(no subject)

[collects_strays]

Graham can't recall every step of how he got here. He'd heard the click as his cell door unlatched, and he remembers that for the first time, he'd felt no desire to leave. That he had wanted to remain on his cot, to ignore it and any other escape. But then he was on his feet, pushing the door open. There was the shift in light, abrupt and bright in his eyes, but that somehow, he'd kept the sounds and voices of the Bar muffled and distant. Present, but controlled, at arm's length.

It was something he'd rarely done before.

Now, he's in a chair at an empty table. Leaning forward and apparently watching the floor, elbows settled on his knees and his hands folded between them. He's still in his blue, numbered uniform.

He doesn't move, not at passing shadows, or scurrying waitrats. Even his hands are still, the only shift coming with his breath, constant and steady as the hands of a clock.

Comments

[hadyougoing]

Ava has not been to see Beverly.

She should go; she has to go. The pressure of not going keeps weighing on her like an increasingly awkward silence, which she guesses it is. But for the moment, she's down in the bar with a mug of cocoa.

Unmoving guy looks familiar, aside from the weirdness of the pose. Ava edges in his direction.

[collects_strays]

For a few seconds, Graham closes his eyes.

When she's close enough, enough so that he can't ignore that her footsteps are approaching him, Graham does turn, and glances up to her.

[hadyougoing]

She almost gets the urge to put up her hands-- her free hand, anyway. As it is, her eyes widen.

"You okay?"

[collects_strays]

The impulse tingles in his own hands.

Graham lowers his eyes again, and takes a deep breath. "No."

He shifts back in his his chair. "Are you?"

[hadyougoing]

Interesting question.



"I just want a place to sit," Ava says. She could rustle up some aww-shucks-Midwestern, she guesses; but she doesn't-- so the answer mostly comes out flat calm.

"What's ... not okay? Can I ask?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Hello, Will."

That is Dr. Lecter, walking up to Graham's table.

[collects_strays]

Graham takes a deep breath, interrupting the rhythm. But otherwise, he remains still.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter."

[cook_the_rude]

"It is good to see you," Lecter says, tilting up his chin minutely, in a gesture suggesting self-satisfied contentment.

[collects_strays]

At that, Graham lifts his head, straightens enough to lean back in his chair, and meets Dr. Lecter's eyes. When he speaks, his voice is flat.

"You look better."

[cook_the_rude]

"Oh, I am," Dr. Lecter says. "This is an excellent place for finding one's feet again."

[schrodingerskatz]

". . . Will?" comes a quiet voice behind him.

Beverly may be out of bed and on her feet, but she still looks a little drawn and a little pale. And there's the bulky bandage wrapped around her right hand, too big -- and too tender -- for her to hide it away in a pocket.

"That you?"

[collects_strays]

Graham's breath catches, and releases into a shaky exhale. His shoulders tremble as though the room has suddenly grown cold.

"Beverly." He murmurs it down toward the floor.

[schrodingerskatz]

She moves around to stand opposite him, the table between them, tucking her injured hand under her arm.

"You look . . ."

Accurate adjectives are hard to come by. He looks -- immovable.

"How are you?"

[collects_strays]

He raises his eyes, at first only enough to watch her shadow across the table, and then -

"What happened to your hand?"

He asks it before thinking it, before even entirely realizing what he's seeing.

[schrodingerskatz]

"I'm gonna sit down," she announces, pulling out the chair, and does before he can object or invite.

"I . . . got hurt. Lost three fingers."

[pirate_jack]

There's someone watching him from a little way across the room.

Jack tilts his head first one way, then another, as though doing so will change what he's looking at.

[collects_strays]

After a moment, his hands fidget, fingers pressing together.

But if Graham has noticed anything, he makes no move to show it.

[pirate_jack]

"Ah."

His sudden grin is both wide and wicked. Gold gleams from one tooth, silver from another.

"So you do move."

[collects_strays]

Graham thinks of a child turning the key of a wind-up toy.

"I do."

[pirate_jack]

He hops to his feet and saunters over to the other man's table, swaying as he goes.

"Had me wondering, mate. A stillness like what you had going there's not natural, savvy?"

[gredya]

There's a large canine in the bar. She's just passing through on her way to the woods--but catching scent of someone new to her, Gredya pauses and watches him for a bit.

He looks unwell.

[collects_strays]

He looks up, and back to her.

Graham makes no motion to stand from his chair, or approach. He doesn't make any gesture to her invite her closer. But as she watches him, he does the same in return.

[gredya]

Unwell and unsettling because of it: it always makes Gredya uneasy, the way people come here showing weakness or oddness. Makes her want to test them.

...Which ended in a truly awkward standoff, the last time she got too close to that odd irritable Javert man. So she shakes herself and breaks off the staring-and-watching before it turns into anything like a challenge.

Her path to the door does take her closer to him, though, and she gives him another glance as she passes.

[collects_strays]

He returns it.

Quick and ready, like he was expecting it.

[gredya]

That makes her pause again. She leans forward--still past arm's-length--sniffing. His clothing has an unpleasant chemical odor to it, like the stuff the rats here use for cleaning, but also a peculiar staleness.

Prison doesn't smell good. Gredya snorts, with an almost comical offended-dog face.