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It's blurry in her head. It always is after these things. And she hates that she knows that, that this feeling of after is so familiar. It's never quite the same of course, the ways in which her mind gets invaded never quite the identical. And yet, there are patterns.
The blurriness is one. Unable to form thoughts, her reactions slowed, can't focus on anything. She hates the way her words stumble out of her mouth, jumbled and jagged, betraying nothing of the doctorate she worked so hard for.
Rachel is driving her - she's not sure if home or to a hotel or somewhere else. She didn't ask. Rachel always drives her after these incidents. Or makes sure Ian is. At least since the time after the Light when she'd driven her car into a ditch. She'd been fine but, well, now Rachel drives her whenever something like this has happened.
Because Rachel knows the patterns too. At least as much as Allison can't hide them. She doesn't know why she does. Rachel knows her far better than Allison ever cares to admit to herself. And yet she can't admit that weakness. Can't let her see. Can't trust her. Can't trust anyone.
This is another one of the things in her head. The fear. The mistrust. Rachel calls it paranoia. Allison can't. Because it's happened over and over again. Because how can she know that what she sees is real? That this is not another illusion, another trick. It feels real and unreal at the same time, everything always does. And the - the things that happen to her, they're never the same.
This time it was mushrooms. Weird, and yet not even the weirdest she's experienced. It felt nice, at least. Sometimes it has her screaming inside her mind, begging to be in control. Sometimes she does not remember at all, wakes up without knowing how she got there. It terrifies her.
She forgets things often these days, can't quite recall too many things. Every time she fears for the worst. Wonders if the substance that restored her mind, as much as it is able, is failing, if she's going the way her father did. Or that the devices in her brain are still active, deceiving her, destroying her identity. She can't trust any of her senses.
Rachel has offered her treatment, investigation, surgeries, talking of new methods of computing x-rays, of researchers working on magnetic resonance. But even though Rachel carries the same metal in her skull, she hasn't seen the way Allison unraveled in her first months in Israel. Doesn't know the terror that wakes her up every morning. Doesn't know how she runs her fingers over the scars on her head, terrified to find new ones. Can't understand why Allison can never trust it.
And yet, she drives her, home, to where they both live. It's all Allison wanted in the long years in between. To have Rachel, to see her, touch her, real and there. So she lets the other woman watch her with eyes running hundreds of calculations, and make her tea while she showers. The water is warm, but it feels cold and hollow after the embrace of a mind so complete.
These are the worst of the, the things being done to her. The ones that make her forget leave her terrified, the ones that have her screaming in her mind violated. But the ones that make her want it, crave the control, the ones that make her feel good. She wants to go back, desperate for the terror and hollowness and grief in her to stop. Wants the all-encompassing love, all her wishes fulfilled, feeling, for once, whole. And yet it always breaks.
She'd hoped, this time, that if she just stayed in that barn, if she let herself burn with the rest of it... but Rachel had pulled her along. They all had. For a minute, that had felt enough. Now though, she is home and the hot water is running out and she's freezing and miserable and hurting. Just like always.
And even though Rachel is right there, it isn't enough. Has never been enough. Because she's too broken inside, from her mind being played with or Julian or her father or just because she is herself. Allison Williams, the disappointment. And for a few glorious hours there, she actually belonged. Had a purpose, a role, a family that loved her.
Something she'll never have. Never deserved. She broke her own when she was born and she should have gotten the message then. Should have never tried in the first place. But she can't help longing for the warmth, seeking out the affection time and again, even as she awaits the inevitable destruction she will wreak.
So when she crawls into bed and Rachel brings her a cup of tea, not too hot and not too cold, she lets herself bask in the comfort. And when Rachel moves to leave her to rest, she can't help but hold onto her hand and whisper, "I need you. Rachel, please."
Allison melts into the hug, giving into the illusion that the arms around her mean she belongs, that this is forever, that she is loved. Lets the pain of loss and violation wash over her and the tears flow. At least for right now, this is where she belongs.