(Closed) Even when I try, you don't believe it

[armd]

WHO: Worst girls (Abby, Ellie) & guests
WHAT: Shit going down September
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: the Gallows. Fitting!
NOTES: Oh no. CW for eventual violence, & discussion of past violence, murder, slavery, child abuse, torture, stalking. Will update as we go along too

The nightmare is an entirely different beast, unlike anything she's had before. Abby doesn't even remember getting to her bed and falling asleep; why would she? Nothing about tonight was abnormal, until now.

She finds herself dreaming, unusually lucid, and completely aware of the cool night air and thick pain pulsing in her thigh and shoulder, blood a hotter wet contrasted to the rain. A trickle of understanding: she's walking back from the theater? Lev is ahead of her, bow in his hands, drawn. Ready. He's wearing her jacket, and he turns to look over his shoulder as if he heard her think his name. It's so good to see him again she could cry and maybe she is, just a little, but it's hard to tell in the rain.

The memories start off slow, catching her up, taking them back to the aquarium and then further, to the next day, a week out–

The time on the boat could go even slower. Abby wants to savour going down the coast with the kid in tow, the two of them bruised silent for days before they relax into the routine of handling the sails; Albany isn't long enough. There's Lev, fishing off the side of the boat. Abby, writing letters in the cabin, curled up on her side. Together they comb through Florence, Port Orford, Ferndale, heading south, hunting Fireflies, months of travel covered in a night of sleep. He teaches her how to whistle like a Seraphite with two fingers in her mouth, and Abby wakes him the morning dolphins pull up alongside them in Santa Rosa; it no longer feels like they're running from ghosts.

Every lead they get runs to a dead end. It's hard to shake the feeling that they're going the right way anyway– or maybe Abby didn't notice the way Lev looked at her then and does now. He rolls with every disappointment, and her enduring hope; he doesn't care if they find any Fireflies, or not. He's fine with the way that things are so long as they're together.

A disappointment in Anaheim leads them to 2425 Constance, Santa Barbara, and she wishes that part would go much faster.

Wagner notices that Abby has begun twitching and whimpering in her sleep: he does his best to wake her but can't, even when he jumps on to the bed to drape over her legs like a sack of anxious potatoes. Abby doesn't notice, dead to everything else but the dream as it turns on its heel to attack her. Perhaps it's lucky River isn't around when she claws her way up and out with an airless sob, a crying heave for breath. Seconds ago she'd been drowning in the ocean. She was fighting for air, through blood slick fingers and hands.

Her own scrabble at herself, palming her body and throat. Still here, still intact. She can feel the spot where her braid caught between the back of her neck and her pillow but everything slots into place with little relief–

She cries.

It's only her in the room and a whining dog (who knows something is wrong but not what). She's got a fistful of her own hair and she knows where she is, but the pattern of cage bars has burned onto the undersides of her eyelids, claustrophobia crawling up and down her spine. She can almost feel Lev asleep and fitful, tucked into her side (Wags, his weight leaning into her, wet nose burying into the crook of her arm in an attempt to soothe). By the time he was cut down from the pillars and fell into her arms, he weighed next to nothing. Abby was no better; their bones were hollow. She runs her hands slowly up herself, a stomach no longer concave, and skin no longer blistered.

They were the same size as each other. The fight was almost fair.

Ellie.

Abby flinches from the memory of her, and irons both hands up over her face, peering through her fingers. She shivers around the urge to dry heave. Is she imagining the tang of salt water in the back of her throat?

She's moving before she realises. She's pulling clothes on, keeping the protesting dog inside with her leg as she opens and shuts the door to go out. She has to accept that she knows her well enough by now to check her usual haunts: the tower to the griffon keep, closest, Abby's first guess: empty. It's too late for the library or the stables to have many people left in them, good. She can't risk running into anybody else, not volatile like she is, a loaded gun.

