose of skepticism, but until a better solution presents itself, she's just going to go along with the explanations that are provided to her. All the same, it's ridiculous how surreal her life has become since she's come here. Wanting to reconcile for her snappishness (for the Doctor's simple forgiveness is a drop in the bucket; Abigail wonders if the reason she's feeling so hostile is that she'll lash out, apologize, and then be forgiven), Abigail asks: "Haven't you gotten any weird impulses or cravings like everyone else?"

"Oh, right, the event." It's the first time he's heard it called the Famine, that's all, though it does make sense. "Events happen around here, which I'm sure you know, but it's always different, every time." And no, he can't keep the excitement from sounding in his voice, not that he'd really want to. It's just part of the machinations of this event: making him so very hungry for adventure, and even viewing even something like this as exciting.

Life in Wonderland is a bit surreal, but the Doctor's seen so many things in his travels that it's a bit easy to take things in stride, including the weirdness of the events and also reactions to his, well, rather different way of viewing things that he gets from others. "'Course I have. Well, I think I have, anyway."

He shrugs, not really bothered by anything that's going on. "I just feel like there's so much to do and see around here, and I want to do it all, if I can. And thing is, I know I can. Do it all, that is." The perks of not needing a lot of food and rest, or something along those lines.

He's been running all over the mansion at all hours of the day and night and not really showing any signs of flagging.

"Sounds pretty manic if you ask me." Abigail has no scale against which to compare for the Doctor, so her mind turns to the comparison that is available: there were a handful of bipolar kids her own age at Port Haven, and Abigail had heard and seen enough of their harebrained schemes to know the look of it.

She finds herself jealous of the energy and optimism, even if it's probably temporary. A tiny part of her wonders if she should ask what he plans to do, if he will take her with him to do it. Even if it's something stupid like exploring the woods or going into the maze, it could wrestle her out of her funk.

But sense (or what she thinks of as sense, which is probably closer to paranoia) follows soon after. She doesn't know anything about this guy, not even his name. She should ask that then let him be on his way, check with Hannibal and see if he's dangerous.

"What's your name anyway?"

[ Her nervous energy hits him like a hammer. That would be the metaphor if Hannibal experienced emotion the way a normal person would. It would hit him like a hammer if a hammer hitting nothingness could make a sound or a reverberation. It only hits air, and the oxygen and nitrogen that make up Hannibal's emptiness looks up at at her from the sauce drizzling onto his meal. The hammer hits the air and atoms vibrate, invisible to the human eye. It's more than some others could hope for. ]

A particularly chatty tongue.

[ He puts down the sauce boat and projects the slight twitch of atoms in his void of a chest cavity as concern. ]

What's wrong, Abigail?

[ Abigail peers in at the meat in the pan, skeptically. The idea of eating a tongue, from any animal, sends a shudder down her spine. There is no way for her not to think of her father, as she sometimes finds herself doing when she thinks about eating meat, about those months of unknowing cannibalism. It had been bad enough, knowing those girls she talked to and charmed ended up dead. It's quite another to know that she ate them.

Still, nothing Hannibal has cooked for her has been anything less than completely satisfying. Abigail hadn't had all that much experience with gourmet food; so much of what Hannibal has made her is so exotic that it's almost unrecognizable. She talks herself out of her initial revulsion, wanting not to seem unsophisticated. ]

Smells good.

[ But beyond that compliment, Hannibal doesn't let her stall. He'd always been like this, knowing when to remain silent and when to push. If he hadn't confronted her right then, she probably would have lost her nerve, have asked him about the history of the dish or some other topic she knew would interest and successfully distract him. Instead, she hops onto the counter a safe distance from where Hannibal is cooking, stares down at her knees. ]

You know the event?

[ They've spoken about it, briefly: just enough to compare notes on some of the odder behaviors they have witnessed on the network and around the mansion. Hannibal had not asked about how it was affecting her, and she had returned the favor ]

I keep thinking about that night I killed Nick Boyle.

[ Their unspoken agreement to not discuss their own failings at the hands of Wonderland's powers that be only goes so far as avoiding direct questions without reason. The rules of propriety kept him from asking because he didn't need to ask. Abigail wears her emotions in the twitch of her muscles like a doe, as if her skin is only so deep as to keep them hidden from plain sight.

He takes another plate out of the cabinet and sets it down, plating rice on both of them instead of just one. ]

And how is that making you feel?

