#easytolie

can we plz talk about how good this is!

Shadows. Time moved like shadows, slow falling onto their atmosphere. He spent most of the time watching her, watching the time. Because there was nothing else. He was afraid. But then he was happy. Who had said that bliss was the most simple of feelings? Who had said that freedom would be burden free? A foolish man. Or perhaps a man that had not experienced it. Because here he was. And he felt the strange dark hollow of guilt and pain. She had gotten him out. It was a strange feeling, knowing that even though he had been the one with a dream of saving her from the darkness. She had been the one to save him. He hadn't believed Matthew when he told him she was alive. He had been in denial. Hannibal had killed her, he must have. But there she was. He had first seen her last night, after all the planning, all the hushed talks, and then the escape, the one thing that stuck with him was laying his eyes on her again after all this time. She had lived inside of his head. But that was a contorted figment of his imagination. His grief keeping her alive. But she wasn't flesh and blood, he couldn't feel her really. Here she was now though. And she had been the one to help him. She had gotten him out. Matthew was gone now. He had only spent the night here, where ever here was exactly. It was just a small isolated place. Far away. It made him think of the house he had, his house. It was a shrunken mirror of it. He felt comfortable here. He hadn't slept much last night. Thinking of her, of freedom, listening to Matthew talk. Because it seemed that was what he wanted to do for hours on end, talk to him. Will listened. But his mind had been far away. And then he had told him he had to leave, to keep up pretenses. But all he wanted was a moment with Abigail. All he wanted was that, even if it was only in silence. He found her then. And he stood very still as he watched her, a contrast to the shadows and shades of the house. She would always be a light no matter what or who she was. A light in his darkness. She had to be within him. They were almost the same. He took slow steps towards her, slow and hesitant. And then he placed his hand on her back. She was warm. She was alive. "Abigail..." he said her name softly. His voice did not shake. It stayed firm. But it was gentle, as was his hand on her back. Gentle. "I never got the chance to thank you..."

KISSES FOR ALL IN ASKWill watched as the teen helped herself to another spoonful of microwaved soup. She had made a point to stare into it longer than nessesery, avoiding the contact of the man sitting parallel. She gazed into it now, smacking her lips to rid them of the salty resedue. Will hid a smile behind a fan of fingers. "I used to have soup with my dad on satardays." She looked up briefly, eyes wanting to explain, "when we all felt too lazy to make anything else..." Despite her palpable hatred towards her father, a warm smile stung her lips, reminiscing the happier moments of her life always brought this same smile. "Familiarity is good." Will muttered behind a fist of fingers, "it serves as a reminder.. That what you experienced was real. That the past was real." Her smile dropped and she mumbled something bitterly into the half empty bowl. Her eyes shot daggars into the pale liquid. "Listen, Abigail.." Slowly, he slid a passive hand to cradle the one that sat dead, hosting a crumpled napkin. Her fingers froze beneath his, he could feel the rigidity radiate from her knuckles. "You are special to me." There was no weaver in his voice, and on the solidity of his sentence, she looked up, this time she saught his eyes. "Don't think that you are the product of a disaster.. You are innocent. I.. /believe/ that." Her mouth stood, for an instant, open, and he suspected the soup at her chest was forgotten to her. He held her gaze. Her spoon fell from her nimble fist and its shrill cry rang when it hit the ground. With his eyebrows raised, he moved to stand, though her hands halted any more movement as they held his face in place and her mouth came smashing into his in a rush of erratic hurt and wanting sympathy. Her fingers tangled in his curls and as she swiftly stole another kiss, his lips attempt to speak. The words that left his mouth left in chopped slurrs, and upon his hesitation, she shoved herself back into her seat, head down, hair curtaining her red expression. There was a lapse of quiet, in which he took a moment to recalerbrate, fingers lifting to feel the warm spot where her lips had furiously meshed, breath wafting unsteadily. Wordless and abashed, he sat. His fingers returned over hers, and this time, a finger lept to receive his.

Hannibal stopped his movements of preparing a infusion as he felt a small hand between his apron and pants. Turning his face to look at her, he took her hand to remove it from that spot and caressed her hand with his thumb. “Abigail, why you did this?” He was more than curious. “I could be your father…”