Hello, universe, I am here.
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
alighttwixttruthandintellect
“I can hardly help my appearance anymore than, perhaps, you may help the recessive shade of your own hair,” Alana Bloom was not his choice. Not to have been brought back to life, he feels sometimes, as this minuscule creature. He takes no delight in her weak figure. Though aesthetically beautiful to the eye, she’s little more than a container. A toy with which he plays. A thing.
And then there is the sting of a fresh wound against that mouth and his eyes flicker to her with some noted distaste, fingers curling against the other’s skin. He doesn’t much like to be touched. He has something of an aversion.
“It’s superficial,” he adds, yanks his hand back quick, “hardly more than a– oh, I’ve damaged her dominant hand. Well, that will be inconvenient.”
“Hannibal, you have much more control over that feeble shell than you admit.” Dr. du Maurier does not say that, in some ways, she agrees with him. It would be far easier for her to hide the color of her hair than it would be for him to discard Doctor Bloom’s form entirely. Hers would be a simple dye job, but his….
He made do, at least, with the differing clothes, the way he styled her hair just so. It was not perfect, but it is effective. That is, perhaps, all they can ask for.
Dr. du Maurier notes the distaste and the way he flinches back and something in her is momentarily confused. On a normal day, Hannibal might have enjoyed the submission of the action. But this is not him. Not really. Just an imperfect reflection.
“Yes, you have,” she agrees, licking the blood from her lips and steadying her grip on the blade’s handle before laying the man out, unbuttoning his white shirt. “A slight twinge here and there, nothing too–” she makes the first cut along the man’s skin, blood scarletting the tips of her fingers (she will lick this up later), “–poignant. Just a minor discomfort.”
He does the best with what he can. He’s cut her hair shorter enough to fall just to her shoulders-- there are suit jackets, skirts in simple though elegant patterns, scarves of a quieter nature. There are heels and artful ties, attractive additions to ensemble. It matters little that this is a woman’s physique-- gender was never much of anything to him.
He watches with faint, restrained delight. It’s present only in vibrant blues and the steel of his own spine, but that is all, nothing more. Surprisingly controlled, for someone who exudes such a sneaky hostility.
He watches, and he is so still his breath is silent.
“She’s ambidextrous. It shouldn’t be too much of a chore.”
His fingers curl in, nails prick his palms. Just enough, just so.
skepticalstarbuck
“Didn’t say you were,” Alana says gently, but she keeps her eyes on Dana Scully with that indentation of pure and complete concern prominent at her brow. It’s obvious with Alana when she cares, shows on her face with a resounding clarity. You could probably read her worry from space, “and having a friend who’s worried about you doesn’t make you a kid. It just makes that friend anxious.”
Oh yeah, there’s the kick. Doctor Bloom’s response, quick and simple, is to roll the desk chair over behind Dana and gently coax her into it with a tilted eyebrow, “That was an awful lot of potential happening that didn’t seem too nothing-esque.”
Really, it seemed like an awful lot of something.
“I will even make you chicken soup. This is a severe promise.”
I will even buy and work with chicken for you.
No. In Scully’s mind, drawing concern of another person meant that that person lacked faith in her independence and her ability to care for herself. It’s a foolish notion, built on age-old but well-conceded insecurities - years of people telling her that young women shouldn’t be doctors or F.B.I. agents, and then their repeated expressions of shock that a 33-year-old woman still lived by herself with no plans to get married. As a result, she always needs to prove herself. She needs to prove those people WRONG. After Alana helped her into her seat, her hands find her head, cradling and soothing the pounding headache. She’s barely able to sense aural heat of fever pulsing from every inch of skin - but she ignores it anyway. There’s a reason why doctors are discouraged from self-treatment. “Alana, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I think I’ll be fine on my own. I have things I need to finish here.”
“Dana,” She says again, and her voice is a little more forceful, “I’m going to say it as delicately as I can-- you look like shit and would seriously benefit from a day of bedrest before you wind up hospitalized for a serious spike in temperature.”
If she still sounds maternal, it is now because she is your mother who is going to yell if you continue to kick. Sometimes, Alana remembers that if Victoria was gentle, she remembers the sound of her wrath infinitely more, always prefaced by the sound of Lana Marie.