She doesn't know what she wants. They are past talking. Or rather: she thought that they already spoke about this, and cleared whatever air they could. She certainly didn't think that finding out Ellie withheld information from her would hurt like this: sharp, and knife-like, jammed into her ribs.

All she wants to know is why.

Comments

[notathreat]

The fight was never fair, not to either of them.

Ellie dreams normal dreams, and normal dreams are still nightmares. She wakes periodically with the taste of saltwater on the back of her tongue, with snow stinging her fingers, with half of her face aching with invisible bruises. Her arm, rebreaking, Dina's desperate screams of rage, watching her own blood form an arc on the floor.

She dreams, sometimes, of the slight resistance of a pale, sallow throat of a teenager, the way it pushed back against the tip of her knife, frail as her sanity.

She dreams, sometimes, of the way it felt to hit someone over and over, not to kill but to cause as much pain as possible. To stop, every so often with dogged, numb determination and cling to the words that would spark the rage needed to keep going. Her arms, up, down. I can make it worse. I can make it so much worse.

But it's not like being back there, not really.

At first, Ellie's not sure what woke her. It's late in the library and she's fallen asleep across a dusty old book about Gallows history. Mobius isn't here tonight and plenty of others have been avoiding the library since it's one of his known haunts. The candles are down to stubs.

With a gasp she jolts awake with the survival instinct that used to keep her sleeping in shoes, laying down with her backpack on and her gun crammed down her jeans, just in case she had only a moment's warning.

She gets less than that this time.

Abby enters like a thundercloud, and Ellie hasn't seen her eyes like that in years. They're eyes that don't fit on this version of her face, and it chills her to the bone. She gets to her feet, but remains frozen in place.

"What happened?"

[armd]

How the fuck she can even stand to look at her Abby has no idea but she's certainly not making herself stare. The woman who pinned her underneath a shallow tide has been there the whole time, well hidden, but now Abby can spot her. She's there in the way Ellie jumps to her feet, catlike, fingers flexing. The low flicker of light across her face casts shadows in the skeletal hollows of her eyes.

Abby knows she can't look right. Her eyes are ringed red and her braid is falling out where her hands tugged through her hair, loose strands stuck to her temples and forehead. She's exhausted. Hurting. The urge to throw something at Ellie is ridiculously strong but she keeps her arms at her sides, firm, and glances about them, checking for anybody nearby before she says, "I saw it."

A breath, wet around the edges, terrifyingly unsteady. The ocean churns inside of her, "Santa Barbara. The beach, you, the fight."

[notathreat]

Now and again, Ellie can see it, can feel it. She's come so far, but sometimes she moves too fast and she can feel it. Her old self, rubbing up under her skin, sharp as knives. Not fighting to get out, just reminding her of who she's always been.

It's here in her now, in the wary way she watches Abby, like she expects her to lunge. It's something that'll never die.

It was only a matter of time. This. But Jesus, she'd almost fooled herself into thinking that it wouldn't. Pressing her lips together, Ellie moves forward, reaching out to grip the front of Abby's shirt with her bad hand, tugging her.

"C'mon," she says, her voice rough. She's not sure what it is. Hurt? Regret? Grief? Some of that old terror and the hatred that never really went away?

"Not here."

[armd]

Ellie's scarred fingertips closing around her shirt hem don't actually brush up against her, but Abby still jolts away like a wild animal, lashing out with a flat palm at her arm in warning. "Don't you fucking touch me."

She's right. They shouldn't do this here with Abby trembling on a knife's edge, waiting for half a reason, but that doesn't mean she's going to let Ellie tug her along like they're friends, or friendly, whatever the fuck they've been doing all this time. Pretending like none of this happened.

She's got a big cramp in her gut, a knot of guilt and misery. Her braid lashes behind her as she walks, bouncing off the back of her neck, and for a moment she's just walking blindly, away from the towers (where her dog is probably barking at the top of his lungs for her to return). She's angling downstairs, into the hull of the building, where the layers of stone have a hope of containing her.

There's nobody around to stop them.

