Allison Argent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theresalwayshope) wrote2014-11-23 10:51 pm
theresalwayshope) wrote2014-11-23 10:51 pm
20} didn't hear the confession...walking through the procession...
[SUNDAY SPAM]
[...something isn't right.
The whole day is off, and Allison can't...function properly. In the dining hall, she gets her usual blood bag, but she finds herself skipping the apples she usually grabs along with it. The food on the line smells good, the savory aromas drawing her attention...
Before she knows what she's doing, she's grabbed a couple of croissants as well, and not unlike her first day, she takes her food on deck to eat. The blood, and the croissants, do wonders for her mood.
And that's the most difficult part of the day: her mood. As she slinks through the corridors as she trails her friends through the ship...as she checks on Isaac and Tig, she's having a harder and harder time setting her feelings aside.
Something isn't right. All day, something is wrong, and she can't...quite...put her finger on it...]
[MONDAY SPAM]
[Allison is gone.
She hasn't left the ship, but there's no sign of her anywhere. She doesn't show up for meals in the dining hall, she doesn't stalk a soul, she's completely absent, a non-presence on the ship.
Because Allison is sitting in her cabin, in the dark, on the floor in the corner of her bedroom. The stakes gifted to her by Jerry's mirror counterpart are clutched to her chest, and she's armed with every single weapon she can comfortably stash on her person: her ring daggers, her father's gun, every folding knife she can possibly conceal, her quiver propped up beside her, and her recurve bow laying beside her on the floor.
She's not afraid of an attack: the weapons are her. They keep her rooted in the present, they remind her of who she is, how she thinks, what she feels.
She doesn't eat, but her stomach growls. She doesn't go for water, but her throat burns with thirst that blood won't slake.
Eventually, she will have to leave and seek out nourishment. Eventually, she will have to face the rest of the ship. Eventually, Allison will have to face the reality of truly being an omega, because this is bigger than fighting with Lydia.
She remembers everything she did, everyone she hurt...those she killed and nearly killed.
She knows that now, after all that...she is truly, completely alone.
And she will have to leave her cabin to face that eventually...she just can't bring herself to do it just yet.]
[...something isn't right.
The whole day is off, and Allison can't...function properly. In the dining hall, she gets her usual blood bag, but she finds herself skipping the apples she usually grabs along with it. The food on the line smells good, the savory aromas drawing her attention...
Before she knows what she's doing, she's grabbed a couple of croissants as well, and not unlike her first day, she takes her food on deck to eat. The blood, and the croissants, do wonders for her mood.
And that's the most difficult part of the day: her mood. As she slinks through the corridors as she trails her friends through the ship...as she checks on Isaac and Tig, she's having a harder and harder time setting her feelings aside.
Something isn't right. All day, something is wrong, and she can't...quite...put her finger on it...]
[MONDAY SPAM]
[Allison is gone.
She hasn't left the ship, but there's no sign of her anywhere. She doesn't show up for meals in the dining hall, she doesn't stalk a soul, she's completely absent, a non-presence on the ship.
Because Allison is sitting in her cabin, in the dark, on the floor in the corner of her bedroom. The stakes gifted to her by Jerry's mirror counterpart are clutched to her chest, and she's armed with every single weapon she can comfortably stash on her person: her ring daggers, her father's gun, every folding knife she can possibly conceal, her quiver propped up beside her, and her recurve bow laying beside her on the floor.
She's not afraid of an attack: the weapons are her. They keep her rooted in the present, they remind her of who she is, how she thinks, what she feels.
She doesn't eat, but her stomach growls. She doesn't go for water, but her throat burns with thirst that blood won't slake.
Eventually, she will have to leave and seek out nourishment. Eventually, she will have to face the rest of the ship. Eventually, Allison will have to face the reality of truly being an omega, because this is bigger than fighting with Lydia.
She remembers everything she did, everyone she hurt...those she killed and nearly killed.
She knows that now, after all that...she is truly, completely alone.
And she will have to leave her cabin to face that eventually...she just can't bring herself to do it just yet.]
[SUNDAY]
Well. Not at first, anyway; it's Sunday that his mocking and stalking finally catch up to him, a friendly face turned murderess in the face of too-harsh malicious cheer and false biology, and when he's finally back in one piece it's to white walls and harsh lights and a wall of exhaustion and he's not supposed to feel like this anymore.
