"Don’t," he mouths towards Jack, who seems as if he’d intervene any second, "—not now.”
His brows are furrowed deeply, creating a crease; his eyes are dominated by a maelstrom of anguish and anger, as he presses his hands against her warm back and just rubs. Will doesn’t know which is worse — the fact that he can’t do anything for her at the moment but to just hold her and tell her that it’s alright, or the fact that Jack looks at both of them with distrust in his beady eyes. What does he think that Abigail’d do? Pull out a knife from behind her back and stab him in the abdomen? Why couldn’t Jack trust her, ever from the start? It was as if he had a sort of a personal vendetta against Abigail; because she was the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike, she must be a murderer, too.
He knows that Jack was right, in a way; she was involved, acting as the lure in the crimes she and her dad committed. After all, almost everyone would have no problem trusting a teenage girl as sweet-looking as Abigail. Hell, Will would’ve, too.
"No, no, no. No, Abigail," Will whispers, pressing his lips against her hair and stroking her shoulders warmly, like he had when he’d held her hand at the facility in the past, "—you don’t need to apologize for anything. It’s not your fault. Shh, Abigail, it’s not your fault.” It’s alright, Abigail. How could I turn my back on you? I won’t leave you alone, I promise. All the words unsaid would linger in his head for days to come, but he didn’t mind. He hoped that all his physical touches and manoeuvres, as rare as they’d come, would be a visible proof that he forgave her. And it wasn’t just a part; he didn’t forgive her partially, but he forgave her fully.
If there was anything to forgive.
"I’m not going to go anywhere, I promise. Do you want to sit down, Abigail?" He doesn’t want to let her go, so he heads on over to the bed where they both can sit, not just a single chair, “—s-shhh-hh, Abigail.”
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