Participants:
| Scene Title | Just A Little Stoned |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Anya brings around dinner and leave's Abby a little stoned. Literally. |
| Date | December 16, 2009 |
svyato-monastery - Monk's Cell
It's a little early in the day for dinner, the sun not yet set, but then they didn't provide Abby with lunch; two meals seems to be the extent of Vanguard hospitality. All things considered, though, even that is generous; they could do far worse by her. The six-foot-square cell even has a view, albeit a view that first drops straight down a not entirely comfortable distance before presenting a slice of snow-covered pasture to her sight.
The woman who opens the cell door doesn't knock; doesn't slam it into the plaster-coated wall either, but pushes it open with the nonchalance of someone secure in her own authority. At close range, it's apparent that Anya Orlova's blond hair is just beginning to gather silver; she wears plain brown fatigues, carries a tray with more stew and bread — something that may become an overly routine meal option, at this rate.
With the opening of the door, it's hard not to see that Abigail's eyes flicker to the portal, that the whole of her tenses and curls in on herself from where she's laying on the blanket folded and spread across sleeping platform and the grimace that follows after.
Relief too as it's Anya and not Ethan or worse. Can there be worse. The second noticeable thing - beside the myriad of colors the side of her face has taken on or that there's a boot on one foot and not the other - is that frankly, her stomach is growling for want of the food. She knows it could be worse, that right now it feels like worse but that it very well could get worse worse.
Recognition flares at the blonde woman's entrance but she doesn't relax. After what Ethan did to her, can one really blame her? There's no singular greeting or lunge for the food that she carries, just wary young woman, watching, ready to try and keep distance between her and Anya.
The Russian woman doesn't seem to expect much in the way of greeting; she doesn't offer one herself, but quietly steps into the room, nudging the door closed behind her. She sets the tray on the windowsill rather than the floor, pauses there. Turns to regard Abby in her corner, green eyes narrowing slightly in a thoughtful fashion. The rest of her expression gives no clue whether they are good or bad thoughts, though, at least as might be interpreted from Abby's perspective; and when Anya speaks, she speaks in Russian, a bare handful of words that probably contain a question — but which question?
"I don't speak Russian" Blonde brows are pulled down, not out of anger, but more out of confusion. Surely, they know this? "I only speak English" And hopefully Anya speaks it? Maybe. Blue eyes flicker from the woman who can supposedly turn people into stone, to the food on the tray as her stomach betrays her in it's desire to be filled again. "I'm sorry. If I knew it, I'd talk Russian. It's only polite" Worlds a little thick with her accent from the side of her mouth that's puffed up from hurt flesh.
The younger woman's responses seem to strike no chord in Anya; she hears the words, of course, but the lack of change in her expression suggests that English is in fact no part of her repertoire. After a moment more, the older woman purses her lips, nodding slowly; the look of one who expected no different. She leans forward, lifting a hand towards Abby's face; an ungloved hand, fingers straightening from a casually loose curl as they approach.
Back, shifts back, hands coming down to push away from Anya and towards the wall that's at her back. She's seen what the woman's touch can do and in no way does she wants her touching her. Eyes clamp tight,chin tucked into shoulders that hunch inwards as if willing some shield to come up between them, keep any contact from occurring. Images of being stuck in a state of solidity and no senses save for your own mind to occupy you are flung up in her mind repeatedly, thoughts of Francois and how'd he'd been like that for two days. "Our father, who art in heaven-" She starts to hurridly murmur the lords prayer.
The woman's reach stops as Abby pulls back; with her eyes closed, she likely misses the thin twist of lips on Anya's face, a grim and bitter smile. It doesn't last long. The Russian doesn't push, but lets her hand fall, withdrawing to the other side of the room. There, she leans her back against the wall, crosses her arms nonchalantly — and watches Abby, willing to wait until the younger woman peeks back out of her figurative shell.
Which she does when there's not ouch forthcoming, and she can still hear, feel, smell. Yeah, smell, she could use a bath. Not the freshest of daisies. One eye cracks open, string ahead then swivels towards the blonde. Surprise, wariness, there's still fear imprinted there.
That smile reappears as she meets Abby's gaze, thin and sharp. Anya speaks again, one sentence in Russian; a moment's weighted pause, and then the woman pushes herself away from the wall, hands falling to her sides. A second sentence is spoken, the tone of her voice harsh; she turns her back on the captive former-healer, and exits the cell with the same lack of fanfare as her prior entrance.
It's about then that Abby might realize her ankle has stopped hurting over the past few heartbeats. In fact, it doesn't — much of anything anymore. Except maybe feel a little cold… and heavy.
Smiles aren't necessarily good things. Combined with how the Russian falls from the other womans lips, there's a flinch as if perhaps she did something wrong and the words are a rebuke, something. She doesn't know and likely won't remember long enough to repeat it for her teammates if they ever find her or if 'Muldoon' makes good on his promise to let her go if she co-operates.
She does look down though when the absence of pain filters it's way along her nerves and through her brain stem to the pain receptors in her mind. Abdomen, still hurts, face, still hurts, ankle…
Slender fingers push down at the sock that covers her ankle, a harsh intake of breath at the disbelief of what she see's. The woman never touched her, that she knows of and yet, the flesh of her ankle is stone, cold hard stone and not living flesh. Abigail looks up at the door that Anya just left through then back down to her ankle. "Lord" Whether it's a good word, or a not so good word will likely go unknown but she at least spends the next few minutes exploring her changed limb before obeying her stomach and testing it out so she can fetch her food.