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Nervous energy danced through Amelia's limbs, making them tremble. Nervous energy. What was left after struggling and choking on the blood forced down her throat. Nerves.
The door in front of her was swung open, and without protest, she let herself be ushered towards a sink. It was what she had wanted all this time, and it only took an hour to get here. It only took an hour to be shown decency—assuming this was an act of decency.
She turned a knob, ignoring how goosebumps broke out over her arms when the water fell over her skin. Her hands were sticky and red, especially her left; the one that shattered the glass of blood when Doc declared that they would have to do things "the hard way." Fighting to free her hand while it was trapped around a glass instrument was a poor decision on her part. But the Captain released her hand after that surprise. She didn't take it well when Doc came back with more blood. By the time the new container was empty, her hand and nose had healed, along with the bruises she gained by not cooperating.
Bending farther over the sink, Amelia cupped her palms under the stream and raised handfuls of water up to her mouth, slowly at first, to rinse away the taste. Gradually, the length of each rinse decreased until she was practically spitting out the water as soon as it was in her mouth. She wanted to be sick.
A few more seconds of rinsing were followed by a long pause, giving her time to address her erratic breathing. She straightened, and her gaze met that of the reflection in the mirror—the object she had been consciously avoiding looking at since entering the room. Tired eyes stared back for a few seconds before lowering to follow the red trails near the corners of her mouth down to her jawline. There, the blood was smeared, and so too was it around her chin and across one cheek: places where she had some recollection of being handled. The front of her t-shirt was colored with several large patches.
Look at this! See how hard you fought? Not every drop was swallowed!
Amelia tucked her head and pulled the front of her t-shirt away from her body. The fabric might have been permanently damaged.
Look how hard you fought! Look how hard you fought! She bit her tongue, hard.
From her left a high-pitched clack sounded, and she snapped her head in its direction in time to see the door shut. The Captain was gone.
Amelia didn't want to look in the mirror again. She splashed her face, rubbing fiercely as she watched the pink-tinted water run down the drain.
Look how hard you fought!
Her breathing was still unsteady when she yanked the t-shirt over her head. The tank top underneath seemed fine aside from being fit for a man; its cut was just low enough to avoid having any blood from the t-shirt reach it. Taking the bar of soap in one hand and her t-shirt in the other, she began to scrub at the red spots.
Again, there came a sound by the door. Suspicion morphed into dismay, dismay turned into anger, and a scowl was directed at the Captain before Amelia resumed her washing.
When she sensed him standing close enough to make her feel uncomfortable, she glanced his way a second time. There was a folded shirt in his hand—most likely a clean one from her dresser.
Remaining silent, and without bothering to make eye-contact, she continued scrubbing the dirty shirt. The red stains were fading to brown. I don't need your help. I don't want it. Go away.
A gloved hand reached towards the faucet and shut off the water with a sharp twist.
Amelia watched and listened as the small puddle of liquid gurgled out of the basin, clenching her fingers around her soaked shirt and bar of soap. Depending on the Captain's next move, she was considering throwing both objects at him. However, the tense seconds that followed were not interrupted by any movements on his part.
Amelia grit her teeth. The Captain was not steering their interaction towards his preferred outcome. He was waiting for her to choose.
A string of insults directed at the man flew through her head. You are so cruel! I know the consequences! You know that I know! So no matter what happens, I'm responsible!? That's not fair! You…! She dropped the t-shirt in the sink so that she could press the back of her hand to her forehead. For a moment she held it there, trying to compose herself. Then, with deliberate slowness, she placed the soap on top of the shirt.
Lowering her hand from her forehead, she wiped both hands on her pants and turned towards the door, which was still blocked by the Captain. Her eyes met his, and as usual, she had difficulty reading the emotions behind them. The small squint might have been a sign of anger. Or maybe it was a thoughtful frown? She hoped he was angry. If she was unhappy, she would like to drag him down with her.
"I can get a shirt by myself." Her voice was tight, and her throat, dry, but she found that she was able to keep her expression steely. When she tried to step around him he reached out, barring her way with one arm while offering the clean shirt a second time. He was definitely trying to tell her something as he shook his head and briefly pointed at the door.
Amelia wasn't in the mood for guessing games. Without a word, she lowered her gaze and made her way around the outstretched limb. No move was made to stop her this time. She walked out of the bathroom and into her room, and slammed the door as hard as she dared behind her.
The blanket from her bed—probably what she had been tangled in when she woke earlier—was on the floor. Grabbing one end, Amelia threw the cover across the bed, unable to bring herself to straighten her sleeping space any more than that.
Crouching in front of her dresser, she opened the drawer containing her shirts to retrieve a new tank top. She was none-too-gentle with the garment, whipping it out of the drawer and slamming it on the dresser-top before she reached back into the drawer to grab another piece of clothing.
The second her hand knocked against the back of the drawer, she froze. Breathing in deeply, she pulled her hand back out and stared at the storage space in disbelief.
The next ten seconds were spent tugging open the bottom drawer and pulling out a pair of shorts and pants. With these pieces of clothing removed, she found her dresser completely empty.
Amelia shoved the drawers closed and stood, her hands making fists. The Captain had her last clean t-shirt.
The fire in the hearth was nearly dead, a small flame wavering pathetically in its last minutes of life. Darkness covered much of the room and its furnishings, including the figure curled against the stones of the fireplace. Upon the vampire's initial glance about the room, his eyes wandered over her unknowingly, drawn at first to the large window opened to the black nothingness outside. Had he not sensed her presence, he would have thought the room deserted.
Alucard took a soft step closer to the fireside, and retracted the thought. The young woman's crying was muffled by the knees pulled up to her face and the arms wrapped around them, but it was in no way inaudible. Seconds ticked by—eventually a minute passed—and not once did she lift her head or quiet. Regardless of her reasons for not acknowledging him, he had no intention of waiting in the shadows.
Alucard moved forward with impatient steps, the fire swelling in the hearth at his approach.