“Anything you do right now is going to be uselessly unfocused. You’re going to forget facts or vital details to add, and it’s going to be vague to the next person reading what you’re doing. There is no clarity in working on anything when you can’t focus in on what you’re doing. Can you please--”
alighttwixttruthandintellect:
The tilt of the head again. Now those eyes are glacial– the way they, untrained, could bore into a person deep enough to leave holes. Alana’s learned to control the way she expresses through them, but with total reckless abandon Hannibal is aware and uses them to his advantage. His own maroon was unsettling but blue is so normal, the power therein lies not in the color but in the way they’re utilized.
He doesn’t lean in, but now his lips are pursed, pressed together in thought.
“You know I don’t enjoy being lied to,” he purrs, and this here is the only time his voice seems alive, emphatic. When its use is to twist another in a way he desires, “cease subduing your statements and say them. I don’t have time for nor do I enjoy moving around a topic, Dr. du Maurier. Afford me the decency of straightforward conversation.”
He turns a hand over, glances down at the expense Gucci watch, the thin, black alligator band and the way it sits just so against his pulse. Briefly distracted there by where it hides the thin, silver-spun line indicating the ninth and final layer carved in, the level where the treacherous go.
She feels the threat more than hears it, notes the way his wrist turns and his eyes note the carving along Doctor Bloom’s skin - layers of hell, a layer that perhaps he would have her join if she did not speak. But this does not make her afraid - not because she trusts this false impression, this imperfect mirror of the man she loved, but due to some sense of self-security that she cannot quite explain. (This is perhaps why she keeps this form, for that feeling of security with who and what she is.)
“You spend so much of your time feigning an image of Doctor Bloom,” she begins, careful to keep her fingers from curling just so around that wrist, tips barely touching the scars etched into that flesh. “Surely you would be pleased to find that your ruse works, regardless of who it is you remind us.”
Her voice is soft and careful, the eloquent ease with which she trained herself to speak so long ago - an explanation for which she has never given him, never felt the necessity to elaborate. It did not matter that he had, over the years, told her more than perhaps anyone had any right to know of him - just as there were things he held back from her, things most private, there are still things she holds close to her chest.
Dr. du Maurier glances up, blue eyes meeting blue (how she wishes they were that deep maroon), and her lips curve in a gentle smile. “If I am caught up in it, is that not a statement of your exquisite skill?”
He stands. A thin, graceful line in a black blazer, an open-necked blouse that's accented by the thin accessory of a paisley burgundy tie. He's tired of playing at proximity, and he becomes restless if settled for too long. Five foot nothing could well seem seven feet tall, with that impeccable posture, those feather-light footsteps.
"I've known her for thirteen years of my life, if not more than that, truthfully. Of course my imitation is seamless. After all, I built her as she is now. If I know her as well, it is only because I know her better than she may know herself," an arrogant prospect from an arrogant man. He's careless as to the idea. Amused by it, perhaps.
"No," he sounds humorless, now, short, strands of deep black, straightened meticulously, falling over cold blue eyes without concern or care, "it's a testament to nothing when there is no challenge present. But you're correct. I am superb at falsifying her behavior."
Like the Prince of cats he might be, he preens in the congratulations.
alighttwixttruthandintellect:
She has no recollection of where she was, the month she went away– or, rather, why it had transpired. There’s a great big gap where that memory should be– there’s a feeling like it was bad, like the month she went away was not dissimilar to a noose around her neck. There’s an idea like what happened… maybe he will know. The real one, not the fabricated hallucination.
“He has to know, he has to,” She can feel herself shaking apart. Someone has to know. Someone has to be keeping her memories. Someone. If they don’t, how will she be real?
“Why wouldn’t… I tell you?” She asks, and where Bedelia’s hand traces, she feels the trail of gooseflesh her fingers leave behind.
Why wouldn’t she have… said something?
She feels her head drop, her eyes close, and she hears focus and it takes all she can to pull her head above water, ashen pale, broken out in a cold sweat and shaking, her pupils shrunken to pinpoints in the sky of her own irises.