[notathreat]

The echo of horror and rage comes through the years when Abby slaps her hand away, and it comes with a burst of hurt, and guilt, and resentment, and hatred.

Don't you fucking touch me, Ellie said to Joel, when he'd reached out to comfort her when she'd collapsed in tears at the rotting ruins of the hospital. She wonders if her face resembles his in that moment- that I-told-you-so she'd tell herself.

The world is buzzing and numb as they descend into the depths, where they can keep their sickness away from the Gallows around them, where they can contain the blast.

She and Joel did this too. Contained it.

The pressure inside of her ratchets tighter with every step downward. It feels like the air around them is growing colder. It's dark, vaguely unreal, smells of dust.

When they get to a cavernous storage chamber, without any witness but boxes and crates and broken furniture, Ellie lights one of the lanterns. Lets the reddish-orange glow wash over the both of their faces. Abby looks like a ghost half-cloaked in the dark.

For Edgard

[armd]

Abby spends the first few days after the fight brooding alone, and it's terrible. Trying to interact with other people is some how even worse: she's cagey, unfocused and tired, all of it noticable. The happy medium is animals. Her own dog bears the brunt of this realisation but Abby makes a time for others: Noose is good, solid comfort and the Gallows has plenty of cats wandering about.

She's even heard a rumour that one living in the stables has recently had kittens... and so the afternoon finds her spending time in their less demanding company, down in the straw, watching them yell and clamber all over each other.

The horses don't mind her. It's fairly quiet, and nobody is going to try find her out here, so. It's subdued time spent, but Abby finds she doesn't mind it.

[muckspout]

Edgard is staring carefully at the bowl in front of him. It's been awhile since he's nabbed anything from the kitchens and he couldn't remember where the milk was. But, he found some and have been certain he's going to drop or spill it all the way down to the stables. Here he is finally! He steps closer to set the bowl down for the kittens when he notices he's not alone.

"Abby?" He says. He nods at her. She seems different. He doesn't immediately respond.

He watches the kittens go for the bowl.

"Kittens." He says thoughtfully.

[armd]

Because the bowl is the sole focus of Edgard's careful approach, Abby sees him coming first. She deflates, a little. Only in reaction to being found. And then she has to decide whether or not she's okay with Edgard being around and by the time he's got to setting down the dish for the kittens to inspect, she's decided she is.

One of them was half asleep in Abby's lap but becomes alert and goes, mewling, to the dish. She watches it go. She loves their weird little tails, how they stick straight up in the air.

"Kittens," she concludes. That's all she has to say about it, really. Except for, "Did you bring that all the way from the dining hall?"

Impressive.

[muckspout]

He nods, beaming.

"Didn't spill a drop!" He leans down, petting one who's rubbing against his leg.

"Wanted to make friends." He says, nodding with his chin at the kitten. "Think it's working."

Then, more delicately, looking into her face to try to judge if he should ask before he does, "Alright?"

Edgard hangs out here a lot, but Abby not so much.

[armd]

Abby nods, cradling her chin in her hand. She's got one leg stretched out across the floor, and every so often a kitten will attempt to clumsily vault it. Their claws are tiny, and barely hurt when they dig into her ankle.

She shrugs a shoulder, and answers truthfully almost just to see how he'll react to it. "Not really." But that's probably obvious, right. She looks up at him. "S'why I came out here."

Nice and quiet. Edgard's pretty quiet too when he's not yelling.

For Jude

[armd]

Abby doesn't typically let Wagner roam the Gallows alone: he's mouthy, and begs, and his recall is bad. He's only out today because he slipped out of her hands when she opened her bedroom door, taking off at a run down the stairs. He's a bundle of limbs, a barrel of a dog. Abby has been taking him out every day for walks, but she spends the rest of the time in her room being quiet, and boring, and wanting to sleep. The Gallows at large are full of people who smell and sometimes have food they'll give over if he sits nicely.

If the dog knew his owner was in pursuit he would not have stopped, but the man in the kitchen making pancakes needs to be thoroughly examined. This is both for the food opportunity, and because it is odd to Wags that he smells familiar.

