ridedatdiscostick | The Bed-Sharing Meme

The place was dilapidated, and not at all the cute, somewhat idealistic image Abigail had when she set out in a stolen car with a complete stranger who seemed to know more about her than she knew about herself, but she knew it was the best they were going to find, especially as they were technically squatting. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep, and when she had she was back in her father's cabin, the girls whose lives she was ultimately responsible for ending circling her, growing closer...

She bolts upright, hands shaking, panicking when Ellis stirs next to her, breathing quickly and shallowly as she tries to get her head around everything.

"They were there, they were right there--" She glances from side to side, half expecting her father's victims to be standing watching in the shadows.

Ellis made sure that their stops had been sweet and as close to the dreams that kept him sane during the stay at the Crossing. There's always the chance that they could be captured or worse: Abigail wouldn't be safe and happy.

He remembered the nightmares she had back then and he's quick to comfort her, "No one's here, sweetheart...just me an' birds. Abby, focus on me." The mechanic was no expert in comforting someone so scared of the past, he did want to help her.

"Honey, talk to me...who did you see?" What DID Ellis know about Abigail Hobbs? Absolutely nothing and yet he still cared about her.

Abigail screws her eyes tight shut, gripping fistfuls of the bed sheets in both hands, trying to calm herself. The nightmares had been worse here, without Alanna to administer the medication that kept them at bay, and for the first time she'd actually found herself wishing she were back at Port Haven.

She wants to yell at Ellis, to tell him to get far away from her, that she was a terrible person and only bad things would happen to him if he stayed with her. Simultaneously she wants to hold him close and bask in the shelter and comfort he's offering - but she knows she can't go forever without telling him at least part of what she's been through, what she's done, even if it would make him despise her.

"You-- you really don't know, do you? You can't... you'd never want to be around me if you knew."

Ellis had an inkling of what Abigail was referring to and he shook his head: he had no idea of her past. "I don't know anythin' aboutcha Miss Abby. You never brought it, an' I didn't ask. I told you mine, but tha's as far as things went. You were scared about somethin', you were runnin' away an' you found solace in our talk an' our dream. Whatever happened...let me decide that."

Just because he wasn't highly educated, didn't mean El was stupid. Far from the truth, but some things had to be discussed, for better or worse.

She takes a long, slow, deep breath. He was going to get in the car and drive off and leave her if he found out everything, but at least now she had a chance to tell what happened her own way for once. She nods reluctantly, then darts her eyes around the room again.

"Can you check first? That no one's really there."

The mechanic wasted no time in checking the room out, opening doors and keeping an eye on the windows as he did so. They were definitely on their own now and alone in this motel, other than any wayward neighbors in the other suites.

"No one's here but us an' the lady o' the night on the far side," he assured her with a calm voice. When he put his mind to it, Ellis could sound ethereal, like a voice from the Gothic South, a life dominated by romantic ideals and similar deaths.

Abigail nods, screwing her eyes tight shut as she steadies her breathing. She's not really sure where to start, though she supposes that showing is far more powerful than telling. Slowly she raises a hand to the scarf she's kept tied around her neck even while sleeping, untying it with long, nimble fingers and revealing the long, deep scar that goes across her neck underneath.

"That's where my dad tried to kill me."

Ellis resisted the urge to to reach out and touch that scar, but it was all too real. It made his blood boil that a father, the supposed protector of the family, would so something so heinous like hurt his baby. He kept his rage in check because of that...and decided he couldn't run away anymore. If this were to work, he had to settle down and make a home for Abigail.

"Did he pay for wha' he did?" He doesn't ask why her dad would try to kill her, but instead tried to help her move on, or confront the events. Nothing in the Crossing prepared him for this.

"He's dead," Abigail quickly reassures him, reaching to place the scarf on the bed but realising how badly her hands are shaking as soon as she lets go of it and picking it up again, needing something to hold onto and squeeze out her worries into. "But that's not the end of it - or even the beginning, really. He killed so many girls, he wanted to kill me so he chose ones that looked like me."

Ellis offered his hands for her to hold onto, because what he hears is the stuff of nightmares that no one should ever have to endure. Her father wanting to kill his baby girl, and why would he do that?

"I'd hate t' sound like a bastard but whatever happened t' yer daddy, I hope he paid for it tenfold," he said in a firm tone, "You saw all those girls, didn't ya? Issat why you have nightmares?"