“Here,” She says, and she murmurs, “here, here, here…”
“Here,” She repeats, and her voice sounds smaller, “Baltimore, Alana Marie Bloom, born on August thirteenth, ambidextrous, my favorite– my favorite color is– blue–”
Ground yourself. Let go of your wrist. You won’t be able to explain that to Jack.
You did not tell me for reasons of your own, my dear. You turned to Hannibal instead. It is a typical reaction for those he touches, unfortunately.
But Dr. du Maurier says none of this - of course he knows, child, but would you ask it of him? I do not think you would - instead brushing one hand along the girl’s temple, the tips of her fingers lingering in the mess of curls.
“Good.”
Her voice is calm, focused, and she allows herself to lift the little doctor’s head just so, thumb tracing along the edge of that strong jaw. “Keep going.”
She does not comment on that favorite color - blue - although somewhere inside, hidden away, another part of her takes hold of it and claims that for its own. Her favorite color is blue. Her eyes flick down, and her free hand carefully separates the other’s two. “Pain is not a good grounding mechanism, Dr. Bloom. Find a better one.” One thumb trails along the inside of the other’s palm, where there once was a cut she’d pressed to her lips.
Dr. du Maurier does not mimic that action just yet.
She feels like a puppy whining. She just wants to go away. To go away. To go away. Please let her go. Why won't you just let her go...? But she doesn't remember where she went for this month. Only that sometimes she dreams of a maze and the glistening, slick mess of her own insides, the wet, horrible sound they make as they slide out and squelch into a pile and--
She blinks again, trying to focus. There's a hand in her hair and she makes the effort, but her hands are detached and she speaks in a way that feels dreamy and somewhat slow, far away, "I can't-- it makes the most sense. Hurt's jarring. I can't go away from it."
She's done that for a good portion of her life, hasn't she?
Those slightly unfocused blues settle in on Bedelia's eyes and try to pinpoint her pupils but it is hard when she feels like she could faint. Keep going. (H o w ? ) She isn't sure what 'keep going' means. But Bedelia's touching her and it is a form of grounding, but it can't coax her out completely, and that's where the problem is. Without the pain, she can't find root.
"I live in-- I live on the South Side of Chicago...?"
They call me coffee cuz I grind so fine
thatpunnyguy
They call me coffee I keep you up past 2 am
ohhenryd
They call me coffee because I’m really bitter and most people don’t like me without changing some aspect of what I am
Why isn’t there a socially acceptable way of saying: “I’m having a mental breakdown right now, please try again later?”
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
Anonymous asked:
ღ alana/steve
Who’s the first to wake up in the morning: Steve wakes up at the actual ass crack of dawn–before the sun’s even up, in both summer and winter. By the time he returns from his morning run, Alana’s up and about.
Who’s the one to make breakfast: They alternate, occasionally cooking together. Steve likes Alana’s cooking, especially her omelets, and will do whatever’s necessary to have them.
Who’s the one to serve the other breakfast in bed: Steve. He’s usually the first one up, and if he comes back and she’s still in bed, he’ll make something like pancakes or eggs to bring up to her.
Who would suggest a quickie in the morning before work: Alana. Steve goes right along with it. Don’t let him fool you.
Who suggests they both ditch work to lay around all day: Neither. They’re both ridiculous workaholics, though Alana‘s more likely to suggest Steve take a break (and spend it with her, of course).
Who chooses the movies: Alana. She has good taste in just about everything, and he trusts her judgement enough. She also helps introduce him to new stuff that he finds he really enjoys.
Who initiates kissing during the movie, thus distracting the other from the movie all together: Steve. He’s a dork.
Who orders lunch: Steve. Alana is more likely to make her own food.
Who steals food from the other’s plate without asking: Alana. Especially when Steve has fries.
Who curls up next to the other and falls asleep due to a full tummy: Alana. Steve tries his best not to, though he succumbs sometimes. His stomach seems like a bottomless pit.
Who distracts the other from trying to work at home: Neither, usually–but Steve is a big culprit.
Who asks to go get ice cream like a five year old: Steve.
Who takes pictures of their partner eating ice cream: Alana. Just because.
