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[Joke or not, she isn't wrong.]
Sedative. From me. I control the side effects, the intended effects, the dosage, the potency -- whatever you need, it's uncannily individualized. [A light shrug.] At your consent, of course.
[The most crucial detail. While Chilton was a little more abusive in his powers over his Pet Projects, a legitimate patient (and a friend of the senator, no less) would be given every control to every step along the way.]
Sedative. From me. I control the side effects, the intended effects, the dosage, the potency -- whatever you need, it's uncannily individualized. [A light shrug.] At your consent, of course.
[The most crucial detail. While Chilton was a little more abusive in his powers over his Pet Projects, a legitimate patient (and a friend of the senator, no less) would be given every control to every step along the way.]
[ It's a reasonable explanation. Rather, it makes sense, as a power — even if a snide joke on Lachesis' part, maybe meant as some crack about a man with speech so dull it could put anyone to sleep, or something along those lines. Using it, though, letting it be used against her — letting it be used on her, willingly, takes some amount of trust. It's not something to be given lightly; not something she's ever given easily.
Not in a long, long time. ]
... Short term? [ The answer comes with pause, her focus distant as her thoughts extrapolate the likely limitations — and subsequent applications. ] It requires proximity. Right? If your control is that fine, it probably doesn't travel without you.
Not in a long, long time. ]
... Short term? [ The answer comes with pause, her focus distant as her thoughts extrapolate the likely limitations — and subsequent applications. ] It requires proximity. Right? If your control is that fine, it probably doesn't travel without you.
[Of course, such implied insult wasn't Lachesis' intention at all -- Chilton's speech could be called a lot of things, but never dull. If Ruka was perceptive in even the slightest, she would pick up on that eventually.]
Proximity is required, yes. It isn't potent without skin-to-skin contact.
[Now that was the joke. Lachesis had a sense of humor, after all.]
Proximity is required, yes. It isn't potent without skin-to-skin contact.
[Now that was the joke. Lachesis had a sense of humor, after all.]
[ Her reaction is unguarded: an immediate, defeated exhale, arms shifting to fold across the tops of her knees as she sags forward for the force of it.
Of course it isn't, she mutters, quiet, before shaking her head, speaking louder. ]
Skin contact would give me a direct line into your emotional state. Possibly corrupt it — mess up what you feel, or how you feel it. I don't know for sure. I've haven't tried using it that way, but I know it's there.
If I could use it on myself, I wouldn't have to be here.
[ She shakes her head, taking another breath — deliberate, steadying, measured to the count of seconds. ]
Sorry. I don't know if you should risk it.
Of course it isn't, she mutters, quiet, before shaking her head, speaking louder. ]
Skin contact would give me a direct line into your emotional state. Possibly corrupt it — mess up what you feel, or how you feel it. I don't know for sure. I've haven't tried using it that way, but I know it's there.
If I could use it on myself, I wouldn't have to be here.
[ She shakes her head, taking another breath — deliberate, steadying, measured to the count of seconds. ]
Sorry. I don't know if you should risk it.
[ There's a certain way they speak, roundabout and wandering, as though they understand exactly what the other means. That's not always the case for Jaime, though - he's not exactly sure what's on Ruka's mind, where she's coming from, where she's going. But he does know that it's better to let people talk, sometimes. Things gain clarity with time.
Now, he's not sure what they're talking about. It never used to be her fault that she's sad? It was something absorbed, rather than felt? The only way to find out is to ask. ]
What wasn't your fault before?
Now, he's not sure what they're talking about. It never used to be her fault that she's sad? It was something absorbed, rather than felt? The only way to find out is to ask. ]
What wasn't your fault before?
[ The chair legs shriek against the floor, and the spoon clatters, bouncing across the table when Ruka jerks back, struggling to get to her feet; the chair tips backwards without her, banging hard against the floor. Upright again with nothing to steady her, the way her hands shake and her body trembles is more pronounced than before.
