theresalwayshope | 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.]

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[It's instinct to flinch away from the contact, muscle memory overriding more rational thought that says she's not a threat. Without the other influence reshaping the truth, making it palatable, he's left only with the facts of it, and she's not wrong. She bit him, killed him, filled him with that shit that carved everything out and left him hollow and empty and at the time it was great, sure. But now it only sits, heavy, the weight of the people he hurt in turn laid on top and it fucking hurts and he can't get away from it.

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...?

[Allison stills when he flinches, and it sticks, the pain of that reaction when she lets her hand fall away. He's afraid of her, and as he speaks, she knows he doesn't mean it.

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.

No offense, but I think I'm good.

[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?

[Allison rests a bracing hand on his shoulder as he laughs, because she knows it hurts. She can smell it...sort of, but mostly she knows, so she's there to reassure him.

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.]

[He leans into the contact. He doesn't want to, it seems too close to a show of weakness, especially if she's still like she was, but she's familiar, and she's here, and it's more a reflex than anything purposeful.]

Not so sure that woulda stopped you before. Supposed to make everything better, right?

[The gesture touches something in her, a strange feeling like a limb that's gone numb waking up after blood flow's been restored. It pricks and tickles, and it drives her to shift so she can sit on the edge of his infirmary bed, hand sliding down his arm so she can twine her fingers through his. It eases some of the tingling that makes her eyes burn and her chest tight...it just feels...good to hold his hand.]

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?

[He snorts, and at least that hurts moderately less.]

And that's a brush-off if I ever heard one.

Says the king of brush-offs.

[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?

My answer's not gonna change.

[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.

20} didn't hear the confession...walking through the procession...

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