He was giving her the benefit of doubt and even if she had something to do with the murders, there was still some forgiveness. That can mess someone up so badly...

She takes his hands, squeezing so tightly that her own turn white; she's probably cutting off his blood supply, but that doesn't occur to her in her own need for comfort. "It's always the same. I see them. They tell me that if it wasn't for me, they'd still be alive."

Ellis looked over and gave Abigail one hell of a look. Not because he didn't believe her dreams, dreams were an incomprehensible concept that everyone has and they interpret them. It's the fact that Abigail, a victim just as all the other dead girls, would blame herself for the machinations of her father. He didn't mind his hands being gripped tight, he knows survival mechanisms when he saw them.

"Yer blamin' yerself for doin' what you needed to do to stay alive," he said, gently pulling her closer to him, "Yer father knew he could overpower ya, kill ya when he had the chance. And I'm glad he ain't alive anymore because I would've pumped him full of lead." And he would've. El is no stranger to spilling someone else's blood but he knew the difference.

"That's just it, though." She can't bring herself to look him in the eye as she continues. "I don't know if it was ever just about trying to keep myself a lure. How far I was a victim, a lure, or an accomplice."

The mechanic crossed his arms and stated bluntly, "In my perspective, you were all three an' it wasn't by choice. If we're honest here," and by the looks of things, he probably was the only one obeying that statement, "you were the lure an' the accomplice t' yer dad, but what you really were, above ev'rything, a victim. Because you didn't want to die an' yer dad made sure you wouldn't have a choice t' get out."

He then looked out the window of their motel room and for a second, he wasn't in this with Abigail. He was trying to survive the horrors of the Green Flu with friends that became family.

"I can't ever judge ya...or anyone for doin' what they needed to survive."

It wasn't just to survive, she knew that deep down. Hannibal had told her so, how she hadn't stabbed Nicholas Boyle out of self defense but that she'd butchered him. Was that really who she was? Was it what she wanted to be? She wasn't sure, and the idea that there's even some small part of her that did want it terrified her most of all.

She doesn't think it's a good idea to share those thoughts with Ellis. His acceptance and support is by far preferable to the disgust that would come with that admission. She smiles, one that's a little weary and very relieved, as though his words have taken a great burden from her.

"Thank you. You don't know how much it means to hear that."

Had Ellis ever heard those words from anyone in regards to Abigail, they would meet the business end of his shotgun. No one could ever blame her for the rage, certainly not some hoity-toity doctor who couldn't understand what it could take to make someone quiet and vulnerable snap. Then again, the mechanic knew he was getting one side of the story and he didn't get this far on pure dumb luck. There's a brain behind those starry blue eyes.

"We should head on outta here. I'm not likin' this fog one bit an' this place ain't no where for a lady like ya," he said with the strength of character that comes with being a survivor. Plus he's pretty sure he saw something in the mist, something that he probably would avoid.

Abigail nods reluctantly. She knows he's right, that it's best to keep moving, but she wishes that for just once she could rest - mentally as well as physically - rather than have to keep pushing on all the time. At least now she knew that she could use him as a crutch for a while.

"All right. Let's go find our beach."

After what happened at home and Eros, Ellis had to keep moving. It was taxing, and little by little, his heart grew harder and his features worn out with time. He wasn't about to give up on Miss Abigail but he had to do something to keep her safe: he handed her a cast-iron skillet he managed to swipe off the kitchen.

"Swing it like a bat if it's someone runnin' and it ain't me," he instructed her as best he could, he didn't like the sounds that bounced off the walls.

"Resort town my ass," he grumbled as he tossed aside a brochure for the local attractions.

She turns the skillet over in her hands, getting used to the weight and the feel of it. She didn't have much in the way of physical strength, and she wondered how effective she'd actually be if it came to using it.

"You really think there's other people here? It looked pretty deserted when we drove in."

"Well I ain't seen no virus outbreak so it's safe t' assume we ain't where I came from," this was probably one of the few times Ellis showed his true colors as a survivor of a plague. "Maybe it's on the off season."

Hope was a free action when it came to these things, even if it was misplaced.

"I saw movement over at the 5-to-2 Dinner, hope y'all like flapjacks," Ellis spoke with some humor to his offer: he would be very willing to make her breakfast if he could find the ingredients and make her feel more at home.

The Bed-Sharing Meme

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