milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Beverly went back to work, Price commended her for "getting back on the horse" and every time she thinks about that now she kind of wants to laugh hysterically. It's been -- it's been a weird, weird week.

When the door opens into the bar, she stops short in the doorway, staring. Then, cautiously, she closes and opens it from her side. That works; she steps through and tests it from the Milliways side. Still works, and still opens onto the break room at Quantico. Satisfied that she's not going to be stuck here again, she heads to the counter. As she sits down, Bar delivers a note. And . . . a balloon. The balloon is pretty cute. The note -- not so much.

Beverly reads it twice, then sets it down with a sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose with her good hand. (Her right is still bandaged, though the doctor assures her that her fingers are healing well.)

"Bar, can I have a double Bushmills?"

There are things she can deal with sober, but the combination of dealing with Hannibal Lecter at work, dealing with the situation here, and finding a live bird in a dead woman's chest just. Is not one of those things.

[ooc: Usual warnings about the gruesomeness of Beverly's canon apply, turned up a little because "Su-Zakana" is a hell of an episode. Let me know if you'd rather her work not come up.]

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When Ava spots Beverly, she looks left, right, rafters. Suspicious dark corners. Not-so-suspicious dark corners that tend to get overlooked. She even ducks into the kitchen and takes a peek around.

No Hannibal Lecter.

"Hey," she says, coming up to the counter.

Beverly brigthens a little, if briefly.

"Hey, Ava." She nods athe balloon. "I got your note."

Ava's gaze flickers to the balloon's cheerful lettering, something faint and secretive lighting her expression.

It fades into business pretty quickly.

"Yeah?" she says. "I think I have, um ... more to report, since then."

"Oh, god," she mutters, and takes a sip of her whiskey. Liquid courage never sounded so good.

She waves to the stool next to her. "Are you okay? How long have I been gone?"

Though Ava doesn't like the idea of putting her back to the room right now, she sits.

"I'm fine," she sighs. "By my count, it's been a couple weeks?"

"Okay." She nods. "Not as long as I was afraid. So fill me in. You met Lecter here?"

Ava nods, and sighs again.

"Bar, could I have some cocoa? Like, lightly spiked?"

A peppermint-striped mug appears. Ava picks it up and puffs to cool it.

"Okay," she says, glancing Beverly's way. "I forget exactly what I told you in my note, but he came into the laundry room while I was trying to get the blood off my jeans and called me Margot, again. I thought he was the same guy."

Beverly blinks.

"What do you mean, called you Margot 'again'?"

"Remember?" Ava says. "In the basement, as soon as he saw me--"

Though how'd he even see her in the first place? Presumably, he didn't have access to a magical light-casting necklace.

"He acted like he knew me. Only he called me Margot."

She hesitates.

"I don't remember most of what happened in the basement. No. I know I got hit in the head and--" She moves her right hand slightly. "Obviously. But I don't really remember it."

Ava frowns.

(Her gaze flickers to Beverly's bandaged hand, then back to her face.)

"I'm sorry," she says. It may come out a little stilted. "Um. Well, he called me Margot down there, and when he did it again, I just assumed he was the same guy. But he claims he's not-- that he's from a timeline that forked off from yours."

When you didn't die.

Edited 2014-12-01 21:32 (UTC)

She waves off the apology -- not like it's Ava's fault she got concussed. Margot. Who's Margot? It seems like it ought to ring a bell, but she's not coming up with anything.

"He told me before that he was from farther in the future than I was. Am." She grimaces. "And implied pretty strongly that I was out of the picture."

"He told me that too."

Ava's expression doesn't betray anything in particular, aside from idle interest-- but it's a dim version.

"At first I think he was guessing-- he said your name, Alana Bloom, and Will Graham-- but something I said must have tipped him off that it was you I was helping, because the second time I met him he only talked about you."

"Goddammit," she mutters, putting down her drink with a clack.

"He's very, very smart. And more observant than almost anyone I know. If you try and get something past him, he'll notice. I've tried."

Is trying.

Ava doesn't immediately reply, but she sits a little straighter on her stool. She sips her cocoa.

"He wants something, though."

"Any idea what?"

She nods.

"One specific. Two less specific." Another sip. "My specific idea is, he wants to know what happens if you stay alive."

She frowns. "You're not really in a position to know that."

"And I didn't tell him what I do know-- not in so many words?"

She shrugs.

"Maybe he figures he's smart enough to infer something."

"He probably is."

She rubs her forehead. "What are your other ideas?"

"I heard a rumor he can smell magic, which is sort of its own thing," she says.

"But the last idea is ..."

Ava glances down into her mug.

"So the second time I met him, I tried to figure out what would happen if I held back, like-- approval. Or if I didn't say anything. And every time, he either pushed it, or he asked me to do something for him."

". . . I don't think," she says carefully, "that deliberately fucking with him is a great idea, Ava."

This is what you might call an understatement.

Ava glances to her.

"Yeah. That's what Will Graham said."

"You've talked to him, too?"

She nods.

"He said not to talk to Lecter. That he'd use me as ammunition."