Eyes bigger than her stomach
Who: Svetlana and Ben.
Where: Ben's place.
When: Early early morning - pre dawn.
It was still dark, although only just, and Svetlana had avoided the bear. Not that she knew there was a bear - just a stroke of luck that her route was one which had bypassed all forms of life other than the odd bird pecking forlornly at the frosty ground. Seeing a bear still would have been less serious business than bumping into Adam again - not that she regretted stabbing him, only the possibility that he'd come back for some grisly revenge was a nasty little niggle in the back of her head. This was why she'd decided to leave the sharp and pointys at home - she hadn't even managed to rescue the first kitchen knife from the street yet. She let it go. She let everything go apart from the task at hand - surveying Ben's house with a intense, deliberate air, and trying to find a nice quiet way inside.
She had slept a little and it had helped. Non-drug induced sleep is a beautiful thing which you come to appreciate massively only once you have experienced the alternative. That thick groggy feeling, the swimming vision, the lack of control. Hard. So when Svetlana awoke in her bathtub from a natural (if not slightly fitful) sleep, she was certain she felt better, and that her second attempt at foraging would probably NOT end in a stabbing and a minor panic attack.
She was better prepared, for one thing. There was a plan to put into action. She now knew how fully pointless it would be going to a grocery store, considering they were most definitely empty (or full of nothing but tinned eels - no thanks). She knew that there were actually people in the town, so she would be more alert. She knew that going outside was scary as fuck - but that it wouldn't destroy her. And most importantly? She knew that there was a man who did not leave his house, who had someone buy him large amounts of groceries, who was a hermit and very much on another planet - but (she was hoping so hard on this one she had convinced herself of it's truth) harmless. She knew where his house was. Yeah, she was a lady very much in the fucking know.
Dressed in over-sized bulky knitwear, pinned back her hair with a rather insane amount of hair clips (for lock picking) and stuffed her sweater with two rolled up pillowcases. Hereby to be known as "swag bags". It would have been fun if it wasn't such a dire necessity. Svetlana was beginning to feel that awful pang of hunger - the need to binge and be full of something. And so here she was. Walked all the way in the dusky dark-blue shadows with quick, light footsteps. On edge. Came close to bolting back the way she came more than once, barely contained it, but driven on by her craving. Didn't meet anyone. Good.
The fragile looking blonde "cased the joint" - so to speak. She clucked her tongue softly to herself. Break a window? Too loud. No lights on. Didn't want to wake him. Then, she noticed it - a rare grin flickered across her face. The idiot had left his front door open. Fan fucking tastic! She clasped her hands tightly over her mouth to repress her glee. Fear and glee and a burning feeling she couldn't place. Slowly she entered the dingy little house, testing the air - she crackled with anxiety. Eyes wide, heart pounding. Desperate.
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It was usually fairly easy to tell when Ben had dropped into sleep. The man snored loudly; deep, chainsaw-grade rumbles punctuated by breathless moments between each. Of course, it wasn't as easy to set any kind of schedule for Ben's sleeping habits. He was a manic man, prone to long hauls of wakefulness that would bring him to exhaustion, sometimes dropping him asleep right where he was. More often than not, Ben would simply go until he had no energy, sleep, and repeat.
Tonight was no exception, either. He'd slept through the afternoon, sleeping right through the plans he'd made with Dale to go to the church, and had eventually woken with no sense of time whatsoever. Ben couldn't quite figure out if he'd missed a full day, or just the daylit part of one. And he didn't really care much, either; he'd fallen right back into his reclusive routine with ease. Thoughts of Dale had only lingered as long as a cup of tea and half can of corn could last, and then? Well, there was work to do. Always work to do.
It was the quiet variety though; a seat in his living room with his guitar cradled in his lap, fingers flitting across a mixing board as Ben toned down the high end of his guitar. He raised one earphone up, listening as he plucked a string with nothing carrying beyond a soft note, then nodded in satisfaction. Spreading pages across the board, Ben started a slow coaxing of notes, listening to each critically as he worked through a spread of music he'd been working on.
He stopped with pick to string as a ghostly form breezed past the slightly-open door, his head twisting for a better look. Ben was speechless, stock-still in his seat with his guitar held close. Was it Rebekah? It looked female, which meant it wasn't Jeremy or... what was his name? Travis? Trevor? Kaylin? Ben didn't want to hope for her return, but couldn't help himself as he squinted to see more detail.
