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Irina Derevko (derevko) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2014-02-09 00:18:00

Who: Irina Derevko and Abigail (Hobbs) Lecter
What: Comparing dream notes
When: 2/4, before this log.
Where: A boutique in Mission Viejo
Rating: PG
Status: Complete



There was precious little to do in Orange County right now, and it was starting to bother Irina. She’d never been the sort to laze around and eat bon-bons; she’d been raised to be a woman of action and aside from trying to find the men in her dreams and hunting down the antecedents of one Bryce Larkin, she was frustratingly at liberty.

Then again, she’d read about new boutiques opening in Mission Viejo recently. And she had just made quite a bit from her cut of the sports book on last weekend’s American football games. Maybe some shopping would do her good.

She was standing outside the third shop on her radar right then, an accessories boutique that promised handbags, scarves and sunglasses of good quality. She’d already bought a dress to wear the next time she had a date, and replaced her favourite pair of boots that had broken a heel. Why not look for a Hepburn-esque scarf to finish the picture?

Abigail Lecter was in the shop, looking at silk scarves to add to her ever growing collection. They’d gone from a mere accessory to a way to fit in at school, a way to pass under the radar any time she went out. She was in jeans and one of her father’s Brooks Brothers button downs, a Hermes scarf around her neck. She found the older she got and the more she lived with Hannibal, the more she just wanted to dress like Audrey Hepburn.

Irina saw the girl as soon as she walked into the shop, but didn’t approach right away, lest she be labeled odd, or creepy. Still, she remembered the pretty doe eyes and aquiline neck from the network.

She did want to look at handbags, and she managed to find one that fit her needs before going toward the scarves. There were a few that were charming, amidst the bad Indian-print patterns. “Excuse me, may I ...” She pointed across at a scarf with a subtle print, not wanting to reach across the girl’s personal space.

Abigail looked up, recognizing the woman from the valarnet. She hadn’t expected the heavily accented voice, but somehow it was comforting. “Of course,” she murmured, moving aside. “That would look really pretty with your eyes.”

Irina reached across to pick up the soft blue scarf. “I liked the colour,” she said, examining it. “So many of these are in jewel or earth tones, but blues and greens look good on me. I hope it isn’t rude of me to say that you’d be better suited to the taupe one you had before.”

“I thought so too,” Abigail smiled. “I wear them every day, so I try to get lots of basic colors.” It would be hard to match things otherwise. She took the taupe one, liking that it had a little gold shimmer to it. It made her pale skin look a little more warm.

“Do you? It’s an unusual fashion statement for a girl your age, but it’s a very classy one.” Irina smiled a little. “I approve of vintage style. Then again, one might say I’m a little vintage myself.” She knew she didn’t look her age, but she was starting to get there. Still, she refused to have work done. Every old bat in California looked vacuumed. Surely there were men out there who approved of the natural look.

“I have a scar on my neck I’d rather people not constantly comment on,” Abigail smiled. “It’s just easier to cover it up and have people think I’m quirky.” She was getting there - slowly but surely she was starting to appreciate antiquated things - but she’d take quirk over freak any day.

“Ah. My apologies; I didn’t intend to pry.” Irina shook her head. “That said, however, ‘quirky’ is highly underrated.” Quirky usually meant unpredictable. In her friends and lovers, she vastly preferred being kept guessing, though it tended to be a pain in the ass when it came to underlings.

“It’s fine, really.” Abigail smiled, looking down. “I know my lover likes them. He’s always bringing out new ones he finds for me as gifts.” Which made her happy, that he was always thinking of her.

What an interesting choice of words, for a very young woman. “How very considerate. Thoughtful men seem to be rare nowadays.” Irina smiled a little, setting the blue scarf down. “My name is Irina, if you didn’t recall it. I remember you from the computer network.”

“I remembered you,” Abigail smiled. “I’m Abigail. And yes, he’s remarkable. He makes me feel ... lighter than usual.” Not younger, never younger, but less burdened by problems.

“Good.” For a fraction of a second, God help her, she was jealous. She’d never had any man make her feel that way. Some women had all the luck. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Abigail. You look much happier than you did that day on the network.”

“That’s not so much because of my life, it’s more because of my dreams,” Abigail sighed. “It’s frustrating, because it’s not me, but they color so much of my days sometimes.” It was like having no control at all, and Abigail liked having control.

“I understand that, certainly.” Irina nodded, feeling suddenly tired. “My dream self is a KGB agent. I would never do anything of that nature in this life - but she has traits which are not unlike some of mine.”

“I ... a lot happens in my dreams,” Abigail laughed. “It’s why I have the scarf.” She tugged it down a little, trusting this woman to understand that she hadn’t gotten the scar naturally.

Irina blinked, but didn’t make a fuss. “I’ve heard of others receiving physical things from the dreams - items, or bodily modifications. I’d never seen it up close.” She smiled a little, looking away. “All mine have left me with is a sense of being a truly awful person, and a sadness that I never knew the daughter I had there.”

“Maybe you will? There’s always time,” Abigail offered hopefully. “I’m awful in my dreams too. But I don’t think I ever had much of a choice.”

