Hank, Anika, Sunday

[x-beast.livejournal.com]

Hank does what he can for Anika. His offer of food is more effective than his attempts at comfort.




Hank rarely cooked, but there was a time and place for everything. And being a doctor who both could cook and and knew the slightly odd dietary requirements of ferals was definitely it.

He'd made the soup primarily for Anika, although he planned to give Kyle some as well. He'd used chicken as well as venison, left out the salt and most of the seasonings he'd have added for less sensitive palates, but included a few herbs and added some carrot for colour and token vegetable content. He'd also enriched it with some cod-liver oil - the less smelly kind, for use on humans - and vitamin E oil. He'd never yet met a feral who didn't love both, but if they didn't know they needed it, they wouldn't think to eat it. E was vital for healing, and if Anika was getting antsy due to lack of sunlight, a vitamin D deficiency might be responsible. And even if she didn't need them right now, she'd probably like them anyway.

He tapped gently on her door, trying not to salivate himself at the smell wafting from the big bowl of soup. Although not precisely feral, as such, his slightly altered metabolism responded similarly to the substances in the soup.... although an ordinary human would probably think it tasted a bit odd. "Anika?" he called quietly. She hadn't come out yet, today, as far as he knew... and she was probably hungry. And thirsty. Good thing he'd brought juice too. "I brought you something to eat..." The door wasn't locked, and he peeked around it cautiously...

Anika was huddled in the corner under a blanket, red-eyed and trying very hard to stop crying. The smell had reached her, but she was too lost in the turmoil in her own mind to respond to it as she might have otherwise. She didn't even look up at Hank as he came in.

Hank set the tray down on the table, and went to crouch beside her, not touching her, but close enough that she should be able to smell his concern. "Is there anything I can do to help, my dear?" he said gently. He leaned forward a little, resting his weight on his knuckles. It was a comfortable position for him, and he hoped the rather simian body-language would make him seem less potentially threatening.

Anika didn't flinch, even when he crouched down so close to her. The part of her brain that was still functioning properly registered the body language as no threat, and she sniffled, rubbing her eyes desperately. "They're gone," she wailed softly. "They're really gone. I scattered their ashes into the lake and I thought I understood that, but then I woke up this morning and it all came crashing down on me again. I want it to stop... why couldn't I have died with them? Why did they have to go and leave me alone?"

"I'm sure they would have done almost anything to stay with you," Hank said gently. "I can only imagine how much it must hurt." As devastating as losing Jean had been... they'd known each other for years, been as close as family... losing someone you were in love with had to be even worse. "I imagine, though, that wherever they are, they're glad that you're alive. That you have a chance to life your life free, even if they can't be with you to share it."

"I don't care. I don't care." The words came out in a moan, and Anika huddled further in on herself, shaking like a leaf. Tears were pouring silently down her cheeks. "They left me. Everyone always leaves me. Why am I always the one who lives? It's not fair, stupid healing factor..."

"It does seem to be a mixed blessing at best," Hank agreed. He reached out, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. He wasn't sure how she'd take physical contact right now, even though his instinct was to try to comfort her with touch - something most ferals preferred. "But not everyone has left you... Kyle, for example, has been very worried about you. You mean a lot to him."

Anika sniffled, the back of her hand pressed firmly to her mouth as if trying to hold back a sob. "Oh, I know." Her voice broke, and there was a wildness there, a skittishness that was decidedly alarming. "I know, I need to pull myself together, this isn't good at all..."

"It's all right," he said gently, keeping the hand on her shoulder, pitching his voice to a quiet rumble that he hoped sounded comforting. "You need time to mourn, Anika, before you can move on. It's all right to fall apart a little, if you need to." And he'd said that far too many times... around here, people tended to try to hold it together until they came apart at the seams. If she could grieve now, while she was here and safe, maybe she wouldn't do something very foolish later when they weren't watching her.

"It's not all right to fall apart. It's never all right to fall apart. If you fall apart, they find you, and even if they don't find you, they win." It had the sound of a litany, something she'd said over and over many, many times.

"I wouldn't say that, my dear," Hank said gently. "If you give up, they win, that's true. But a little falling apart every now and then isn't a failure. Sometimes you have to let things come apart before you can put them back together, if that makes any sense." He'd seen that happen far too often... people trying to hold it together until they just couldn't anymore, when a little falling apart earlier on would have hurt less and, ultimately, helped more.

Anika let her head rest on her folded arms. The tears were still flowing. "Don't want to put it back together. I keep putting it together and they just take it away again. They always take it away."

Hank pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket - he went through so many, here - and offered it to her. "You've made sure they can't ever do that again," he said softly. "Which I'm sure isn't much comfort right now, given what you've lost." He sighed. "I'm sorry, my dear, I wish there was something I could do to help, besides offering the same platitudes that I'm sure everyone else already has." He smiled a little. "Would it help at all to tell you that I do truly believe that you'll see them again? Not in this life, but I believe that there's another."

"At least they're not buried in the desert." Anika sniffled and wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief. "They won't be forgotten like they never existed."

"No. They won't ever be forgotten." Hank patted her shoulder gently. "Even by those of us who never really got a chance to know them."

Anika squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and Hank could almost see the effort she was putting into gathering her composure. "The soup smells good," she said, her shaky voice almost childlike.

"Good. I made it just for you - and Kyle. Feral-mutation friendly... no strong seasonings, plenty of meat, and enriched with vitamin oils." He smiled a little. "Most other people think it rather nasty, but I've never seen a feral-type turn it down." He reached for the bowl and spoon, handing them to her. "I rather like it myself - I'm not a feral, exactly, but I'm not entirely normal in my tastes anymore. I eat almost anything, actually."

Her mouth was watering at the smell of it as she took the bowl. That hadn't happened in... well, since before last weekend. "I don't know if I ate yesterday," she said, and tried the soup. It was good. "I remember someone telling me to, after Ian and Isabel left, but I don't remember if I did."

"If you didn't, this should be mild enough not to come as too much of a shock to your stomach. And I made plenty... I'll bring up some more for you to reheat later." Eating was always a good sign. Especially in a feral...not eating made them sick, and quickly.

"I think I'll stay up here," Anika said with a sigh. "For today. Unless I go down to see Nate. But I'm tired." And she was sounding just... cranky. Whiny. "And I don't know why I'm sitting on the floor."

"The bed or a chair would probably be more comfortable," he agreed, standing and offering her a hand. "And you stay up here as long as you like. Rest will do you good... and so will eating, so I'll bring up plenty more of that soup. The juice will help, too... fresh out of the apple, no preservatives or sweetners."

Anika sipped at another spoonful of soup before she set the bowl aside and took Hank's hand. It really was good. The change in position made her head spin, though, and she wobbled, dizzy. "Ow..."

He helped her into the nearest chair, tucking the blanket around her carefully before handing her the bowl again. "Another bad thing about the floor is its tendency to make you stiffen up if you spend too much time on it," he observed, stating the obvious because he wasn't sure what else to say. "I really do recommend the bed for extended periods of curling up."

"I think I was looking for Mick." Her eyes filled with tears again, but she blinked determinedly and focused her attention on her soup. "I'm not sure. It's all fuzzy."

Hank nodded, touching her shoulder again. "You'll find him again," he said gently. "Someday. I do believe that."