[ On a different day, in a different setting, with a different person, such a question would make Abigail roll her eyes. With Hannibal, it does not. His way of prompting her without pressuring is effective. She knits her hands together in her lap. ]

Guilty.

[ It's the truth, but only half of it. Abigail watches Hannibal portioning out rice for both of them and knows that, even if he isn't looking at her, he's waiting for her to tell him the rest. It is hard to make herself say the words out loud ]

And... like I want to do it again.

[ It's only a whisper, heavy with self-reproach and disgust. Before, when her father had been making her lure his victims, she had never, not in one part of herself, enjoyed it. But when she had stabbed Nicholas Boyle, there had been a warm rush in her gut, a wave of brief and furious joy over her own power. It faded almost immediately, but since then Abigail has not felt a similar sense of confidence, of triumph ]

There's something wrong with me. [ She is convinced of this, speaks quicker now, more audibly ] Everyone says what's happening isn't changing people, it's just making them want things they already wanted a lot more. Which means... [ Abigail looks up now, distress naked on her face ] I'm just like my dad after all.

[ It's comforting that they could return to a safe space between them. This was, by his account, where they were before Abigail's rash mistake, before she involved Freddie Lounds and considered her own potential closure over their joint security.

That had been a mess, a problem he solved, but he would like to avoid going down that road again. The mistake had been hers, not his, and he was granted a second chance to claim her entirely as his own.

He cuts the tongue in half before plating for both of them, arranging it perfectly upon rice and porcelain. Clarisse had enough tongue for two, smaller portions or not. ]

Everyone wants to know what it's like to kill another human being. Society demands that we sublimate that urge through nonfatal violence, or through the slaughter of animals for food or sport. To take a life makes us feel powerful, Abigail, something he can get so little of in this world of social obligation and humanist discourse.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel powerful. You experienced an elevation of self and did not cower in fear of your own potential. I would say that makes you strong.

[ He drizzles the sauce upon the plates, adds the garnish, and looks up at her again. ]

As for your faher, you and him have less in common than you think.

[ Abigail doesn't know what to think. On the surface she isn't aware of it, but Hannibal's assessment of humanity's true desires sits poorly in her guts. She doesn't disbelieve him, but she doesn't want to believe that everyone craves violence underneath. If it were just her father, if it were just her, just a question of a tainted bloodline or a poisoned upbringing, that would be bearable. But for it to be universal... that thought brings real horror to her mind.

Hannibal isn't wrong. She'd never much enjoyed hunting with her father, but that was because she'd never been in control, then. Never been the one making the choice or pointing the gun. She had only pulled the trigger when she'd been told to, had only cut where he'd told her. Killing Nicholas Boyle had been an event of her own (or so she thinks). Even as he vocalizes what she is feeling, her sense of self-loathing only deepens. ]

I did feel powerful. [ She stares down at her hands and remembers them red ] I liked that I could stop him. [ Abigail laughs, hollowly, smiles, an empty shadow of humor. She looks over at Hannibal as he finishes garnishing the plates. ] It was so easy, you know?

[ She tells herself again that it was self-defense; her heart hammers and her hands shake faintly even thinking about the fear she felt when he'd run after her. Abigail feels anything but strong, anything but elevated. Elevated. The word gives her pause. If she didn't know better, she'd think there is almost a kind of pride in Hannibal's voice. But that's impossible; it must be a slight mistranslation. ]

What if the urge to feel strong again gets too powerful and I hurt someone else? [ There's fear in the question, but also a tone of challenge. She wants Hannibal to say he would stop her, keep her from doing any violence. It would make her mind a little easier, knowing he would do that for her. But part of her wonders if he's even capable. ]

Edited 2014-06-06 05:19 (UTC)

[ Fear smells sour on most, an early rotting of milk or juice that adds flavor to the meat. On Abigail it smells different. It's the sourness before the sweeter ripening, rather than the descent into eventual inevitability, it' the sour smell of potential in mere hints as her emotions rush through her and the chemicals seep out through her skin.

He finds knives, forks, napkins, and considers leading her with their plates to the dining room.

No, he doesn't want to shock her back into her chrysalis with movement. ]

Do you believe it will?

