fridgetothefire | 015 ☣ Voice + Spam

[Private to Alex, Bruce, Ben, Cass, and Pietro.]

I'm going to be okay.

[Private to the above + Riddick, Felix, Cassel, Rhade, and Dean.]

Let me know if you made it. Please.

[Public, a day or two after.]

If anyone who got hurt is still laid up, in the infirmary or wherever else, and wants me to bring them some books from the library, I'd be happy to.

I can read to you too, if you want, although I can't make promises how long my voice will last.

[It's still a little bit hoarse from screaming, but Anya knows all about painful, boring recoveries. She imagines most people on the barge will have more company than she used to, but it can't hurt to offer.]

[Spam for Erik]

[After a night of deep, utterly dreamless post-adrenaline-crash sleep, Anya manages to drag herself into out of bed, because she can't stand the thought of more trail rations when she could get real breakfast. And there in the hall, just stepping out of his own room, is Erik. He's not her father, he never was and he never will be. But he's something like it, and he told her stories once, trying to protect her from the man who keeps haunting her all too literally. After a moment of staring, Anya flings herself at him and clings on tight.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm here. I'd say I'm doing awesome but I'm really sick of people saying that to me, so.

Good. I'm here. I'm fine.

Do you want to be alone, or - ?

[A flood of relief warms her chest when she sees Anya's post, and it's clear in her smile. She's pale and battered, but knowing one more person is safe - it gives her strength again.]

I might take you up on that.

I am so very not awesome. Im going to eat like three straight batches of double fudge cookie dough as soon as I can stand to be in a kitchen again.

[a minute later]

Do you want to help?

Edited 2013-05-30 01:41 (UTC)

Absolutely. Make it six.

Fine like stoic fine, or like not actually subjected to horrors fine?

[Since she has no clue what went down for everybody else, really.]

Sometimes it's - better not to have your own thoughts going in circles in your head.

[And it's a way to not be alone without having to talk about it.]

[Jean nods, and then winces. Bad idea.]

Yeah. Helps you focus on...now. Instead of - what you did, what you could have done.

Ill text you when im up to it and have acquired sufficient chocolate.

You're amazing.

Uh, stoic fine, I guess.

Are you in need of medical assistance?

[She makes a noise that is one part sob, two parts cough, and three parts laugh. She hadn't really expected it would be that easy.]

I don't even know what I need right now. Not - being alone isn't it. But I don't want to talk about it.

[She's a wreck.]

You're welcome.

[Fake it 'till you make it, right?]

[Yes that sure is the thing she's doing.]

Do you have a favorite genre? I could try to pick something out, if you don't have one in mind.

[The smile returns, tired but warm.]

I like fantasy. And romance, but only if the girl is feisty and independent. [A slight smirk, there and gone.] Autobiographies are great too but they're kind of hit and miss.

I'm fine, I -

[The rote reassurance falls off.]

- kind of am, actually. In need of it. I mean, it's not urgent, I was going to wait for the infirmary to clear a little, but.

[But she hurts and she suspects Ben wants to be helpful even more badly than she ever does.]

I haven't read much fantasy. There wasn't a lot in - the library where I lived.

[Not at home, because it wasn't, and not Father's, because she isn't thinking about that.]

[He figures, but - fake it.]

Lucky me, having you for backup.

We don't have to talk. I don't want to talk either.

[The smile fades, a little, before she forces it up again.]

Then you should definitely see if you like it.

Can you come to me? I'm in my cabin.

I can come to you if not.

[Part of her seizes up, doesn't want to leave her room. It's hers, bright and open and colorful, with her wide bay window and her hand-painted door. But she doesn't know what shape he's in or how to ask in a way he wouldn't demur, and his room has meant safety too. If he's asking her - well. She can walk.]

Be there soon.

--jump to spam--

[She can't imagine knocking, so she kicks lightly at the door instead. Her hands and the outsides of her forearms are a bloody mess, layers of skin scraped off by banging against the rough lid of her coffin. They've been cleaned and bandaged once, in the field, but Anya already managed to awkwardly tug off the rancid remnants of them on ship. One of her shoulders is swollen where it was dislocated before she popped it back in, and her opposite elbow holds her communicator against her chest. There are a few other scrapes and bruises, one ugly dog bite on her calf, but that's the worst of it.]

I've read a little - Carroll and Tolkein and Lewis. Parts of The Faerie Queen and all of 1001 Nights. And I love the Oz books.

Well I can't play cards.

[It's an attempt at a joke, even though the punchline is her currently ruined hands, so maybe it's not a great one.]

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