“That’s a rare moment, when one truly has no choice.” So many of the situations where people said they had no choice, they did. Still, corners did exist. “I had no choice about joining the KGB, but I had every choice in deciding what sort of person it would make me into.”

Abigail thought about the woman said, but she thought she could draw out the meaning. “I’m sorry you don’t like her. I’m ... stronger than I should be in my dreams. I don’t know if she and I would get on either.”

“Stronger than you should be?” Irina echoed, curious. “I confess I’m uncertain how one could be stronger than they should be. Is strength not always a good thing?”

“I lived through too much. My father was a serial killer in the dreams, and he recruited me to help him find victims so that he wouldn’t kill me. Nobody should have to shoulder that.” Sometimes it felt good to tell people her story, to shock them. It felt like pushing some of the burden she carried onto them, and that was nice for a few minutes.

Irina wasn’t shocked. Empathetic, perhaps, but not shocked. Bad things happened. “I think, if you will pardon my frankness, you are confusing strength with Stockholm Syndrome. If you could truly shoulder that burden, it would not bother you at all. But it does, therefore you were not strong enough to hold it. That is a good thing,” she added, wanting the girl to understand. “That much strength is perhaps unnatural. Especially in a girl your age - I doubt you are twenty.”

“Eighteen, just turned. I didn’t do it because I sympathized with him,” Abigail added hastily. “I did it to survive. Period.” Even in the dreams, she’d have wanted that distinction made.

“Oh, no, I understood that.” Irina nodded. “But the fact you are strong enough to have survived this in the dreams - you speak as though you lived to tell of it - should be celebrated, not regretted. Obviously, you wish it had never happened, but it did, and you made it through alive.” She never understood people feeling guilt for surviving.

That made Abigail smile. “I lied to everyone and said I didn’t help, that it was a surprise. So it’s this secret I keep.” That was the guilt. In her dreams, she felt better after uncovering Nicholas Boyle’s body for the world to see.

“Ah. That is somewhat different.” Irina hoped she didn’t scare this Abigail, but she’d learned the hard lesson herself. “Never, ever be ashamed of survival. No matter what had to happen. I understand feeling guilt over being less than truthful - but we must live, above all else.”

That made sense to Abigail, and she smiled a little brighter for it. “You sound like my lover.”

“That means he must be very wise,” Irina replied gravely, hoping the girl smiled.

That made Abigail laugh. “He’d better be, for what he charges an hour,” she quipped. It was a joke that had made Hannibal laugh many times.

Irina did chuckle. “Ah, he is a doctor? I cannot claim that title myself; I work a corporate job.” She broke off, uttering a satisfied exclamation when she found a dark blue scarf under the piles of taupe. “Ah, much better.”

“Psychiatrist.” Abigail found a purple scarf with dark blue wisps that she found pretty and added it to her own pile. “You don’t seem like you’d suit a corporate job.”

“I solve problems for companies. It involves a lot of travel, and I do not even have a desk.” Irina smiled. “The usual things are not within my purview.”

“That makes more sense, then. You’re too... vulpine.” Abigail averted her eyes, feeling like she might have overstepped her bounds in her observation.

Irina wasn’t offended. “I have had to be. I grew up in Russia, under the stagnation era. It was not as awful as American textbooks make it out to be, but we did what we had to.” Her eyes were pleasant. It was a simple fact, to her.

“That’s where your accent from. My beau, he’s from Lithuania.” Abigail smiled, running her fingers over her arm where she knew fingerprint shaped bruises were.

“Russia, yes. When did your young man come here?” Call her curious. She’d never had any problem in the Baltic countries. In fact, she rather liked them.

“He grew up in Paris, I think he came over here thirty or so years ago,” Abigail grinned. “He’s in his late forties.”

“Oh. I see.” She didn’t imply any judgment, or at least hopefully she didn’t. It was all rather amusing, honestly. “I’ve actually never been to Paris except to change airplanes. I left Russia via Bonn, and then was not permitted to leave Germany until I left to the United States. I would like to go.”

“Me too. We’re going to go this summer, I think.” Abigail liked this woman, and she smiled at her. “Do you want to get a coffee or something?”

“Yes,” Irina replied. “Thank you.” She was curious about this Abigail. Maybe to a rude degree, but she knew how to be tactful. It was usually a question of whether she wanted to bother.

That made Abigail smile, and she moved to the counter to pay for her scarves. She found another on her way there, but soon she was ready to go, bag in hand.

Irina was behind her, waiting with her own purchases. “I would like to know more about your beau,” she said. “He sounds like an interesting man. And I may be in need of his professional expertise.” A lot had been jangling around in her mind lately; she might actually benefit from it.

“Oh? Well, we’re trying to keep it quiet now. You look like you can keep a secret. If you don’t tell everyone, we could chat about him.” Abigail figured the woman would understand.

That made sense, if he was that much older than her. “I ask purely in a professional capacity,” Irina replied, going to pay for her purchases when it was her turn. “I would like to know more about a man before I agree to tell him my secrets.” That might have been a joke.

“That is totally fair,” Abigail chuckled. “I’ll give you one of his cards.” She waited for her new friend to pay before walking with her toward the exit.