maskormenacelogs | but you have blood on your hands

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but you have blood on your hands

WHO: ABEL GIDEON and DANGER
WHERE: House #7
WHEN: Laaaate tuesday night
WHAT: Danger watches Gideon sleep; Gideon does not sleep soundly.
WARNINGS: References to torture, amputation, cannibalism, violence, probably murder, PTSD.

[ Being out of the hospital is a mild improvement, if only for the faint security that comes of knowing he is protected under Danger's watchful gaze. But Gideon also does not feel comforted in the presence of people. He has become more distrustful, more paranoid since his traumatic encounter. He is restless, tense, always on-guard these days; even his sleep is rarely restful.

In his bed, Gideon is damp with sweat, a curl of hair falling over his pale forehead. He's still but he shivers, breath quiet and quick, his legs longing to kick but entirely unable to -- as if in sympathy, his fingers grasp at his sheets tightly enough that his knuckles stand out whitely, tendons like cords.

Sometimes he doesn't dream; those are good nights. The nights he descends into pure, unthinking, silent darkness, that tenuous peace undisturbed until the faint light of morning interrupts. Other nights he tastes copper in his mouth, something tangy and bitter and sweet all at once that he can't identify until his body does for him. He gags, his throat closing as the room feels warmer. Behind his eyes he sees the shine of a knife, his reflection in the sleek metal. A fork in his hand, his stump of a leg that in his dream is still freshly bleeding. Blood drips out from the corners of his lips down his chin, down his fork. He feels nothing below the waist, as usual.

The knife hovers over his other leg, and draws a bleeding line across it that Gideon can't feel even as the flesh lacerates. Then, with one motion, like a butcher's the knife slams down. ]

Not--

[ He's in his bed. Sweaty, pale, breathing hard and grasping at his right leg, which is still there. Of course it is. He pants, simply muttering, softly: ]

... Good.

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[ It's a funny thing how she finds herself more and more intertwined with these humans-- these bags of flesh and soft things, still alien to her in so many of their ways. There was a time in her life when she would have be content to hate them all. She still feels it, from time to time, twinges of that old hatred. But as her emotions evolve, her attachments to these transient creatures grow, swelling until it overwhelms the logical core of her being.

Danger has been favoring her mechanical form at the house now, because it allows her particular advantages when it comes to overseeing Abel Gideon's adjustments to being "home." Nights can be difficult. Perusing various resources detailing the symptoms of post-traumatic stress tell her what to expect, but the reality-- coupled with her own emotional investment-- is more complicated. As a machine, she knows all his vital signs, what phase of sleep he's entered, and the likelihood that he might be dreaming. Her databases compare patterns and charts from previous nights. But comfort is not a function she performs well in that cold and unfeeling container.

It's an experiment of sorts, one she initiates without much explanation. The past few nights have seen her occupying her organic body, and instead of the sleepless machine standing guard from dusk until dawn, she is a convincingly human-like shape on the bed beside him. Whether or not she'd fallen asleep is unclear-- but she's alert now, stirred by his violent awakening.

Sitting up, she blinks those white eyes at him in the darkness, her voice quiet and slightly questioning: ]

Doctor?

[ Breath coming in soft gasps, Gideon's hand finds Danger's in the darkness before he is momentarily jarred -- again -- by her presence in the bed beside him. As strange as it is to share a bed again after death did him part with his late ex-wife, Gideon is more relieved than unsettled to find Danger there, her body a protective anchor to reality that reminds him his peril is another universe away for now. ]

Danger...

[ His voice is soft, a bit hoarse and sleep-slurred still. He blinks in her direction, barely seeing anything but her outline in the darkness, and leans closer to her body. ]

How long have you been here?

[ She tenses slightly when his hand closes around hers, but she doesn't flinch away, instead turning her hand to loosely grasp his. Human gestures can be foreign to her, but this one-- holding hands-- is one she has to come to know well enough, in its varied uses. Her palm is cool, her fingers strong. Her grip says: I am here. ]

A few hours.