It's the difference between ghosting a hand through static on an old tv screen and stabbing the live end of an exposed wire against a wrist — it shouldn't be this bad, but her thoughts can't stop circling around it, and even as gentle as he's trying to be, the question is too blunt. She has to face what she's done. ]
I can't. [ This is stupid. She's so stupid. Why did she even go there in the first place? Why did she even try? She's not a hero, and she never has been, and she can't do anything right. Her face is burning when she presses her hands against her cheeks, digging the heels of her palms against the resistance of her eyes (against the yield where resistance should be, and the ache and peel of the cloth and the glue trying to tear free from her cheek for the mistake of it). She pulls in breath, and lets it out, trying for measured and trying for calm but her throat is too clogged; air comes and goes too fast, and she thinks she might be hyperventilating just to keep from crying.
Great. Just great. After everything, it all falls apart here over one totally fine question, and maybe she hadn't been doing well, but she'd been doing well enough after what happened to Will, and what happened to Kirie, and she just wants to scream, and cry, and tear herself to pieces so she can stop fucking everything up and stop thinking about it and just stop being this pathetic ambitious idiot. ]
I can't do this. [ And poor Jaime, dealing with her. He just wanted to be nice, and now she's ruined dinner and probably broke his chair. He doesn't deserve this. Fuck. ] I should—
It's the difference between ghosting a hand through static on an old tv screen and stabbing the live end of an exposed wire against a wrist — it shouldn't be this bad, but her thoughts can't stop circling around it, and even as gentle as he's trying to be, the question is too blunt. She has to face what she's done. ]
I can't. [ This is stupid. She's so stupid. Why did she even go there in the first place? Why did she even try? She's not a hero, and she never has been, and she can't do anything right. Her face is burning when she presses her hands against her cheeks, digging the heels of her palms against the resistance of her eyes (against the yield where resistance should be, and the ache and peel of the cloth and the glue trying to tear free from her cheek for the mistake of it). She pulls in breath, and lets it out, trying for measured and trying for calm but her throat is too clogged; air comes and goes too fast, and she thinks she might be hyperventilating just to keep from crying.
Great. Just great. After everything, it all falls apart here over one totally fine question, and maybe she hadn't been doing well, but she'd been doing well enough after what happened to Will, and what happened to Kirie, and she just wants to scream, and cry, and tear herself to pieces so she can stop fucking everything up and stop thinking about it and just stop being this pathetic ambitious idiot. ]
I can't do this. [ And poor Jaime, dealing with her. He just wanted to be nice, and now she's ruined dinner and probably broke his chair. He doesn't deserve this. Fuck. ] I should—
[ Jaime jumps when Ruka does, startled, his knees banging against the top of the table and shaking the plates and the cutlery on it, soup sloshing across its surface and dripping onto the floor. He'd been so careful to try to say the right thing, to treat whatever the heck this is delicately, but it's not -- maybe there's nothing he could say to Ruka, not right now. Or maybe there would be, for someone who knows her better and for someone more intuitive than Jaime is, better at getting to the point, better at knowing when to just clam up.
But Jaime's not really sure if Ruka has anyone like that here anymore. He scrambles to his feet and his hands hover over her shoulders for but a split second before he yanks them back as though burned, remembering why they're here in the first place, knowing that there's no use in her feeling his panic more keenly than she already does. What's going on? What happened? ]
I -- um --
[ He glances around, as if searching for help. Soup's not going to help him, nor are his bounty of kitchen supplies, nor are the art pieces that scatter his walls. Then his gaze lands on something. ]
Try this. As an anchor. And then maybe... you can just get your bearings back?
[ It's a recipe card. For pozole, in fact, written in a tidy print that's not Jaime's own. The recipe card on its own would be no good - it's filled with too much good and Jaime assumes it will be too powerful - but the plastic folder its kept in is all Jaime.
He holds it out. The choice is ultimately hers whether or not its worth to seek out another anchor. But if she does, she'll find something a little more familiar in its complication. There's regret there, anger at some invisible force, the bone-deep ache of missing someone, the ache of filling up something and knowing that you're trying to force something that's not quite right into an odd-shaped hole. There's frustration, and aimless guilt.
