driftfleet | (no subject)

[The Iskaulit is a curious place, to Abigail. It's becoming a strange little kaleidoscopic fragment of the hearts and minds of the Fleet, in a more cohesive, centralized way than any of the rooms on the Barge ever were. She likes it, but it makes her homesick, too, so she only investigates in short bursts when she's really feeling well.]

[Today she's feeling pretty well indeed, and that's why she pops down the hall just in time to see him slithering behind a wall panel.]

[. . . Interesting.]

[Well, if he's going to slither, she'll slither too. Slither right into the wall panel after him.]

[Hello, friend.]

[and as she slithers in, she'll just catch him disappearing into the mouth of some horizontal duct up above, past the easily-climable lattice of metal brackets and braces behind the wall.

it's like a jungle gym-- but secret, and maybe more of a tetanus hazard.]

[Hey, there are worse things than tetanus. She squints up at the duct briefly, then at the brackets that, for someone of her size and build, pretty much just make a ladder.]

[Well. Up she goes. Alley-oop.]

[and it turns out that he hasn't gone all that far.

whether he'd heard someone following him, or always makes a habit of waiting just inside the mouth of the duct for a few minutes before carrying on, he's there for when the intruder reaches up to pull herself to the edge of the duct.

much like had happened in a dream that he--for one--only half-remembers, he lunges to grab for her wrist, single eye gleaming dimly in the dark.]

[If it were someone else, she'd strike out at them for touching her like that. But she isn't so threatened by Coil anymore. She's . . . starting to figure out how he works. He communicates in touch, right? Like she does in speech.]

[So when he grabs her wrist, she stiffens, but she doesn't move to pull away. Just shakes her head and speaks quietly.]

I'm not going to hurt you.

[he's watchful and wary, so it takes this sort of thing to really catch him off guard. the glow of his eye blinks, and his expression abruptly opens up into surprise... and recognition?

he's confused, though. he can't remember the reason behind her face. it's like trying to dredge up the details of a dream, and she's caught somewhere between a distant acquaintance and a ghost.

either way, the aggression falls out of him. he doesn't understand what he's looking at, but his fingers loosen on her wrist.]

[She remembers him. Her in his room, anyway, because she worked so hard to remember everyone's rooms - wrote them all down in careful, precise lettering and memorized it all before her notes disappeared. So she remembers how he was when he was little, and the scary man at his door.]

[She still doesn't understand that he can't speak, just that he won't. But it shouldn't matter. If he doesn't, then he doesn't. You speak some other way.]

[She doesn't move, not a muscle. Not even a single twitch that could be perceived as a threat.]

I mean what I say. I'm not going to hurt you. We're not friends, but I'm not your enemy, either. And if you show me, I'll keep your secret. I'm the best there is at secrets.

[he would have had notes on her as well, had he been able to recall anything more than vague, unsettling feelings open waking every time. it's not until he sees a face that strikes him as familiar that he begins to remember any of the details, like the ones he is recalling now. he needs light, though. he can see well in the dark, but her face is still just a little too confusing right now.

picking up a little metal bolt that had been tucked off to the side--there are several stashed all along the track of this duct--he holds it tight in a fist, until some unseen energy works at it on a suddenly hungry, molecular level. it begins to hiss, and then glow, like a slow-motion flare. after a few seconds, he opens his fingers again to let out the light, and holds the sizzling, corroding thing in his palm so he can properly illuminate her.

there's one secret for her, so far.

and once she's lit up in white light, he can successfully reassure himself of who she is not, and the memories from an unreal time spent in her head become more clear.

with his free hand, he draws a quick finger along his neck, tracing where he'd seen hers cut open. or was it a girl like her... or both? ...it all blends together.]

[Looking at him . . . seeing him, that helps. It makes her smile a little, even with his scarred face and his unsmiling mouth. There's something honest about him that she likes, something unflinching.]

[She pulls her hair away from her neck and, after a moment's thought, finds a hair tie in her pocket and ties it up in a loose bun. Then she points to the scar along her neck, the one he'd just mimicked the creation of.]

That's right. I was in your dream, and I think you must have been in mine. Sorry if it was confusing - my head's a messed-up place sometimes.

It was my dad who did this to me, and then somebody else I thought of like a father. Do you remember that?

[and he's getting some honesty in return, so... that helps. he dares to lean a little, moving the makeshift lamp so he can see the scar in the best light. it strikes him as strange to see it all closed up like that. it doesn't seem 'right,' for whatever reason that thought passes through his mind.

he nods slowly, as the images surface and come together in his memory, one by one. they seem more like symbols than real information though, so his brow furrows after a few seconds.

questioningly, he holds up three fingers. he'd thought there were three men; three throats slashed.]

[This one takes her another minute. She does get it, though - three's an important number for her. But she remembers, most especially because she led Robin through it. There were three men, her three fathers.]

That's right, too. I'll try to explain. Tell me if anything's weird, okay?

The first one, the bald one, that was my dad, my real dad. He's the one who tried to kill me first. The second one, the one with the curly dark hair and glasses, that was Will - he wanted to take care of me, and he killed my dad.

The third one was Hannibal. He killed me for real, the same way my dad tried to kill me, across the throat.