Svetlana's eyes accustomed to darkness quickly, considering how used to it she'd gotten in the past year. She noticed straight away that the house had an identical layout to her own - which meant she knew exactly where to head in order to reach the kitchen, and as such did not pay much attention to the details of the living room. Like uh, the big man-shaped detail sitting on the couch. She took steps forward with swift deliberation. It occured to her how much she hated those stupid leather boots as she watched where she placed her feet. 15 steps and she entered the kitchen. Made to softly close the door behind her.
Noticed movement out of the corner of her eye.
Oh. Fuck.
She clocked the heavily bearded man and felt her belly do a somersault. Guitar on his lap. She couldn't make out distinct features in the gloom, but she would put money on it that he had seen her. Why on earth was he awake? The sun hadn't even risen. She bit down hard into her bottom lip. Fuck it. She had to follow through. She needed supplies. She groped underneath her jumper for the pillowcases, never taking her huge blue eyes away from the hermit in the next room. She was willing him with every single one of her brain cells to stay where he was, to please lord not have noticed her, even though she knew that the odds were very much against that outcome. Oh bugger, Svetlana, you used to be so good at planning. You should've come through the back window. You shouldn't of been so cocksure.
Just watching her, Ben stayed stock still. He wasn't entirely sure she was real was the problem. It was late, or early, and he was due for a dose of medication soon enough. He hadn't seen her before, but there were aspects that reminded him of Rebekah; the thinness, the pallor, the tense anxiety he could see well enough from where he sat. "Make believe?" he asked in a soft rumble, fingers ghosting along the neck of his guitar as Ben played a soft, twinkly bit of notes. "Really real? Something who's someone?" He laughed softly at himself, shaking his head. She probably wasn't even there, but he'd watch until she disappeared, just puzzling over what his damaged mind was trying to tell him.
The man's voice shook her a little. Soft and deep and odd. What was he asking her? Was she real or not? Was he laughing at her? She became aware of the tang of blood in her mouth and released her lower lip from between her teeth - the skin chapped and cracked away so easily. That was real - the blood was real. What a fucking offensive question. She nodded slowly, unblinkingly, and then stopped herself. If he thought she wasn't real she could probably get away with doing what she wanted to much easier. No-one yelled theft if they thought their own imagination was the culprit, surely?
Still staring, she backed slowly into the kitchen. Watched. Perhaps he'd follow, or perhaps he wouldn't. She could adapt, and cross bridges as they came. Left the door open. She doubted figments would bother trying to keep draughts out. It would be the details that made or broke the newly hatched part of the scheme. It was always about details.
His guitar was propped on the sofa for later; Ben wasn't done working on his compositions, after all. He rose to follow, curious as the ghostly woman disappeared into the kitchen. One hand rose to pick at his beard as he frowned, belatedly feeling prickles of anxiety over this. If she was real? Well, there was a strange woman in his house. And that didn't happen, not with how he knew he spooked people at first sight.
Moving to the entry of the kitchen, Ben stood half-hidden by the doorframe as he peered out after Svetlana, that one hand still digging and scratching at his concealed cheek. "Do you speak?" he asked her in that same soft rumble, as if he feared that volume would shatter the illusion. "Yell? Laugh? Whisper so soft that the wind can't carry it? Or is it just what I say, echoes of my words from something who looks like someone familiar?" The odd cadence was definitely there as he spoke; lyrical mumbles that had a strange fervor to them.
So he was following. Okay. She wasn't scared. He looked like he couldn't take care of himself at all - like the idea of surviving was one which had escaped him. He was just existing. All haggard and wild eyed and unshaven. People like that were not a threat to her. He was a victim, and a nuisance, and she would prefer it if he wasn't there - but scary? Hardly.
She didn't particularly like that he was trying to hold a conversation with her. No, I don't talk. I don't do that anymore. I'm not a toy, I don't have a pullstring. And for tonight, I'm not even real. I'm a ghost.
She hissed softly, an eerie noise, like wind rustling through dead leaves. Quiet. Turned away from him and faced the work surfaces. Jackpot. There were cans - corn, peas, carrots, peaches. She grabbed one and glanced over her shoulder at Ben to gauge the reaction. If he flew at her she could always brain him with it. She doubted very much that he had a weapon.