But there's also warmth and comfort and the sensation of being loved, nostalgia sweetly singing through it. It's something nobody's touched but Jaime himself, and the emotions are all his. He can't be sure if it's strong enough, or if it's too strong, but it's worth a shot. Anything's better than the way things have gone so far. ]
But Jaime's not really sure if Ruka has anyone like that here anymore. He scrambles to his feet and his hands hover over her shoulders for but a split second before he yanks them back as though burned, remembering why they're here in the first place, knowing that there's no use in her feeling his panic more keenly than she already does. What's going on? What happened? ]
I -- um --
[ He glances around, as if searching for help. Soup's not going to help him, nor are his bounty of kitchen supplies, nor are the art pieces that scatter his walls. Then his gaze lands on something. ]
Try this. As an anchor. And then maybe... you can just get your bearings back?
[ It's a recipe card. For pozole, in fact, written in a tidy print that's not Jaime's own. The recipe card on its own would be no good - it's filled with too much good and Jaime assumes it will be too powerful - but the plastic folder its kept in is all Jaime.
He holds it out. The choice is ultimately hers whether or not its worth to seek out another anchor. But if she does, she'll find something a little more familiar in its complication. There's regret there, anger at some invisible force, the bone-deep ache of missing someone, the ache of filling up something and knowing that you're trying to force something that's not quite right into an odd-shaped hole. There's frustration, and aimless guilt.
But there's also warmth and comfort and the sensation of being loved, nostalgia sweetly singing through it. It's something nobody's touched but Jaime himself, and the emotions are all his. He can't be sure if it's strong enough, or if it's too strong, but it's worth a shot. Anything's better than the way things have gone so far. ]
[ The reason — the reason — she hates falling into her feelings like this isn't just the embarrassment she feels. It's not just the shame for being weak, not just the humiliation that comes with the not being able to care for herself, not just the pity it engenders and the disdain and the helplessness and the resentment that grows around her like mushrooms in damp decay. It's not the fear of losing control, of converting her anxieties and her griefs into unprompted violence, not in the way of so many empaths she's known before. It's not the pain of it, the strain to her sick organs and her frail limbs and the bone-deep weakness that has never, despite her efforts, fully gone away.
For her, what she hates is what she fears: that turning the light to all that she feels, to face all that she has experienced and hidden away, will overwhelm her. It is not losing herself to other hearts; it's losing to her own, alone.
She barely hears Jaime's voice, stumbling and uncertain, but he stands close enough; his hands ghost in the space near her shoulders, that same magnet-like pressure as before. She hates this, she hates this, she hates this, her hand smearing away from her good eye to the blurry, unfocused sight of Jaime standing before her, hand outstretched with invitation. It's a rectangle, a double-wide card covered in neat writing, the kitchen light reflecting off plastic and obscuring the text. She doesn't know what it is, but she recognizes the offer of a lifeline and the intent to help. Her hand shakes, but she doesn't hesitate to take it. Hell, it could have been the bloodied edge of a dagger and she still would have taken hold, desperate for escape.
It is not a dramatic hauling ashore. It is not a sudden burst of fire-heat, some overwhelming force that chases away her fears and her guilts and her regrets. It's familiar, in the little tracks of pain and of hurt and of loss and of guilt that chase one another through her veins. It's familiar, those little blips of anger and longing. It's familiar. It's not an anchor, or a blade, or a rope, or some tool to use to pull herself fully out of her own heart, but something like a magnifying glass — a polished lens to bring a smaller thing into sharp relief, the edge of the glass blurring out the rest.
Focus.
And maybe it's not overfull of such goodness that she snaps out of her collapse like a ricochet band — maybe even something that was wouldn't be able to do much to stop what has started. But the hand that touched the card takes it, and from a pinching grip pulls it close, flat against her sternum so her whole hand can splay against it — breath still rough, and ragged, but slower now, caught in the more natural spasms and hiccups of unrestrained tears. The riling tension of her whole body seems to bleed out of her.
