"Dickerson." She really doesn't have to say it slowly and clearly, but being an asshole to Ellie is the most normal she's felt in the last 24 hours so, "He told me you're fascinated with my eyes."
So she didn't tell him about it or accidentally leave the sketches where he could have seen them... the plot thickens. Abby straights in her chair, greatly amused; her heart is beating quickly again, an anxious thing.
Oh, she remembers. And she can guess at exactly why sketches of her would exist in an old notebook of Ellie's from back home, and why she would be remembered enough to be drawn there. She really doesn't need to hear Ellie say it.
They aren't close to snapping but everything is tense in a way it hasn't been in a while. Abby didn't forget what it felt like, but it comes as a surprise.
She stares until the nape of her neck starts to prickle.
"No."
And, relenting, "I'm just fucking with you. Relax."
The tension snaps between them, a hint of something old and painful, and Ellie almost regrets it- it doesn't feel nice to fight with Abby, even if it's just this. They've been doing better with each other. Not gentle, but- enough.
Her expression settles inwards from the fighter Abby knew to the somewhat awkward young woman she's still learning, and Ellie bites the inside of her cheek. Try.
"... if you want to see it you can. There's just- some writing in there too."
Things that are more personal. But the drawings are of Abby, and that- well. That makes them hers too, in a way.
She reaches out to gather up the sketchbook, thumbing through the pages. Abby will get glimpses of things. A shambler in profile. Joel, with his eyes crossed out. Dozens of scribbled moths, over and over. Jesse, the man Abby had shot in the face in the theater- and finally Abby.
Ellie puts the sketchbook down on the desk, on top of the rest of her work. She places her hand across the text, but it can't hide all of it. The picture of Abby floats over a broken watch, scribbles of moths. A dozen shots of her eyes.
The words are crossed out in some places, like a draft. But words peek out, the end of each line, sneaking along the side of Ellie's cupped fingers.
When does it get quiet? heavier harder to breathe cut the cordrope cord?
Ellie doesn’t reply right away, and Abby finds that they’ve fallen back into that same, old rut of not wanting to say anything more to each other, but not being able to leave just yet. Surprise surprise: she still hates it. The air between them gets thick.
So she’s noticeably surprised when Ellie actually… relents.
Saying nothing, she cranes her neck to watch her page through the book. It’s encased in grubby leather, with a well worn spine. She can imagine Ellie creasing it in earnest to make the page lie flat, and then while she’s looking, Joel’s fucking eyeless face jumps out of a new page at her; she stops paying attention for a numb and buzzing moment.
She goes for the tail end words first when she looks back, absorbs them with what is, hopefully, a neutral expression even though this has swiftly become intimidating and deeply unnerving. Ellie’s fucking pocket sketchbook of ghosts; cool. Well, she asked. She makes herself keep looking.
A lot of her. A lot of moths.
“This is fucked up,” is her verdict, gaze flicking back up to Ellie.
It is unnerving. Intimidating. There's a deep sick feeling in her stomach, an itching that's spreading across her skin, digging in like bugs. She doesn't feel right inside of her own body, and this is just an echo of it.
There's nothing like looking at a glimpse of what she used to be, to make her realize how far she's come. To make her realize just how lost she was. How twisted, and angry, and desperate.
How close to the edge.
Looking back on it makes her feel closer.
"Yeah," she answers, unflinching. She's looking at the page, not Abby's face.
"I was fucked up."
With a sharp twist of her wrist, she flips the journal shut.
Ellie doesn’t say anything for a moment and Abby falls silent, tracing the outline of her own face and braid, fingers tucked underneath of her lip. She couldn’t contain it. Abby was starting to burst at the fucking seams by the end. She had a clenched jaw sitting, aching in her skull and the nightmares were completely out of her control, killing her people off left right and centre. Maybe writing and drawing was helpful. A way of putting it all out there.
She won’t know for sure, she can’t bring herself to ask.
The sharp snap of the book startles her, and she sits up straight in the chair, hands dropping to her knees.
Ellie falls silent, existing in this weird place where she just doesn't know how to handle it. They share the kind of pain few others will ever really get, and Abby's the source of Ellie's side of it. Different pieces of the same fractured circle.
By all rights they should have each other, but they don't. Their choices made sure of it.
Ellie sets a hand heavily on top of her journal, protective of her hurts, but after a few seconds her fingers relax, and she leans her hip against the desk, looking down at her fingers.
She has something of her tongue and it's digging a hole in her, too heartbreaking to say, too venomous to keep inside.
"I thought killing you would fix me," Ellie says quietly.