[ He hears her tone of desperation and waits for her answer. ]

Edited 2014-06-07 02:40 (UTC)

I don't know. [ Her voice is fraught with confusion and hurt. She looks to Hannibal, and he doesn't look the way she thinks he should. He should be worried, he should be disturbed, he should be afraid (for her, if not of her). Why isn't he? Surely it can't just be his experience with unstable patients. She's not just another patient to him - at least, he's given her the impression that she isn't. So why doesn't his heart's about to break?

Maybe it is paranoid. Maybe it's another effect of the event, making her read into things too much. Or, for all she knows, he craves calm, and the mansion is screwing with his head and making him underreact. All the same, up until now, she hadn't been testing him, had been only concerned with her own realities and not his reaction. But her attention shifts focus, imperceptibly, away from herself and towards him. ]

If this goes on much longer, I think I might.

[ What Abigail doesn't know is that Hannibal has been craving this exact moment. He wants Abigail confirmed as his own, avoiding the fate he watched her come to on her own by his time outside of their gilded cage. He wants it almost as much as he wants the same of Will. It's almost as if Wonderland has brought them to his point per his instructions, to favor him, to present him with the fruits of his labors.

Wonderland favors the brilliant it seems, and he's doing well enough by God for his rewards to unfurl continuously.

He keeps eye contact. He learned early on in his life that their species connects not solely through words, beyond the realm of touch, but when emptiness meets emptiness through pupils and irises. In that connecting void they are not alone. ]

Whatever your nature is, Abigail, it is yours entirely. You cannot reduce your nature to a set of influences. There is nothing I can do to stop you, nor change you. All that I can do is make sure you do what you are meant to do to the best of your ability, and with full awareness of the consequences.

[ Abigail both falls for it, and does not fall for it. Her own thoughts are opaque to her, her mind and heart divided on themselves. The parts of her mind less effected by the influence of the event are suspicious of Hannibal and his words. People change each other, whether they want to or not, and in her experience, everyone wants to change her one way or another. Is it a lie, or does he lack self-awareness? Why is he not outraged, or offering a failsafe to keep her from doing violence? Isn't that what someone in his position is supposed to do?

But that is not the only reaction inside her. She can protest and struggle all she likes, but there is a part of her that enjoyed gutting Nick Boyle, that revels in Hannibal's validation. What if that is the person she really is? What if Hannibal is right (and the process is so subtle that she does not notice the seed he is planting, that it is her nature to kill, not her nurture), and the whole thing is inevitable? Why struggle against what must be? Why put up that fight? ]

I think... [ Her voice is very tentative, very soft; she can't seem to stop looking into Hannibal's eyes, transfixed ] ...there are people who deserve it. To be hurt. [ Gradually her words gain strength and volume ] My dad didn't know anything about the girls he killed. He just did it because- because he wanted it. I'm not like that.

[ It feels good to say it and find that she means it; it isn't a deception, of herself or of Hannibal. She is drawing borderlines between her and the memory of her father, marking out the extent of their similarity, the extent of his corruption. ]

But Nicholas Boyle killed Marissa and he left her body there like it was-- [ Abigail breaks off, shaking her head, jaw clenched tight around the hate that floods her ] He deserved it.

I agree.

[ He breaks eye contact then, if only because he has to look down at their plates to slide one over to her delicately. He places down beside it a knife and a fork. The eye contact returns, in the form of continued reassurance. ]

You are nothing like your father because you are not a slave to your urges, but rather have a greater understand of the world beyond simply your id. You can decide what you do with your natural impulses. If you let me, we can navigate your impulses together.

I would eat before the meat gets cold, tongue is best served hot or on ice, and certainly not at room temperature.

[ Abigail is glad for the excuse to use her mouth for something other than responding. She takes a quick bite of the food - delicious, as always, though the reminder that it is a tongue does make her skin crawl - and thinks about what Hannibal is offering. It is one thing, to believe that he would be glad for her, defending her life against an attack by using deadly force. It is quite another to think that he would not only not condemn her for admitting a desire for just violence, but encourage it. Want to participate in it with her, or help her along her way.

That is what he is offering. To her, nothing but willing blindness could conceal it. Navigate is very, very far from 'stop'. Does he really mean it, though? Or is this a psychiatrist's ploy? Trying to see if she really means it, or if she's talking big? Would he really... or would he hesitate at the last moment?

It gives her a great deal to think about, for the future. ]

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{open} run from the one who comes to find you

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May 19th

MAY 18TH

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