Still, she can't help the motion of her free hand, scrubbing the end of her sleeve against her cheeks to mop up tears, as if that might prevent him from noticing them in the first place. ]
I... really've made a mess of things, [ she mutters, trying to sound like her usual self despite the obvious, ] sorry. I'm sorry.
For her, what she hates is what she fears: that turning the light to all that she feels, to face all that she has experienced and hidden away, will overwhelm her. It is not losing herself to other hearts; it's losing to her own, alone.
She barely hears Jaime's voice, stumbling and uncertain, but he stands close enough; his hands ghost in the space near her shoulders, that same magnet-like pressure as before. She hates this, she hates this, she hates this, her hand smearing away from her good eye to the blurry, unfocused sight of Jaime standing before her, hand outstretched with invitation. It's a rectangle, a double-wide card covered in neat writing, the kitchen light reflecting off plastic and obscuring the text. She doesn't know what it is, but she recognizes the offer of a lifeline and the intent to help. Her hand shakes, but she doesn't hesitate to take it. Hell, it could have been the bloodied edge of a dagger and she still would have taken hold, desperate for escape.
It is not a dramatic hauling ashore. It is not a sudden burst of fire-heat, some overwhelming force that chases away her fears and her guilts and her regrets. It's familiar, in the little tracks of pain and of hurt and of loss and of guilt that chase one another through her veins. It's familiar, those little blips of anger and longing. It's familiar. It's not an anchor, or a blade, or a rope, or some tool to use to pull herself fully out of her own heart, but something like a magnifying glass — a polished lens to bring a smaller thing into sharp relief, the edge of the glass blurring out the rest.
Focus.
And maybe it's not overfull of such goodness that she snaps out of her collapse like a ricochet band — maybe even something that was wouldn't be able to do much to stop what has started. But the hand that touched the card takes it, and from a pinching grip pulls it close, flat against her sternum so her whole hand can splay against it — breath still rough, and ragged, but slower now, caught in the more natural spasms and hiccups of unrestrained tears. The riling tension of her whole body seems to bleed out of her.
Still, she can't help the motion of her free hand, scrubbing the end of her sleeve against her cheeks to mop up tears, as if that might prevent him from noticing them in the first place. ]
I... really've made a mess of things, [ she mutters, trying to sound like her usual self despite the obvious, ] sorry. I'm sorry.
[ Jaime watches her carefully, fretfully. He knows how much pain her powers give him but he wishes he had the same for just a moment, just so he could figure out what the heck is happening, what's actually in that card he shoved at her, whether or not it's helping or if she just needed an extra moment to regain her equilibrium. That had been too much for whatever Jaime can provide to help with - really, what Ruka needs is a metric ton of therapy, a suggestion he's not sure would be taken well by someone who habitually holds others at arms length - but he wants to know if it had at least helped a little bit.
It's awful, just standing by and watching, knowing that doing anything else will only make things worse. But no matter how much he tries to sift through his options, there's nothing that will make it better, or will even make it a little less terrible. He's just got to wait it out. So he does.
Instead of doing much at all, Jaime grabs a box of tissues from the cupboard and hands a couple to her, brow pinched, tension wound up in the way he holds his body, as though he's spent the last few minutes in a state of suspended motion, liable to spring into action at any moment. For this, it's all preparation and no catharsis; there's nothing to do, even if his body is in crisis mode.
This would be a lot easier if there was someone he could punch. He tends to prefer his problems as resolved by beating up giant robots. ]
No, it's -- you don't have to apologize for stuff you can't control. Especially not something like this. [ He wants to ask what exactly's going on, but the question dies in his mouth. That's what spurred this whole thing on in the first place. He's not used to seeing her like this, raw and exposed, like all those little things she's tried so desperately to hide away ever since they first met, years ago, had all come out in a great big flood. ]
I don't mind. I mean, I mind, I don't want you to suffer, but it's not -- um -- I mean, it's okay with me that if it happens, it's...