He has hit his first birthday since Abby got him. He's already tall, and due to be even taller; there is nothing subtle about the way that he lingers, huffing at the aroma of the food.

[foolsmakeitcolder]

"Ohoh, there he is."

Jude and Wags have an understanding- the kind that's constructed of piss markers and the occasional scent impressions left on his human companion's hands. Mabari aren't shifters by any means, but they're more than simple animals, and Jude's not quite sure how.

Still.

"Did you escape?" he asks, the murmur of his voice twining together with a deeper language, a whisper of posturing and communication and how he holds himself, even lacking ears and a tail. Vibes. And magic. Just a little magic, to make himself heard.

"Don't tell," he adds, and picks up two blueberries, holding them out and letting them roll down his palm, into Wags' waiting mouth. He scritches the top of his cement-sturdy head, fondling his ears, and squats behind the counter to rub at his neck, pat the barrel of his body.

"C'mon. Mama's bound to worry."

And pulling off the robe, Jude shifts, shakes until it falls of his back. He gives a low wuff, surging forward to bump Wagner with his nose, with the utter assurance of someone in charge.

[armd]

That they do, and the moment Wags places him he busts out of the sit, wagging his entire body to greet Jude. Blueberries are the perfect treat. He licks Jude's wrist several times, then shakes luxuriously, collar rattling on his neck. The transformation is quick, blink and you'll miss it; Wags is clever, but he isn't smart. To him there was a man, and now there is a dog, a big one, and he doesn't put two and two together, nor does he search for the man who left.

He does know that he is friendly with the other dog, and yet there is no question about who is in charge. Wags defers, and gambols, and the two of them lope out of the kitchens.

Abby isn't far behind. She's just swept the courtyards and somebody else pointed her down this way. Her sullen mood, from a distance, is palpable to her pet, who almost smacks into Jude in his attempt to change course.

He doesn't want to be told that he's bad for running, or go back up into the bedroom to sit-down-stay!

[foolsmakeitcolder]

The two of them lope along, having a grand time until Wagner remembers that he's a jailbird, and makes a run for it.

He gives a guttural boof of reprimand when the puppy knocks into his shoulder, but then darts forward, reaching out with a lifted lip to do something he learned from the cats. He uses a big heavy paw to swipe at Wags' front foot, aiming to knock him sprawling.

[armd]

Betrayal.

Wagner thumps inelegantly into the ground, legs scrabbling for purchase on stone, and Abby, at the end of the corridor, sees it all. She sighs.

"Oi." She knows he heard her, "Blockhead. Get over here."

At least he comes... but only because he knows that he's in trouble. He sits so nicely when he reaches her, but it doesn't keep her from knotting the lead to his collar anyway, and he huffs and puffs, but remains at her leg. "Good boy."

Glancing up, she locks eyes briefly with the wolf. Jesus. Abby knows there's a whole guy in there, but it kinda gets her every time anyway, he's just that big. Kinda sucks that he's seeing her like this, days out of the fight, still bruised and exhausted and solemn, but. Hey, he kept her dog from running off into the night again, so she gives him a nod. "Thanks, Jude."

For Clarisse

[armd]

Abby knows from ill experience that Ellie can be found haunting the baths at terrible hours of the night. The current plan: check the spot where people change and leave their things. If she sees a pair of old boots with dog teeth marks in one heel, she turns around and goes to bed, but she's hoping those boots are in their room. She's fresh off a long run, tired enough that she might sleep if the water is too warm, but she doesn't want to get into her sheets sweaty, either... really, she'll be in and out.

She hates that she's adjusting her routine to keep from running into Ellie. What are they, pissy teenagers caught up in a grudge? The alternative is sickening to Abby. She can't be in the same room as her and pretend nothing happened. For now, this is easier. This is what she has to do right now, not forever.

There is a towel around her neck, and she has a few things bundled up underneath one arm. It's obvious where she's headed as she trails down the corridor.