Who makes a sexual joke about the dripping ice cream on their partner’s face: Alana. She’s a lot more open with such crude jokes
Who cooks dinner: Cooking dinner is something they both enjoy doing together, when possible. Sometimes, they alternate–Steve’s palate rather hearty and simple and Alana’s a bit more refined and complex, though they’re both equally delicious all the same. It gives them a nice variety.
Who cleans up the kitchen afterwards: They both do, but Steve’s a bit of a neat freak.
Who stays up until 2 reading: Another thing they both do, though Alana tends to read more than Steve. Whenever Steve finds a good book, though, he will read it in one sitting. Even if it involves staying up through the night.
Who stares at their partner while their sleeping: Neither, really. They both are usually awake when the other is awake.
Who kisses their partner while they sleep: Steve. It’s usually a good night or goodbye kiss as he goes on a mission
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
alighttwixttruthandintellect:
“One day. Baby steps. Rome wasn’t and all that. Pasta in the future. Right now, there are brownie-waffles to be made,” the nose wrinkle is one of those wretched movements she cannot resist. It forces her to peck her just there, to follow it up with a nail tapped, the tiniest laugh. “The grilled cheese is going to be phenomenal. I can actually taste it from here. You have a deal,” and she won’t say that the premise of being in someone’s living space gives her the spider-crawling-up-her-spine feeling, but it’ll do. She’ll just pop a Valium and comprehend how to calm down upon that visit (living space is always so personal, it feels almost constantly wrong to infringe–…) But Alana’s tilting her head so very calmly, gesturing grandly to the counter, “Pour the batter. Make the waffles. I will keep my hands off you, so this way any errors that occur cannot be blamed on me. So if you burn those, it’s a hundred percent you. I had nothing to do with it.”
“So… in other words, you’re removing my carefully thought out backup plan… or excuse, I suppose –” She releases the counter, taking a moment to hold up both hands – her palms evenly displayed. “Fine, but that means you’re admitting the stir-fry was technically your fault and therefore I don’t want to hear another word about it ever again.” Cue that characteristic cheeky grin as she takes a few steps backward, a slight raise of her brows as she shuffles over to the counter. She pours batter directly into the center of the press, ducking her head slightly as she closes the lid of the iron. Surely it can’t be that hard to watch a damn waffle cook. And it doesn’t take nearly as long as she anticipated, so it’s good thing she’s watching. But Ivy’s got the hang of it, thank God, soon hitting the off switch and turning to offer a plate of waffles. “Hmm?”
"I wasn't accepting blame. Merely suggesting you might try to pass it off as such, being I was responsible for the distraction. Which I won't apologize for. There was a moment present, so I took it," she wanders to a corner of the kitchen, then, humming as she shifts through a small mahogany box, and then places an Ah-ha! record onto the antique turntable, which cheerfully fills the kitchen with the synthesized first beats of Take On Me, leaving Alana to languidly move back over in step with the beat, which is more habit than conscious motion. But she hops up on her counter to sit, legs tucked neatly beneath her, takes the plate to dig a spoon from the drawer and generously heap whipped cream atop it. Hands it back, then, smiling, "You made them, so the first two are yours." It might be amusing that she can speak just so in adapted sound to the music. Not precisely, but the influence is there.
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
[text] The fridge is fully stocked. I’m either hallucinating or this is a miracle
Texts from Last Night Meme.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I think I made you enough potato casserole for the next five years.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] But yes I am miraculous.