[ Danger answers readily when prompted. She could be more specific, more accurate, to the minute-- but that seems rather beside the point, at the moment. ]

I was watching you. [ Guarding you. ] Were you dreaming?

[ Involuntarily his body still tremors slightly, hands shaking despite his efforts to still them. Gideon focuses instead on his breathing, slowly inhaling, slowly exhaling until it's steady, and gives Danger's hand a brief squeeze.

He's torn between his relief that she's there and an irritated shame that she's seeing him like this, but there's nothing to be done about it. Gideon knows it would be futile to try and tell her not to watch over him as he sleeps, and even then he's not sure he'd rather sleep alone. There's no right answer, no solution. It just is.

Pursing his lips slowly, wetting them, he hesitates before answering softly: ]

I don't remember.

[ She looks at him without blinking, quietly observing the way he inhales and exhales with purpose, willing his breathing to become even as he squeezes her hand. If she understands the reasons a person might feel ashamed at a moment like this, it doesn't show on that ever impassive face. In her mind, she's only calculating what should be done next-- how to achieve the best outcome, given the circumstances.

With someone else, this may have been an opportunity to gauge vulnerability or a weakness to exploit. But her goal in the moment is a different one. ]

You spoke briefly in your sleep. Immediately before you woke. [ Her head tilts slightly. Finally, she reaches out with her free hand to brush that stray curl of damp hair back from his forehead. ] I was uncertain if perhaps you were having a nightmare.

[ His skin -- face, hands, neck -- feel clammy to Gideon, cold and coated with a thin film of sweat. His eyes, similarly, feel coated with something; more of a fog or a mist than a wetness caused by tears. Most of all he feels hazy and far away, like he's come apart from himself even further but in a more tenuous, drifting way. A helium balloon slowly rising in the air as its string unravels. ]

I rarely dream, Danger. May have only been a memory... struggling to draw itself back up past the surface. Far too many have suffocated already.

[ A typical meandering answer from him. Idly he wonders if his face appears at all pale, or if would be visible at this hour regardless.

A part of him feels strange and not entirely comfortable being evasive as he is being with Danger of all people, but the other part of him -- the larger, stronger part -- resents displaying that ounce of weakness even to her. Or especially. ]

Didn't succeed this time, be that the case.

[ What a place the inside of this man's head must be. Like Madison's, Danger thinks-- with certain pieces faded, parts of it that can be confused and treacherous. She wonders if she should be concerned that she makes the comparison.

After a brief second of dwelling, she withdraws to get up from the bed. In the moment, she is as human as she'll ever be, rumpled clothes and wild sleep-tousled hair. But her face is as unreadable as it ever is, as passive as her voice when she finally replies: ]

I worry for you, Doctor.

[ Crouching at his dresser, she pulls out a fresh shirt to replace the sweat-dampened one he wears, returning to his bedside to offer it to him. ]

[ Pursing his lips, Gideon watches her move in the darkness, her silhouette -- even like this -- a comfort in however much anything can be to him. He wonders vaguely if he would feel the same where it Alana Bloom here instead, or if her presence would insight something different than safety. Sympathy.

Impossible to tell.

After some hesitation, he reaches out to accept the shirt from her and moves to slowly unbutton the one he's still wearing. ]

Dreams can't hurt us, Danger. No reason to fear them.

Fear rarely obeys reason, Dr. Gideon.

[ She waits with all the patience befitting of such a timeless being, her attention lingering on his hands as they work open the buttons of his shirt-- like maybe she suspects she might observe some unsteadiness. But she lets the man handle the task himself. Crippled though he might be, she doesn't find him to be helpless.

Still, after a moment, her eyebrows draw together slightly as she stands there in the dark. ]

Is there a reason you have refrained from discussing your thoughts with me? Is it a matter of trust?

[ He's silent at the question, watching her watch him briefly before he attends the business of his shirt again quietly, finishing with his buttons and slipping himself into the clean one that's cool, refreshingly so, against his skin. ]

Not at all. I do trust you.