[laruetheday]

Cue Clarisse, sauntering down the hall from the direction of the baths and seeming to be in a much better mood than any of the times Abby’s run into her before. She’s wearing her typical uniform of bloodstained hoodie and basketball shorts, the same thing she’s been wearing since she came through the rift, but her hair is damp and slightly curled from the water and steam in the baths, and she smells like soap.

“Howdy,” she says, all casual, and continues a full five steps past Abby before a Thought occurs to her and she stops to add, “Oh, uh… I might wait?”

Just… because…

[armd]

'Howdy'. Abby snorts, and eyeballs her, takes in that grungy hoodie. She gets the whole all I wanna wear is what I rifted here in thing, but this is getting a bit ridiculous. "Hi," she grunts, because she's normal, and then stops to look back at her. "Wait for what?"

Are they cleaning them out or something? She adds, "Do you only have one outfit?" because she's pissy as a result of being tired, and Clarisse is... weirdly at ease, almost annoyingly casual.

[laruetheday]

“What do you care?” Yes, it’s her only outfit. Or the only one she considers worth wearing, anyway.

As for Abby’s other question, she just shrugs. She could say the baths are closed, but it would be so easy for Abby to check and find out that isn’t the case. “Just wait like fifteen minutes, damn.”

[armd]

"You should get some other clothes," Abby tells her, frowning, "You stick out like a sore thumb." And then Clarisse's weirdness and what she's saying add up in her head, and she groans in annoyance, "Is somebody fucking in there?"

Apparently wanting to fuck in hot water is a thing no matter what world you're in. Gross. People suck.

"Who." At least give her the goss Clarisse, c'mon.

For Fenris

[armd]

(It has been a while since Fenris' offer of optional sanctuary at his and Astarion's place. Hopefully she can still cash that one in. Look, she's even planning to come through the front door and everything, just as he asked her to. Her arms curl around herself loosely, hugging– Abby might have been anxious about Ellie already being there the night she chooses to show up, if she had the fucking energy for it. Running into Ellie around the place already feels like a begrudging inevitability. It's going to happen. And who cares, anyway. She has bigger things on her plate than some girl.

Abby knocks on the door, knuckles resting on the wood. And waits.

The weather is starting to turn. Southerlies make her ears hurt, when the cold wind blows too hard. Maybe she should invest in a hat.)

[doggish]

[Fortunately for Abby, the mansion is relatively empty tonight: Astarion out on a mission of a personal nature that will take a day and night, leaving Fenris alone with Ataashi. Truthfully, he'd planned for a quiet night: reading, maybe, or trying in vain to improve his whittling skills, or (most likely) practicing sword forms again. He certainly wasn't expecting company— and so it's with a wary sort of gaze that he opens the door a crack. He lives in Hightown, but still, it never pays to be too cautious in Kirkwall, especially given the recent anti-elven sentiment that's been running through the population.

But oh, and his expression changes from wary to puzzled to concerned, all at once.]

Hello. Are you—

[No, that isn't the way to greet a friend. He takes a deliberate step back, giving her room to enter.]

Come in.

[It's chilly in the mansion, as a rule, but Fenris' study is warm, and it's there he leads her. It's a surprisingly large room, warm thanks to the fire that roars in the grate nearby. A large wooden desk is set atop a rug; bookshelves line the walls, half-filled with an eclectic range of subjects. Ataashi lies in front of the fireplace, her head settled atop her paws, her eyes firmly closed. Perhaps soon she'll wake to greet their guests, but the fire is warm and she's such a lazy thing sometimes.

There's two chairs, and he drags them both to face one another, offering her one as he settles. There's wine atop the desk, half-drunk but still good; he nudges a cup towards her.]

Settle, if you like. There are spare beds if you intend to stay the night.

[A beat, and then, more gently:]

Do not misunderstand me. I am pleased to see you. But I did not expect you tonight, and it is . . . surprising. Is all well?

