infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

I know. I know. [ she doesn't know, but that's not the point. the point is reassuring will that she knows, even if it's purely intellectually. ]

Are you mad at him?

[Will doesn't think she knows, either, but if she doesn't want to get into the process of unraveling that hellish nightmare with him right now, he's not going to press. He drags one leg up to cross over his knee, half on the bed as he resettles to make room for Ziggy wherever she might want to move. Or flop, either or.]

No. [He says after a long pause, licking his lips and shaking his head.] It's a waste of energy to be mad at him. [Because he's not here. Because Will might be dead if the Porter ever decides to shuffle him back to Baltimore. Because Hannibal left a great deal of room for Will to be mad at himself. He's smaller, here and now, one hand Ziggy's faithful servant and the other fiddling with the hem of his pants around his ankle.] So I...don't.

[Doesn't waste the energy or fuel his entire existence off his anger at Hannibal Lecter.

But, oh. That in no way means he's forgotten, does it? Could anyone?]

[ her fingers fiddle with her blankets, the comforter plus her pink knit blanket from her own room. pillow from her room too, the one that smells a little bit like stiles still. she's been accidentally collecting her things at will's house, small stack of books on the nightstand having been rescued from her bookshelf little by little.

she, of course, is not mad at hannibal. she tries so hard to be, but she's mostly just sad. ]

Do you forgive him?

[ very seriously studying the blanket, she doesn't look up a will, that skittish nervousness of so long ago making her fidgety. like maybe he'll snap in an encephalitis fueled rage and scare the crap out of her like he did in minnesota. ]

[Abigail studies the blanket, and Will studies a small rip in the knee of his pants. Nothing worth fretting over, just a snag that ended up with a barely noticeable hole one has to be close to in order to even realize is there. He's just realized it's there. He hasn't just realized the growing collection of Abigail's things in the guest room, but he hasn't got in him to comment on it. She's more than welcome wherever Will stays, like hell is he going to risk proving that false through words he didn't think on before they came tumbling out of him.]

I don't know. [Still quiet, raw, completely honest. How can he know when he doesn't know the outcome of that bloody mess? If he's even alive to be able to forgive? What is the extent of costs he has to forgive? Without knowing how it all truly ended, it's difficult to gauge where to begin with forgiveness.] I guess that's a no, then, if I can't...say for certain either way.

[A sad attempt at a smile follows what might as well amount to thinking out loud, and he lets his hand drop from the small of Ziggy's back just long enough to see if she'll go padding across to Abigail for physical affection instead. She's going to have to; he leans back on that hand and lifts his other to get rid of some thread stuck between the blanket and Abigail's neck.]

Feeling any better?

[ ziggy stays planted in his lap. traitorously. ]

Yeah, I guess. [ she sighs a little, the picture of discontent, but the words that follow has a vaguely teasing quality to them. ] Don't tell Dr Chilton, I'd hate for him to think talk therapy actually works for me.

[ she doesn't really mean it anymore. not since will vanished and chilton became part of her coping. ]

[Chilton. Will looks to the nearest corner of the room, as if he's expecting there to be camera, something wired in that would make it pointless for him to say he won't talk. Nothing's there, of course. They have other methods of security in this house.]

Deal. [Ziggy might be a traitor, but Will's not. Not with Abigail Hobbs, at least. The hand that got rid of that bit of thread reaches out, arm loose over her shoulders as he gives her the epitome of a tired, lazy hug. They're both tired, might as well.] You gonna be fine or you want me stay for a while?

[In case she's going to try going back to sleep, that is. Will's no stranger to restless nights, knows that sometimes staying up and doing a bit of reading is preferable. If Abigail wants to knock out some sleepy reading by herself, fine. If she wants to bundle up like a sad burrito all by herself, fine. If she wants some company, regardless of whether they spend that time talking or not? Also fine.]

I'll be okay. [ her smile is weak but she's trying to be reassuring. and it's not untrue, she'll be fine. nothing a good sleep and maybe a giant order of fries for breakfast tomorrow morning won't fix. ]

Go back to bed before April sends the raccoons out to dye my hair purple.

[Purple hair. He doesn't puff up in fatherly disapproval at the mere suggestion, lets out a laugh that's less air than usual instead. He can't imagine April would ever go there, and he cann't imagine the raccoons could pull it off without Abigail waking up early on in the process, but the image is easy to exaggerate in an imagination like Will's and hilarious instead of horrifying.]

I'm going, I'm going. [Spoken like the dad who knows he's cramping the style of his kid, even as he takes an extra second to give himself a boost from the bed needed to get his stomach cooperative enough to stand. Ziggy gets a pat on the head and Abigail gets a lazy one on the shoulder, an act that might lead to a kiss on the forehead goodnight if it was a more comfortable situation. If they were blood related by birth. If Will didn't still have a few hangups about being associated with Garret or Hannibal.] You know where we are if you need anything. See you later.

[He'd say "see you in the morning" but that implies he expects Abigail to get up in the morning even if she feels like she has the ability to get a full twelve hours of sleep, and no. If she can manage to sleep a solid block of more than eight, she should feel free to. He'd say "see you tomorrow" but...well, it's already here, isn't it? So he goes for that instead, sending her a smile from the doorway and wiggling his fingers in place of a wave before he does as told.

How whipped.]

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