fridgetothefire | 034 ☣ all natural recycled post-consumer goodwill

[Public, video]

For everyone who hasn't heard yet, I graduated, a little while ago. I'll be staying, of course.

[Private to Arthas]

It happened while I was a death knight, actually. I should have told you sooner, I know, I'm sorry. I was figuring a lot of things out and I half believed it wouldn't even stick.

I don't know what that means, or if it means anything. But...you deserve to know.

Thank you.

[Private to Hannibal]

[She pays careful attention to the effects of the flood; she knows he would, too. When she's certain the waters have receded, she starts to cook. With the roast is in the oven and the soup simmering, she calls.]

I'm sure you know by now that there was another Dr. Lecter on board, before you. He was one of the first people who spoke to me here.

He made me lunch, when I was cold and shaken and alone. I realize you aren't in that sort of position, but I'd like to pay it forward, if you're willing.

[Spam for Nathan, also distinctly post-flood.]

[She knocks twice, smartly. She brought cookies.]

Nathan? It's Anya. I'd like to talk to you.

[Spam for Iris, slightly backdated.]

[Anya has found some interesting things in her new and improved warden's cabin. Like this old-fashioned hand-cranked ice cream maker, for example. Iris seems to be having a rough time of it, so Anya hauls the bulky little machine over to her cabin, kicks the door awkwardly instead of knocking.]

Iris, it's Anya. I want to show you something.

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[She breaks a little, lets out a bark of rough, dry laughter, weary and rueful.]

I know. He told me about it. Eventually.

When I was little, I wanted not to be human more than anything in the world. But it was never about the power. It was about being good, about not being less than everyone around me, about not being so damn unwanted and alone.

[She doesn't sound sad, or particularly vulnerable. She's not that girl anymore. Melancholy, though. Lightly bitter.]

[ Nathan considers that if he keeps fiddling with this cookie he's going to end up breaking it into small and methodical pieces, and that will get crumbs all over his desk and the floor. So instead he sets it down and picks up a pen, twiddling it between long hands. The exercise that is poking it into his palms harder than a feeling person would, is all but unconscious by now. He hasn't thought about that kind of thing in almost a year. ]

You remember. Being her.

[ That's not particularly judgmental, although it is interested, then tucked away for further consideration. ]

I don't think I'm--less than anyone. Not anymore. Being alone just ...it is what it is.

[ Also melancholy, although not bitter. He watches the tip of the pen push blood away from the surface of the skin, white and then pink rushing in again when the pressure is removed. ]

It sucks. [ That's ...succinct, deceptively so. ] Sorry you know what it's like.

Yes. She feels like - just a different part of me. I'm still responsible for what she did.

[She jerks her chin toward his hands, where he's playing with the pen.]

You know, I used to do that on my scars.

[None of which are visible. She wears long sleeves and high necklines all year round, but it isn't as noticeable in winter.]

[ There's a second where it looks, irrationally, like he might argue with her initial sentiment even though it's manifestly none of his business and a sidebar to the primary focus of their conversation aside. The knee-jerk response to a statement that hits closer to home than he'd like.

Not his home, but still.

He looks over at Anya before he looks at the pen, as if it's a surprise that she's mentioning as much, and--mostly it is. ]

Ever get you anywhere?

[She shakes her head, then rolls up one of her sleeves. Old, shiny pink burn scars, placed defensively as though she were shielding herself with her arms. The skin on the edges is stretched-white, a little twisted and warped, because the shape of her arm was smaller then, and the scars stayed the same size. The healthy skin is thickly tattooed, bright colors inside thick black lines, for an impression of stained glass. She rubs her opposite thumb on the edge of one.]

Third degree. Nerves are totally dead.

[ On some distant aesthetic level, Nathan appreciates the tattooing just because it's pretty. In the present his hand goes reflexively to the inside of his own left arm, a broad hand covering just below the elbow for a second like putting pressure on an unseen wound. His sleeves stay where they are, though. ]

Why're you showin' me this?

[ Voice as neutral as he can make it. He gets what she's saying about nerves, he's not dense, but--still. ]

Because I can.

[Simply, but not as though it's obvious. It took her a lot of horror to get to this place where she shares easily.]

I wasn't technically...you'd think, to look at it, that I wasn't alone. My mother was human too. But she wasn't...there, for me. It was like she fell into this...this pit inside her and she couldn't climb out of it enough to care about me, or anything, and I couldn't reach her to help her out. And I started to hate her, eventually, for being so close and leaving me alone anyway.

[She still sounds calm, even. Not cold to it, but not bleeding or aching any longer. She leaves unspoken that the Nathan on the other barge reminded her of her mother.]

I could never really understand what my father's betrayal did to her, after coming through the camps together. And she could never understand how I had worshipped him when I was small. But we didn't need to understand each other to be less alone, we just...needed to listen, to connect. And neither of us could, then.

So. I know it's different, that I can't really imagine what it's like for you. But no one can really really know anyone else, can they? But we can listen anyway.

Edited 2013-12-28 00:10 (UTC)

034 ☣ all natural recycled post-consumer goodwill

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