argyle_princess | (no subject)

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She didn't really eat breakfast. She knows she should, and she needs to, and all, she just isn't hungry.

She is, however, tired. Very, very tired.

Which is why after not eating breakfast, Hannah went back to her room (that isn't really hers any more than the clothes in the closet or the toothbrush in the bathroom or the running shoes by the door are really hers) to take a nap.

At least in theory. Because what she has actually done for the last two hours is stare at things -- the wall, the ceiling, the other wall, the door, the ceiling again, yet another wall.

Finally she gives up, wraps her arms around her pillow (which isn't really hers, either), and cries.

She's not really sobbing, or even weeping -- those require more energy than she's got right now. She's just crying -- because she's tired, and frustrated, and frightened and worried and she doesn't really know what else to do, any more.

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Who knows how much later it is, when there is a knock on the door.

Considering all things, it is pretty easy to guess who it would be-

They are not joined at the hip, but Wellard is around often enough, and checks in on Hannah for lunch time.

That would be now, apparently.

It's not even really a guess. As far as she knows, he's the only person who knows which room she's staying in.

Still, she lies there for a minute longer, debating just how rude it would be to not open the door, and whether or not it would make him worry, and if she actually has the energy to make it to the door or not, anyway.

It's another minute, or two, before the door actually opens.

"Hey."

Any sort of greeting Wellard was going to say rather dies, at seeing Hannah. There is no need to ask how she is doing, really- That is easy enough for even Wellard to see.

He bites his lip, before reaching up a hand to barely touch the side of Hannah's face- and then dropping his hand down to step forwards to hug her.

He is a much better thing to wrap her arms around than a pillow. (He's much more hers than the pillow is, after all.)

There's a sharp intake of breath that she holds for a long moment before letting it go, and then a much slower breath, that she exhales as a sigh.

"Hi," she says.

"Hannah." Quietly, by way of greeting. Wellard lets go of her only so much as to make it easier to lean back a bit so he can look at her.

"What's wrong?"

There's a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Same old stuff," she says. "Worried, anxious, can't sleep, take your pick. All of the above, I don't know. It's sort of like being the before part of a Sominex ad. Or the list of side effects for an antidepressant or something."

... The last goes over his head, right there. But he can figure out the first is what is important, (hopefully), and he can focus on that. He nods slowly.

"... Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I don't know," she says. "I'm sorry, I just . . . I don't know.

"How are you?"

For once, he will not be answering 'well enough'. Wellard gives her a faint, sad smile.

"Worried. About you."

"I know," she says. "I really hate that this is making you worry. I mean, I hate that there's a reason you have to, not that I hate that you're worried, you're allowed to be worried of course because, you know, that's normal and logical and all and if it were you, I'd be worried, not that I'm not worried, because I am, but it's kind of different, maybe, and I . . ."

Hannah trails off and sighs.

"Maybe I should have just stayed there. Had Agent Booth put me in a storage closet at the FBI or some kind of bunker or whatever the hell it is they use for protective custody. It might have been easier on everybody. Shorter, you know, with the time and all. I don't know, though, maybe that would have just made it worse. At least this way, you know I'm okay and Brennan and Agent Booth and Angela and everyone can kind of assume that I okay, and I am okay, really, except for part where I'm not. Because this isn't really okay, but you know, this is a not okay that means I'm tired, not a not okay that means I've been caught by Howard Epps, so it seems really kind of awful to be complaining about being tired when it really could be much, much worse, and I kind suspect I've stopped making even a little bit of sense here, and I should probably just stop talking."

Wellard reaches up to brush some of Hannah's hair back, as he thinks.

"Time may be a bit shorter out there, but you would probably be feeling the same locked up where ever Agent Booth put you- which would probably have a lot less room than here at Milliways. And... that's still in the same world as Epps is." He sighs quietly.

"I'm not saying either situation is good, but all in all I think I'm happier with you here, and they probably are as well. ... Still is hardly the best situation for being 'okay' and not worrying and everything, and I'm sorry."

A slight smile. "Yeah, FBI safe houses probably don't have their own lakes. Waste of tax-payer dollars and all that. Thank you."

For being here, and for being happier that she's here than he would be is she were she wasn't constantly disorganizing his life, and for being, well, Henry.

"You want to know something?" she asks, abruptly and in that tone people say You want to know something in just before they tell you whether you want to or not.

"I'm mad. Really, really mad. That all of us are . . ." she waves a hand to encompass the scale that runs from worried to in ICU, " . . . because some . . . person wants to play a game with other people's lives."

"I am certainly not going to argue that." Wellard mutters, with a nod.

"Hopefully they catch him soon, and don't waste any time hanging him."

"We don't actually hang people any more," she says. "It's lethal injection, mostly. Electic chair, some places, I think. Besides, he's awaiting trial, and he'll have to be tried for these crimes, too. It's kind of brilliant, in a really sick way. If he keeps killing people, you can't execute him, because you have to keep trying him."