Now he was of two minds. Ben never said as much, but he had latent issues with women in general. He could deal with them, and did as much as he dealt with anyone, but hostility from them unnerved him faster than it had any right to. So that hiss crept straight through his skin, knotting his hands tight with anxiety as he leaned back a touch, still watching Svetlana, but with a more pronounced wariness.
Of course, there was still the chance that she wasn't real, that the soft rasp of breath had been his own mind's doing. And that her very presence here, one of his cans in hand, was just a reminder from his subconscious. When had he eaten last? Ben couldn't recall it any more than he could guess about what time he'd woken. Maybe that was it; she was a filler, someone who looked like one person he knew and filled the role of another. "Go brain go," he muttered, taking a wary step around the doorway and into the kitchen proper. "Scenic route to where it needs to be, but the trip's all done. Refuel," he said, more to himself than the woman he didn't think was real, moving to the counter. Ben yanked open a drawer with a rattle of cutlery, digging for a can opener and spoon as he looked away from Svetlana.
She froze as he went for the drawer. He was too close too quickly. She jolted and every muscle became taught and ready to pounce and claw and draw blood if she had to. What was he going for? A knife? No. A spoon and a can-opener. They weren't what you would call an arsenal. What was he doing? Joining her for a meal? Ridiculous. He was talking, still, but it did not seem to be aimed at her. That was better. Muttering to yourself was something she could have once related to. It was something you grew out of.
She stuffed cans quickly into her pillowcases while he wasn't looking - not caring about the labels. They were food, that was all that mattered. Yes, she'd rather have crisps and energy bars, but you could not be fussy in these life or death situations. It wasn't smart to turn your nose up. She tied the two pillowcases together - they contained 6 cans each, and to her malnourished arms this was quite enough weight to be getting on with. The walk home was long. She was worried she would clank. She diverted her attention from Ben to peer through the kitchen window. Daylight was soon. That was bad. Looked back to Ben. Was he going to let her leave without a problem? She picked up another can in her free hand and gripped with white knuckles. He better had.
Twisting the can opener around the lid of some pineapple, Ben bent it open with his spoon and scooped up a mouthful quickly, never looking Svetlana's way until he started chewing. Thw sweetness was overpowering, drawing a wide grin under his beard with every chew until he swallowed at last. Food was good, and if he remembered to eat regularly, Ben would've gone through his stores by now. But with his first bite gone, Ben looked thoughtfully at Svetlana, shifting the spoon to free up fingers for an anxious scratch at his beard.
Maybe it was some subconscious change; her laden bags filled to represent the fact that he was feeding himself. Maybe she was only here to make sure it happened, after all how else would Ben even remember the last time he'd eaten? Still, the company had been his first since the power went out. Once, Ben would've hated that presence, but since the house and experiment, he'd actually gotten used to having people around. It meant he hadn't been left to die, at least. He dropped the spoon into the can, reaching out as if he might touch Svetlana and expecting her to disappear under his hand, but stopped shy. "She..." he rumbled, brow furrowed in distress over his own thoughts, "She's not coming back. Neither is she." Nonsense to Svetlana, but a eulogy for Ben, for the people he'd known as he turned away from Svetlana, knuckling a hand on the countertop.
Repressing revulsion (and the urge to lash out) as the strange man made to touch her, she gripped the can in her hand tighter. Cold metal compressing against her fingertips. It was spinach. How funny, she pictured squeezing the can hard enough that it burst like he did in the cartoon. Filling her with a freakish strength. I'm strong enough, she felt her confidence renewed now that she had her food secured, and she was indoors. The four walls were always a comfort. She could fight and not break and her will was iron. She had wanted food and she had got it, she had overcome her own fears a million times over.
Ben was still talking to himself. She doubted that the "she" he referred to was her. Curiosity replaced Svetlana's wary hostility. A gaunt, haunted sort of face was hidden behind all his beard, and mania behind the eyes. She knew the sort, the wretched and lonely in the streets of Ukraine had the same air about them. Had this man been locked away like her, left to go slowly crazy? It wasn't right. He seemed so hopeless. She frowned gently and decided that she would not attack. She had already stolen from him - not that he noticed - she did not need to fight him. As a sort of peace offering she handed him the can of spinach. Held forth in such a way that her fingertips would not touch his. He needed the strength more than her - that much was obvious.