[ Gideon reaches for her in the darkness, to take her hand and pull her closer. It's not a subject he hopes to linger upon. ]

Come sit by me, won't you?

[ The words should be more reassuring than they are. Maybe, in an ironic sort of way, it's simply her own distrustful nature that prevents her from feeling comforted. But the feeling of his hand finding hers eases whatever restlessness that was beginning to build, and she lets herself be coaxed in closer, complying with his request as she sits on the edge of the mattress.

In the dim, her eyes are even stranger, their whiteness made more stark by the darkness as she stares, her attention on him unwavering. ]

If it is not an issue of trust, then what is it, Doctor?

[ Holding her hand in his, Gideon pulls her a bit closer, sitting up so that he can move himself toward her as well. It's not an easy motion, but using both the pillows behind him and his other arm to assist he's able to position himself so they're beside each other.

His eyes fix on hers right back, and he strokes the side of her face gently. Rather than answer her query -- he's not keen to try and make sense of it in a way she might understand, since he isn't sure she can -- he leans closer, hesitating only briefly before he presses his lips against hers. ]

[ It's a distraction facilitated by how soft and sensitive this human-like body can be-- the touch of his hand against her face draws her attention in a way that it never would have in her mechanical form. She lingers on the feeling for a split second, perhaps on the verge of insisting that he answer her question when unexpectedly, he leans to kiss her.

Her grasp on his hand tightens slightly. Stillness answers his gesture for a moment before she finally responds, tilting her head ever so slightly to kiss him back. ]

[ Everything about Gideon's actions in this moment is unusual, counter to his regular apathy to physical contact and avoidance to intimacy -- but there's purpose behind the kiss beyond simple evasion. Beyond manipulation. If nothing else, he can expel some emotion through the silence of their touch.

Pulling back slightly, Gideon kisses her again, this time at the corner of her mouth. His eyes refocus upon hers, somehow softer without the light to expose the unmoving grey-blue coldness they so steadily maintain. Without letting go of her hand he moves his own closer to her body, letting his fingers trace her skin exploratorially. ]

[ But even like this, there's something inhuman about her-- something in the way she responds that betrays her for what she is, though her pulse races under the paper thin skin of her wrists. She's still tentative somehow, still subtly cautious, eyes open and watching him. Always holding something back. Always calculating.

She lets him touch her without resisting, without enforcing the rule of permission that she holds for others. But Danger tilts her head just slightly away after a moment, breaking the contact between their mouths. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet-- as if keeping her words low will conceal any other quality they might otherwise have: ]

It isn't necessary to distract me this way.

[ Gideon pulls back, lips already pursed together defensively before his hands follow suit and slip slowly back across the small -- very small -- space between them.

It's still dark, and darkness isn't something that can just be ignored. What function as nightmares are memories and fears intermingled to form a daunting truth with only slight aberrations from reality, all things Gideon sees whenever he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts roam without direction.

Quietly, he mutters: ]

Who says it's a distraction?

[ She pauses, considering his answer as if she were deciphering some riddle. Even for her-- or perhaps, especially for her-- Abel Gideon continues to be an intriguing mystery that requires her attention and effort, even through these moments of intimacy. Her empty eyes stare at him in the dim, watching his face, unwavering.

Finally, she reaches out to catch those retreating hands as they slowly pull away from her. Cool and gentle, but firm-- her grip wraps around his wrists. She leans towards him, closing back up some of that minute space before answering in a quiet, precise voice: ]

Then what is it?

Oh... nothing much.

[ His answer comes quickly, naturally, even though moments before Gideon would have had no idea what he would have said had he given actual thought to it.

But sometimes the best answers come spontaneously. His fingers flex, stretching to stroke what of her skin is closely available -- her arm, her wrist, her hip. ]

Call it impulse, perhaps -- seemed like a good idea at the time.

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but you have blood on your hands

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