[ He runs a hand through his hair. He's bungling this up. ]
...did that help?
It's awful, just standing by and watching, knowing that doing anything else will only make things worse. But no matter how much he tries to sift through his options, there's nothing that will make it better, or will even make it a little less terrible. He's just got to wait it out. So he does.
Instead of doing much at all, Jaime grabs a box of tissues from the cupboard and hands a couple to her, brow pinched, tension wound up in the way he holds his body, as though he's spent the last few minutes in a state of suspended motion, liable to spring into action at any moment. For this, it's all preparation and no catharsis; there's nothing to do, even if his body is in crisis mode.
This would be a lot easier if there was someone he could punch. He tends to prefer his problems as resolved by beating up giant robots. ]
No, it's -- you don't have to apologize for stuff you can't control. Especially not something like this. [ He wants to ask what exactly's going on, but the question dies in his mouth. That's what spurred this whole thing on in the first place. He's not used to seeing her like this, raw and exposed, like all those little things she's tried so desperately to hide away ever since they first met, years ago, had all come out in a great big flood. ]
I don't mind. I mean, I mind, I don't want you to suffer, but it's not -- um -- I mean, it's okay with me that if it happens, it's...
[ He runs a hand through his hair. He's bungling this up. ]
...did that help?
[ She takes the tissues as they're forced into her hand (tension, worry, stress, impotence, helplessness), sopping up what she can; she keeps her focus on that, rather than on forcing her breath to slow or her heart to calm. It's easier to just let her heart be hooked by new input, let them serve as focal points, let grief settle in familiar, stable patterns.
She just wants to go home, but she doesn't know what that means anymore.
It feels useless to keep trying to stop the waterworks; like the cutting of a marionette's string, that arm falls to her side, limp. The other remains where it is, bare hand pressing the plastic-covered card against her chest the way other people might indicate a heart attack. Her vision is blurry for it, but she's not looking at anything anyway. She doesn't want to see the state of his chairs, or his table, or if she accidentally ruined his things. (If she fucked up his photographs, she'll never forgive herself.) ]
I'm too sensitive. [ It's explanation and derision, but the self-blows that hurt the worst are the ones that are true. ] I'm sorry. I didn't want to let you down.
[ It's hard to talk and cry at the same time; her free hand grabs at her other arm, grasping over the hidden marking, and she tries one more time to steady her breathing.
He asked a question. ] It helps. It's... Focus. That's, it's, familiar. I feel like this too. I know this. I... I can handle this. Sorry. Everything's been too much since then. I'll be okay. I think.
... Sorry for apologizing so much, too. I don't know what else to say.
She just wants to go home, but she doesn't know what that means anymore.
It feels useless to keep trying to stop the waterworks; like the cutting of a marionette's string, that arm falls to her side, limp. The other remains where it is, bare hand pressing the plastic-covered card against her chest the way other people might indicate a heart attack. Her vision is blurry for it, but she's not looking at anything anyway. She doesn't want to see the state of his chairs, or his table, or if she accidentally ruined his things. (If she fucked up his photographs, she'll never forgive herself.) ]
I'm too sensitive. [ It's explanation and derision, but the self-blows that hurt the worst are the ones that are true. ] I'm sorry. I didn't want to let you down.
[ It's hard to talk and cry at the same time; her free hand grabs at her other arm, grasping over the hidden marking, and she tries one more time to steady her breathing.
He asked a question. ] It helps. It's... Focus. That's, it's, familiar. I feel like this too. I know this. I... I can handle this. Sorry. Everything's been too much since then. I'll be okay. I think.
... Sorry for apologizing so much, too. I don't know what else to say.
[ Jaime is quiet, listening to her, trying to suss out what to say or how to say it. Then he thinks about the people he's known and thinks, then, that sometimes he shouldn't talk about it. Or, at the very least, he shouldn't talk about it in the way he wants to, teasing out the full story, getting all of the data so he can root around in there and fix things. Sometimes things can't be fixed like that. He needs to learn to accept that, though it's been a hard-earned lesson. He fidgets as he listens and thinks, short nails idly picking at the rough callouses on palms, just as large and rough as he remembers them being on his father's hands.