He finds his communicator tucked away in a pocket and absently turns it over between his fingers after fishing it out. He feels like he got run over by a truck and his chest feels like it's going to fucking explode and it wants to keep expanding and contracting like he needs to breathe but it hurts. And on top of everything else he's starving, a gnawing, churning feeling mixed with the unsettled stomach the Toll's already given him but he thinks about opening a throat to fix it but the thought doesn't make him practically drool like it has been. He wants a beer and a cheeseburger and that's fucking ridiculous.
Eventually he taps out a message.]
[TEXT -- locked to Allison]
your mission statement sucks
[SUNDAY]
Upset. Afraid. Guilty.
She's still trying to force those feelings away when she storms into the infirmary...quiet, but still angry...and finds his bed, about five minutes after she receives his text. Dark eyes burn with fury, but the visible worry for him is there as she reaches for his hand.]
How bad is it? [Translation: does the tiny teenage vampire have your permission to kill Iris for killing her vampire biker daddy?]
[SUNDAY]
It hurts to talk, hurts to suck in the breath to force the words out, but he pushes through it anyway.]
Well it's not great.
[SUNDAY]
The feelings sweep up and take over, and for a moment she changes. The hand that finds his is cold, so is the one that smooths over his forehead and his hair, but the touch is gentle and soothing, it's human.
So are the pale features and too dark eyes that flick over his features, etched with very real concern and regret.]
Easy...I've got you.
[Her brow furrows, her voice a comforting whisper...and it's all wrong, she's not supposed to feel any of it...but she can't push it away. Her eyes start to well, and she can't make it stop because no matter what Iris did...]
I did this to you. [She says it out loud as if only just realizing it.] This is my fault...I got you killed.
[SUNDAY]
But that doesn't mean he'll saddle her with it. She may have set things in motion, but everything after wasn't really her.
He shakes his head, frowning slightly.]
Nah, I did that myself.
[There's a beat as he looks at her, really looks, and the frown deepens, confused and more than a little wary.]
You're not gonna...?
[SUNDAY]
This is her fault. She hurt him, and suddenly all she wants is to fix it. To hold him, to make it right, to...
She's so busy trying, and failing, to push her guilt aside that she doesn't understand Tig's apprehension at first. When it hits her that he thinks she's there to turn him again, she opens her mouth to tell him yes, of course, she's there to make it right...to save him from his own humanity...
Something totally different leaves her mouth instead.]
Not if you don't want it. It's your choice.
[SUNDAY]
[A breathy laugh follows, because anything deeper hurts, the corners of his mouth twisting in a wry smirk. It's short-lived, but he tried, at least.]
Once was plenty for me.
[Something in him seems to ease, a coil of not-quite-fear loosening at the answer. Before she'd been so determined about it, he couldn't refuse, but now...]
What changed?
[SUNDAY]
His question earns him a blank look and a shrug.]
Nothing changed. I'm just...not going to make the death toll any worse. You said it hurt, remember?
[And it's not at all because she feels guilty or concerned or strangely sick at the idea of hurting him again. Nope. Just ignore that film of tears in her eyes, Tig.]
[SUNDAY]
Not so sure that woulda stopped you before. Supposed to make everything better, right?
[SUNDAY]
Just...shut up and get well, okay? We'll discuss it again when you feel better.
[She hesitates, still unable to push her own feelings aside...pricking and tickling emotionally, jumbled and mixed up...]
Do you need anything in the meantime?
[SUNDAY]
And that's a brush-off if I ever heard one.
[SUNDAY]
[She says it with a snort, but it's not cold or bitter like before...it's more like Allison, matter of fact and borderline playful, not unlike the way she scolds him when he's being vulgar or disturbing for shock value.
And right after she says it, she seems to realize it and looks away, clearing her throat and forcibly shoving those feelings away. The guilt, the fear, the pain of seeing him like this and knowing she did it to him...
It rips away, tearing, a badly torn band aid. It hurts enough that she winces discreetly before she meets his gaze, composed once again.]
You were healthy when I bit you. It hurt, but...biting you like this would hurt worse. Heal up, then we'll talk...and answer the damn question while you're at it.
[Her tone gentles again without her meaning to. Her hand moves without thinking, the one not linked in his drifting up to smooth his hair back from his forehead.]
Is there anything you need?
[SUNDAY]
[He shakes his head, body language just as casually dismissive. Like he doesn't want her to worry, like he's convinced she doesn't need to.
He caught her unease, caught the way it seemed to physically hurt her, and he doesn't know how to fix it, doesn't know where to start and he's too exhausted to do anything about it right now even if he did, but he squeezes her hand and doesn't push her away, doesn't try to pull away from too-cold hands and that's going to have to be enough for now.]
I'm fine, don't worry about it.