alighttwixttruthandintellect:
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] OH NO I’M SO SORRY
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] PLEASE I WON’T BE FUNNY AGAIN I
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I hope someone admonished her gently at the very least
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Or firmly
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I’ve been remotely buzzed on painkillers for a few hours now and trying to get through an article about
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I don’t even remember I literally can’t focus on anything but this cell phone
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I’ve been on the same page of To Kill a Mockingbird since this morning and I just turned on The Real World
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I think not working is affecting my mental state worse than my mental state is affecting my mental state
[SMS: Alana] No no it’s fine I’ll be fine keep being funny to your heart’s content
[SMS: Alana] I assume someone probably did. it was really inappropriate. and yet I still spent an hour giggling about it on the ride home and couldn’t for the life of me explain why I was laughing. maybe I’m just that cynical about my life at this point. the idea that I’m going to keep accruing stab wounds by complete accident was hilarious
[SMS: Alana] Oh god welcome to the club. I had to take the full dose just to be able to move my fingers and I’ve been watching Chopped for three hours
[SMS: Alana] When I can actually be upright long enough to do anything without having to worry about passing out I’ll never be idle again
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I was pretty agitated at first about the 'Alana only gets involved with psychopaths' jokes
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Until I realized my track record is solid across the board, romantically
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I actually thought it was a little funny but misfortune was meant to be laughed at. Laughter is a stress relieving exercise
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Or else I probably have to admit that I'm fundamentally defective and have never experienced an adult relationship which wasn't abusive and that doesn't sound like I'm willing to entertain
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Do you think if I killed Chilton for the catnip joke anyone would notice
I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’
Azra.T “My Heart is Full of Open Windows.” (via 5000letters)
The best manipulators are the ones you don’t r e a l i s e are manipulating you.
once I desire something I cannot undesire it I cannot even try to resist I will desire it until I have it but there is no end no matter how much I take, I still want ( L.L )
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
[text] The fridge is fully stocked. I’m either hallucinating or this is a miracle
Texts from Last Night Meme.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I think I made you enough potato casserole for the next five years.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] But yes I am miraculous.
alighttwixttruthandintellect
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Can you imagine how distressed I would be by an unidentified flying steak
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I can. It would be horrifying but all the same if this ever happens promise it’ll be video taped for youtube
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Did you punch her because one of my therapists made an inadvertent crack about a window and I might have gotten a little violent. I don’t think he meant it but I definitely did
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Crack… about a window… I’m even sorry to myself
graham-rising
[SMS: Alana] I can promise I’ll video tape it if you ever get accosted by an unidentified flying steak, yes. or I can promise I can try. I feel like that sort of thing would happen unexpectedly
[SMS: Alana] I would have punched her if I could have. I was getting rolled to the elevators in a wheelchair at the time and still couldn’t stand for more than about thirty seconds without feeling lightheaded so it seemed like a bad idea
[SMS: Alana] And the nurse who was pushing the wheelchair probably would have stopped me anyway. I did shout back at the other person in the nurse’s station to punch her for me but I think they chalked that up to me still being a little high on painkillers
[SMS: Alana] Crack about a window
[SMS: Alana] OH my ygod Alana I forgot how much it still hurts to laugh you’r egoing to be the death of me
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] OH NO I’M SO SORRY
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] PLEASE I WON’T BE FUNNY AGAIN I
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I hope someone admonished her gently at the very least
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Or firmly
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I’ve been remotely buzzed on painkillers for a few hours now and trying to get through an article about
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I don’t even remember I literally can’t focus on anything but this cell phone
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I’ve been on the same page of To Kill a Mockingbird since this morning and I just turned on The Real World
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I think not working is affecting my mental state worse than my mental state is affecting my mental state
Ink on skin.
gas-masks-and-insomnia
alighttwixttruthandintellec-blog reblogged
[text] The fridge is fully stocked. I’m either hallucinating or this is a miracle
Texts from Last Night Meme.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I think I made you enough potato casserole for the next five years.
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] But yes I am miraculous.
alighttwixttruthandintellect
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] ‘Surprise steak’
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Is that really a phrase that relates to me now
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] ‘Hey do you think we should go out tonight, Will?’
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] ‘I’m not sure, Alana, what if there’s surprise steak’
graham-rising
[SMS: Alana] It makes it sound like it would just come flying at you out of nowhere
[SMS: Alana] Which is an entertaining mental image but would probably be pretty distressing to actually experience
[SMS: Alana] When I was checking out of the hospital I heard someone in the nurse’s station comment that I’d probably trip and fall on a knife on my way out the door. while we’re on vaguely off-color but unfortunately entertaining humor
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Can you imagine how distressed I would be by an unidentified flying steak
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] I can. It would be horrifying but all the same if this ever happens promise it’ll be video taped for youtube
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Did you punch her because one of my therapists made an inadvertent crack about a window and I might have gotten a little violent. I don’t think he meant it but I definitely did
[SMS: A Slightly Crankier Mr. Darcy] Crack... about a window... I’m even sorry to myself