#abjecterror v tba

[godblooded]

@abjecterror​ (x)

“you are aware what you’re discussing is my specialty, correct? i’m catnip for killers, tegan.” the words come at you tensely so you volley them back with an almost equivalent tension, challenging them with the dip of your gaze to steel that energy and then a glance upward. to meet those eyes with your own blue, ground held. your head tilts. you fight with the urge to fire back at them-- and what of lecter, then, tegan? what about him? what? all he can tell us about is what, dismembering, turkeys? what? did he teach me, you, us, the bureau nothing? you don’t know where this acid comes from, but it sloshes in the back of you throat.

you need to take it down. your emotions are blurring, and it’s the sheer proximity that’s doing it. “they won’t hurt me. if we need someone to be a plant parsing out detail from an informant, you know, you know i’m very familiar with the process.” what, do the days escape you, you want to say, when you watched me sit across from cruelty itself and receive only the cloying verbiage of honeycomb sweet diction? you’re almost bitter, almost defensive, almost angry at the concept of protection. i will harm me if i choose. 

[godblooded]

@abjecterror (x)

you want to touch them. it’s an aching in your fingertips. it feels like they’re being left to the cold, left to the chill, and the only warmth would be closeness. to be gentler about this and to teach what the fuck it might be to know tenderness. you don’t know that definition anymore. your hand settles beside the bottle but doesn’t go to it again. just... doesn’t. an active thought that you keep in your mind and don’t let go of. stay to it. you feel across the wooden boards and count them in your head. one. two. three. four. back. four. three. two. one.

you won’t touch them. you don’t know how. your leather gloves are colder than your hands, and your hands are somehow colder underneath your gloves. you want to curl in, too. your body doesn’t move that way. you speak.

“i’m worried about you.” it’s almost a hesitant sigh. it’s almost please don’t tell me to go. “old hat, i know. no one wants to listen to me worry. it’s a concern with no end,” you smile for a second, a far away thing, “when ed lived in chicago and i was here, i used to make him call me at the beginning and the end of his shift, no matter what time.” it’s true.

“you look like you could use a very safe nap.”