His father would know what to say here. Something that doesn't fix things, but something wise and reassuring, a lesson to be learned, something that always made everyone around him feel like things were going to be okay. ]
You've never let me down, [ he says instead. It's a small thing, but it's true - even when things have been difficult, she's always been transparent about it. He glances over at the table, toppings and soup strewn across it, though his keepsakes are protected in their plastic bag, and he looks at the picture of him and the others, grinning at Disneyland. What that picture doesn't show is that evening in the hotel room, after Jaime had found out Tadashi was dead, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him as he slowly spiraled downwards. It doesn't show what had happened with Hiro, the way he'd been taken advantage of, the way he'd hurt Tadashi without meaning to.
It had been a bad night, but he and Tadashi had become closer after that anyway. There hadn't been much to solve about being dead, so Jaime had learned other ways of dealing with it - even if you can't fix things, you can still be there. He likes to think he had been. ]
You don't have to say anything else. I mean, eventually, you - it might be good to talk about whatever it is that's going on, but not now. Back, um. Back when Tadashi was here, he couldn't sleep some nights? He didn't wanna talk about it, but coming over and watching a bunch of dumb TV was better than being alone.
[ Jaime hadn't been sleeping either. He'd welcomed the company, every time. He looks pointedly towards the living room. ]
We could just do that. If you want.
His father would know what to say here. Something that doesn't fix things, but something wise and reassuring, a lesson to be learned, something that always made everyone around him feel like things were going to be okay. ]
You've never let me down, [ he says instead. It's a small thing, but it's true - even when things have been difficult, she's always been transparent about it. He glances over at the table, toppings and soup strewn across it, though his keepsakes are protected in their plastic bag, and he looks at the picture of him and the others, grinning at Disneyland. What that picture doesn't show is that evening in the hotel room, after Jaime had found out Tadashi was dead, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him as he slowly spiraled downwards. It doesn't show what had happened with Hiro, the way he'd been taken advantage of, the way he'd hurt Tadashi without meaning to.
It had been a bad night, but he and Tadashi had become closer after that anyway. There hadn't been much to solve about being dead, so Jaime had learned other ways of dealing with it - even if you can't fix things, you can still be there. He likes to think he had been. ]
You don't have to say anything else. I mean, eventually, you - it might be good to talk about whatever it is that's going on, but not now. Back, um. Back when Tadashi was here, he couldn't sleep some nights? He didn't wanna talk about it, but coming over and watching a bunch of dumb TV was better than being alone.
[ Jaime hadn't been sleeping either. He'd welcomed the company, every time. He looks pointedly towards the living room. ]
We could just do that. If you want.
[ He doesn't touch her, and he doesn't hover for restraint, but the way he speaks, and the way his concern and his care radiate out, it's like wrapping a heavy blanket around her shoulders. You've never let me down, and she wants so desperately to believe in something like that, and she knows he believes it, but he doesn't know, and the fact she can't tell him — that the very idea of saying it makes her throat tighten and her stomach turn for nausea — should be disappointment enough. It's a balm, and she doesn't deserve it, but she doesn't have the strength to reject it, either.
So she listens, head bowed, letting the physical consequences run their ruinous course, in trembles and tears that seem unending. There's a morose nostalgia to where the topic shifts. Of course she remembers Tadashi, him and Hiro both. The last time she'd blipped out-and-into the universe, he'd been one of the only people she could call 'friend' left. One of the only people who'd ever had the chance to miss her.
She misses him, too.
But she kept her distances back then, too, and for all Tadashi always reached out to her, too — a little like Jaime tries now — they'd never gotten close. It makes sense to hear about his problem, but she hadn't known it existed back then. She'd spent more of her focus trying to help Hiro, between the two, and... Ugh. Stupid. Is this the time to think about that?