[if he finds anything weird, he has a funny way of showing it. he moves back from the lip of the duct, sits back away from the opening and takes the light with him--but, he isn't leaving. he sits down properly instead of crouching and waits there, now that there is enough room for her to climb up into the duct herself, if she'd like.

and, of all those things, the only thing that receives anything more than calm, rapt attention, is that very last bit. his expression is struck with a bit of surprise at her stating that she's been killed. it's at that point that he points at her in a curious, prompting way--either wanting confirmation that it's what she really meant, or wanting details.]

Oh, yeah. That doesn't really make sense to people who . . . aren't dead.

[She gives him a wry smile and resettles like him, cross-legged in the duct. Fortunately she's wearing pants and not a skirt.]

The place that I was before the Fleet - it brought me in after I died. Then I went back for a little while, and I died again. Both times it was him - Hannibal - who killed me, the same way, a cut across the throat.

The first time was because he needed to frame somebody else for a murder. The second time was because . . . he was angry, pretty much. My death would hurt someone, so he killed me.

[he nods; he's listening. and he glances away this time, because he's thinking as well. he's got something on his mind, rattling around, back and forth. he's considering something.

there's a great many things to consider, really. Coil is a meticulous sort, and he's already deep in a sea of unpredictable variables, so stopping to try and think now quickly ends up rather overwhelming.

it's too late to go back and approach this with much caution, though. she's already sitting here talking with him on the near-side of the first lines of his defenses.

so... it's quite impulsively (for him) that he reaches up to pick at the neckline of his shirt and tug it down, revealing the pit of a puncture scar just above his collar bone. there's another one nearby, at the base of his neck, just like it.]

[. . . Oh.]

[Poor thing. Poor thing - but brave, too, she thinks fiercely, because look at him, showing off his pain like that. It takes work to show off your scars, she should know, and he must have worked so goddamn hard.]

[Brave. He's very brave. She likes him a lot, just like that, and it shows in the fierce pride in her eyes, gleaming even in the dark.]

Did somebody try to kill you too, um--? God, I wish you knew your name. I'm Abigail.

[oh, how he likes that look. it reminds him of himself--it reminds him of her--and that sucks a little more of the reason out of his decisions.

he nods with the distinct sort of finality that might hint at the fact that whoever had attempted to kill him had succeeded, or it might only confirm her initial guess. it's hard for him to communicate with much detail, here.

but that doesn't stop him from at least attempting to convey his name. regardless of the fact that she probably doesn't know sign language, he slowly spells out his name-- C-O-I-L]

[It's enough to raise suspicion, at least. He's so - it's like the matter is closed, and that worries her, and there's a fierceness that rises up, too, that tells her she'd kill for him. Just like that.]

[But that's another matter. What happens next is rising, burgeoning excitement, because she knows how to do that, Ben taught her, and she's still sitting on her knees but she bounces a little in enthusiasm because yes good perfect. Awkwardly, she starts to sign: H, and then she stops and actually signs "hi", a sort-of salute.]

Coil! Like a coiled spring? Is that how you pronounce it? Sorry, I'm not very good, I only learned a little, but I know the alphabet and some greetings. Maybe you can teach me more?

[he doesn't exactly smile, since that expression had been written out of his nonverbal dictionary many years ago, but there is a distinct lightening to the angle of his features, especially around the eyes. and his posture straightens too, in eager surprise. it's so rare for someone to already know any of his language, and even more rare for him to actively want them to know it. it feels like fate.

he nods! and traces a perfect spiral in the air with one finger. coiled like a rope. like a snail's shell.

and then he immediately nods again, followed by the sign for 'teach,' just in case she knows it. or maybe wants to learn it on the spot.]

[Coiled like a rope. She grins, thumbs up. Got it! As far as this other thing . . .]

[Well, she mimics it, uncomprehending at first. Something coming from her head?]

Is that . . . see? Know? Oh, I'm - sorry, that was really stupid! Teach?

[She laughs quietly, a little embarrassed, and mimics it again, more neatly.]

Am I doing it right?

[he nods. he's pleased. his expressions are subtle, and the light from the tiny, makeshift lamp is dim, but the signs are there when you know to look. she might be new to the language, but she's interested, and she learns quickly-- two traits he very much appreciates.

pointing at himself, he repeats the sign for 'teach,' and then follows it up by pointing at her and signing 'learn.']

[He's kind of adorable. She's not sure, but she thinks he's like her - eager to learn and a little bit of a perfectionist. That's not the only way he's like her, but one of the ways.]

[She repeats his sign with precision, much faster than previously, and then bites her lip.]

So that's teach and learn. How do you sign "teacher and student"?

[ah yes, a logical question. it's a good next step to wonder about; he doesn't have to try and lead the impromptu lesson there himself.

and, he looks particularly pleased with himself then, because the answer is so simple. it's such a useful, versatile part of his language. he's excited to show her.

he repeats the signs for 'teach' and 'learn,' but after each one, he draws hands down in front of him as if indicating a person. with that gestural suffix, teach and learn instantly become 'teacher' and 'learner.']

[Oh! She squeaks a little, so that it echoes in the dark, and then covers her mouth (and grin) with both hands.]

So it's . . . teaching-person? Learning-person? Like that? That's awesome.

[She readjusts, then repeats his motions. It takes her a couple times to get them down, but once she's confident, she pauses and then signs C-O-I-L teacher and then points to herself before glancing at him questioningly.]

[oh, he just seems so pleased! and then spells out the letters of her name, even though she probably already knows them, just to complete the entire thought.

the signs for 'very good' follow after, because he means them.]

[Yesss. She clasps her hands together and grins openly now.]

You're sweet.