[He has . . . perhaps an idea of why she's here, admittedly, but best to hear it from the source.]

[armd]

(Yeahhhh. She didn't call ahead. Didn't know what to say, so just showed up. Abby should explain that she isn't after his company, that if he wanted to put her in a room and leave her to her own devices that would be fine, but the feeble explanation dies on her tongue the moment she glimpses him through that crack in the door (more precisely: when his expression softens, upon realising that it's only her).)

Sorry, (is her awkward greeting, as she steps inside. She hasn't got much with her, only enough to stay a night: a bag, slung over her shoulder. Fenris has a little look on his face, like he wants to ask her something. She's grateful when he simply bids her to follow, because she knows what it must look like, turning up on his doorstep suddenly, sporting a nasty black eye, a general malaise. She's uncharacteristically quiet as they descend the hallway together (aside from one or two snorts of derision at the décor, only in passing).

She's glad that the study is warm. She sinks, gratefully, into the chair, but does not touch the wine cup yet.)

Can I? Just- the night. (Her hand cups the nape of her neck: a comforting gesture. After a measured pause she adds,) My roommate is gone. Loki is gone. I'm finding it hard to sleep alone, I thought–

(A grimace. She curls her hand around her braid, drawing it protectively over her shoulder.) I had a dream about my life back home. What happened after I left, I mean. (And it wasn't good. That much is probably obvious...)

[doggish]

Yes. You may, for longer than a single night, if need be.

[That, first and foremost, to her question. Yes, she can stay the night, and he'll find her a bed soon enough. Somewhere close by, where she might find him yet if she needs him. He knows what it is to be terrified of returning to an empty home, your own thoughts deafening in the silence— Maker, does he ever. So yes, he says, and eyes her black eye, wondering if he has anything for it.

Later. His eyes dart over her face, the way she curls in on herself, looking oddly small in the largeness of the room. For a moment he debates asking, but oh, she wouldn't have brought it up if she didn't wish to speak of it in some capacity.]

Stay there.

[Quiet. A momentary pause in their conversation as he rises, heading into a nearby bathroom. It isn't a minute later that he returns carrying a little box: a first-aid kit, filled with all the little remedies and salves that he has gathered over the years. A balm for bruises, set on the desk and slid towards her; a small collection of gauze and cleaner, for he has not forgotten Anders' lessons on infection. The perfect kit for a fighter who too often gets into scrapes and needs to mend himself, now open for her use.

Then he sits, settling into the chair, his eyes level with her own.]

I would hear of it, if you would share it.

I am . . . not unfamiliar with the sensation of suddenly recalling things that I do not remember experiencing, crashing into my mind all at once. It is disorienting, and . . . alarming at times. I cannot say I know what you have gone through, for I have never seen what is to come, but . . .

I would not wish anyone to suffer through that alone. Especially you.

[armd]

(In the gap in which Fenris gets up to find his first-aid kit for her, Abby stares about the room until her gaze lands upon Ataashi, magnificent, and collapsed on her side by the fire: a discarded fur coat. She doesn't respond to the sound of her name. Abby watches her huge rib cage expanding, contracting, and finds a sliver of calm in the process, and when Fenris returns she accepts the case from him with interest, a little of her old curiousity peeking through. She picks through everything before she selects the little balm in its glass container. It smells good. Like herbs.)

Thanks. (For more than the balm, but it does feel very good on her eye, almost cooling. She works it into the bruised skin through the deep ache, and sighs. Her shoulders sag.)

I guess I would have thought it was any old nightmare, (she confesses, rubbing the last of the balm into her skin, between finger-pad and thumb,) But it wasn't like that, it was... (Real, question mark? She was in her bed the whole time. It couldn't have been real. Yet, it was unlike anything she's ever experienced before.

She looks at him, lowering her hand to her side. Her skin is shiny from the balm, glistening in the fire-light.) I felt everything. I think it covered months of time. Spent the first couple out on a sailboat, travelling. (Quietly,) That bit was really good.