Wellard raises an eyebrow at that, his expression rather clear at the moment of what he is thinking about modern, American justice.

"So rather than killing him, they're just going to catch him, and hope he does not escape- which he obviously has done already, and go back to killing?"

There's an awkward shrug. Hannah sorta feels like she has to at least try to defend the American justice system.

"It's not just a matter of hoping he doesn't escape. People don't usually escape from prison."

~~Except on Fox shows.~~

"And the other people he's killed deserve to have him answer for their murders, too. They should get their stories heard in court."

At least, that's what Brennan says, and that's good enough for Hannah.

"We don't just grab a rope and a yardarm and just hang people as soon as we catch them. Even in Texas. And, you know, they don't execute people at all in England any more."

"They certainly did in the navy." Wellard mutters- then sighs, and reaches up to rub at his eyes.

"Sorry. It is just... I am not particularly fond of Epps at this moment."

"Me, either. And really, they can execute him as soon as they want and it won't bother me in the slightest."

She hugs him tight for a second and then steps back.

"Anyway, I have something for you," she says, without much of an attempt at a segue.

Wellard blinks. Yes, total lack of segue, and given Hannah's state when he arrived, he certainly was not expecting... anything like that.

"Something for me?"

Segues are overrated. And she's too tired to come up with one, anyway.

So she nods, and vanishes into the closet for a second, and emerges with a bright yellow basket full of the green plastic grass like the kind her mother used to complain about having to vacuum up till Christmas.

It's contains a variety foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.

Every single one of them is blue.

"Happy Easter."

Blue Eggs.

Wellard blinks- and then laughs quietly, looking over the basket.

"Blue. And do I have to worry about them being cooked or not?"

He gets the brightest smile he's seen from her in a week.

"I thought you should give blue eggs a chance. And you can cook them if you want, but they'll melt. They're chocolate, and then some of them have all kinds of stuff in them -- peanut butter or caramel or coconut or all of the above, I don't really know. I asked Bar for all different kinds."

"... chocolate and candy eggs."

Alright, this may balance out such things as the future's odd justice system.

Then again, it is also sweets.

And even better, Hannah is smiling. Wellard grins, and then leans over to gently kiss her.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, and kisses him lightly before settling her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you. For putting up with me being tired and cranky and babbling and all."

He smiles faintly, reaching up to touch Hannah's cheek.

"Its... You would do the same for me." Simply.

"Yeah, I would. And you would appreciate it if I did. So let me appreciate it that you are.

"Thank you."

"Alright, then." He smiles softly.

"Though, we can see about fixing some of the 'tired, cranky and babbling'- or at least the tired portion of it." Wellard gives her a slight look- more with concern than anything else.

"When is the last time you got some sleep?"

Hannah gives him a smile that's aiming for amused but mostly just gets to tired.

"I think that depends on what you mean by sleep. If you mean something other than staring at walls and then waking up every 30 minutes or so . . . the night I fell asleep in the bar, probably."

Wellard blinks at this.

"... Well, if you wish to go down to the bar again..."

Hannah laughs. (She probably wouldn't, if she weren't so tired, but then, if she weren't so tired, they wouldn't have had most of this conversation.)

"I kinda don't think the bar had anything to do with it," as pointedly as she can manage, though the amusement.

He raises an eyebrow, still puzzled.

"Ah- alright, then...?"

Hannah shakes her head a little, still laughing, and looks away.

But when she looks back at him, the amusement is pretty much gone.

"Stay. Please."

Same request she made twelve days ago, when Brennan left her here.

Ah.

He does catch on, eventually. Wellard blinks, and then nods slowly.

"Ah- Of course."

However, he is studiously looking Not at the bed.

Yes, she notices the Not looking, and Hannah's honestly not sure whether to laugh or cry, and there are slight edges of both to her voice.

"Henry, I'm not asking you to sleep with me. Just to be in the room. And I'll understand if it's not something you're confortable with, since it's probably not something Nice Girls did in 1802.

"I just feel, I don't know, safer or something when you're here. Not alone."

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

"No, it wasn't." Wellard rubs the back of his neck.

"But this isn't 1802. I- Um." He bites his lip, cheeks red.

"If you wish to get ready for bed, I will wait out in the hall, and then-"

Well, there is a chair and desk in the room, and some forensic journals to read- even if those are the last sort of thing Wellard would ever think about reading to pass the time. They will work for tonight, and reading articles about saw marks on bones will help keep his mind off other things--

Hopefully.

"I think I'm good, really," she says. "Jeans and a sweater are fine for a nap."

Aside from the bare feet, she's dressed no differently than she usually is when he sees her.

She kisses his cheek. "Thank you."

She's asleep -- curled up on her side -- within minutes.

And Wellard takes a seat at the desk in the room, with a forensic journal to skim through. He has stood watch often enough on board ship, so keeping awake and observant is easy enough-

("I just feel, I don't know, safer or something when you're here. Not alone.")

But he has quite a few things to think about, that do not involve indentifying kerf marks on bones.

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