Abby doesn't need to look at her to know what expression she's making. There's a furrow in her brow as she considers a spot on her knee where the fabric of her pants is fraying, picking at it with blunt fingernails. She says, "I thought killing him would fix me," quietly. "All it did was make me worse." And she doubts that it would have been any different for Ellie.
She didn't take that final step, the same way that Abby did. She was able to pull herself back from the brink. Not an easy thing.
She stands up.
Distractedly, "Don't– rush Ellis about all of this, okay. I don't think he really wants people knowing," because they'd fuss, obviously, and he isn't about that. She probably shouldn't have told Ellie in the first place, but oh well. Abby doesn't regret it.
The answer leaves her breath short, catching at the edges. It's not better. Joel dying that disgusting, excruciating death ultimately did nothing but make it everything worse.
Ellie doesn't know what she might have answered with. Is fine with not answering that at all. It's best if she doesn't. Instead she takes half a step back, her fingertips still resting on the journal, eyes following Abby's shoulder, if not quite her face.
"Yeah." She taps her fingers once. "I'll keep it under wraps."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"And anyway, I'm not."
And because that's obviously not true-
"It was from before here."
Mostly.
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"What were you drawing me for?"
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"Do you really want me to answer that question?"
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They aren't close to snapping but everything is tense in a way it hasn't been in a while. Abby didn't forget what it felt like, but it comes as a surprise.
She stares until the nape of her neck starts to prickle.
"No."
And, relenting, "I'm just fucking with you. Relax."
cw: suicidal ideation
Her expression settles inwards from the fighter Abby knew to the somewhat awkward young woman she's still learning, and Ellie bites the inside of her cheek. Try.
"... if you want to see it you can. There's just- some writing in there too."
Things that are more personal. But the drawings are of Abby, and that- well. That makes them hers too, in a way.
She reaches out to gather up the sketchbook, thumbing through the pages. Abby will get glimpses of things. A shambler in profile. Joel, with his eyes crossed out. Dozens of scribbled moths, over and over. Jesse, the man Abby had shot in the face in the theater- and finally Abby.
Ellie puts the sketchbook down on the desk, on top of the rest of her work. She places her hand across the text, but it can't hide all of it. The picture of Abby floats over a broken watch, scribbles of moths. A dozen shots of her eyes.
The words are crossed out in some places, like a draft. But words peek out, the end of each line, sneaking along the side of Ellie's cupped fingers.
When does it get quiet?
heavier
harder to breathe
cut the
cordropecord?Can I leave it all behind?
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So she’s noticeably surprised when Ellie actually… relents.
Saying nothing, she cranes her neck to watch her page through the book. It’s encased in grubby leather, with a well worn spine. She can imagine Ellie creasing it in earnest to make the page lie flat, and then while she’s looking, Joel’s fucking eyeless face jumps out of a new page at her; she stops paying attention for a numb and buzzing moment.
She goes for the tail end words first when she looks back, absorbs them with what is, hopefully, a neutral expression even though this has swiftly become intimidating and deeply unnerving. Ellie’s fucking pocket sketchbook of ghosts; cool. Well, she asked. She makes herself keep looking.
A lot of her. A lot of moths.
“This is fucked up,” is her verdict, gaze flicking back up to Ellie.
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There's nothing like looking at a glimpse of what she used to be, to make her realize how far she's come. To make her realize just how lost she was. How twisted, and angry, and desperate.
How close to the edge.
Looking back on it makes her feel closer.
"Yeah," she answers, unflinching. She's looking at the page, not Abby's face.
"I was fucked up."
With a sharp twist of her wrist, she flips the journal shut.
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She won’t know for sure, she can’t bring herself to ask.
The sharp snap of the book startles her, and she sits up straight in the chair, hands dropping to her knees.
“So was I.” She still is. Sometimes.
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By all rights they should have each other, but they don't. Their choices made sure of it.
Ellie sets a hand heavily on top of her journal, protective of her hurts, but after a few seconds her fingers relax, and she leans her hip against the desk, looking down at her fingers.
She has something of her tongue and it's digging a hole in her, too heartbreaking to say, too venomous to keep inside.
"I thought killing you would fix me," Ellie says quietly.
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She didn't take that final step, the same way that Abby did. She was able to pull herself back from the brink. Not an easy thing.
She stands up.
Distractedly, "Don't– rush Ellis about all of this, okay. I don't think he really wants people knowing," because they'd fuss, obviously, and he isn't about that. She probably shouldn't have told Ellie in the first place, but oh well. Abby doesn't regret it.
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Ellie doesn't know what she might have answered with. Is fine with not answering that at all. It's best if she doesn't. Instead she takes half a step back, her fingertips still resting on the journal, eyes following Abby's shoulder, if not quite her face.
"Yeah." She taps her fingers once. "I'll keep it under wraps."
Even to Ellis.