She swallows new thickness in her throat, and nods. ] Okay. We can do that. [ It's not an unfamiliar strategy, either, but there's already too many ghosts in the kitchen now to think more on it. ] Don't think I can eat right now, anyway.
So she listens, head bowed, letting the physical consequences run their ruinous course, in trembles and tears that seem unending. There's a morose nostalgia to where the topic shifts. Of course she remembers Tadashi, him and Hiro both. The last time she'd blipped out-and-into the universe, he'd been one of the only people she could call 'friend' left. One of the only people who'd ever had the chance to miss her.
She misses him, too.
But she kept her distances back then, too, and for all Tadashi always reached out to her, too — a little like Jaime tries now — they'd never gotten close. It makes sense to hear about his problem, but she hadn't known it existed back then. She'd spent more of her focus trying to help Hiro, between the two, and... Ugh. Stupid. Is this the time to think about that?
She swallows new thickness in her throat, and nods. ] Okay. We can do that. [ It's not an unfamiliar strategy, either, but there's already too many ghosts in the kitchen now to think more on it. ] Don't think I can eat right now, anyway.
[ Jaime's not sure if she's crying more or if he said something that made her cry again, but - well, there's not a lot he can do about that right now. The important thing is that he hasn't made her bolt out of the door in this state, to flee to marinate in her own misery alone. Maybe she's no less miserable here, but at least she's not miserable alone, which is what Jaime always sees as the worst case scenario; there's nothing quite so terrible as being wholly, utterly alone. ]
Okay. If you don't wanna eat by the time you start to head home, though, you're taking some back with you. I always make too much anyway.
[ It's just him and Yusuke in here, so he really ought to halve the recipe, but he always makes it in bulk, just like his Mom. He glances between the slow cooker and the card still clasped in Ruka's hands before gesturing for her to follow him into the living room. ]
Does that... does the recipe work? For more than just in a pinch? Because if it does, you can keep it. Just be careful about taking it out of its sleeve unless you need something -- different? Stronger, probably. I'm not sure.
[ He can only assume that his mother wrote it with love, but she's still his Mom. If she had been sad or angry or missing home at the time, he'd have no way of knowing. All he knows is that when she was here, everything seemed a little better, and that she had made the choice to make it that way for him regardless of her personal feelings. She always had and she always will. ]
Okay. If you don't wanna eat by the time you start to head home, though, you're taking some back with you. I always make too much anyway.
[ It's just him and Yusuke in here, so he really ought to halve the recipe, but he always makes it in bulk, just like his Mom. He glances between the slow cooker and the card still clasped in Ruka's hands before gesturing for her to follow him into the living room. ]
Does that... does the recipe work? For more than just in a pinch? Because if it does, you can keep it. Just be careful about taking it out of its sleeve unless you need something -- different? Stronger, probably. I'm not sure.
[ He can only assume that his mother wrote it with love, but she's still his Mom. If she had been sad or angry or missing home at the time, he'd have no way of knowing. All he knows is that when she was here, everything seemed a little better, and that she had made the choice to make it that way for him regardless of her personal feelings. She always had and she always will. ]
[ She shuffles behind Jaime back into the living room, quiet, and only nods to indicate she's heard. It would be nice to think that she'll be out of tears soon, and that she's starting to feel calmer, or will be steady in a minute or two, but it's difficult to believe it. It feels like she's simply a pinball slamming into new aches from the-same-old-hurts to set her off over and over again. She's exhausted, and she's sick of crying, and sick from it, and so, so tired.
She manages to get to the couch alright, and sits as far into the corner of it as she can manage; the rest of the seating winds up on her blind side, as though the figurative wall at the edge of her vision could create a barrier in reality.
He frets; he worries; he questions, anxious, poisoned by her misery and producing misery in turn. For as awful as this is, she wishes more that she could just stop crying so he wouldn't have to worry so much. The line between obligate care and sincerity doesn't seem as important now as the why she doesn't, but how is — how is she supposed to do anything when she's the one making it worse? ]
I don't know. Yet. It's— [ Something. Bittersweet, and familiar, but... why is she still so upset? It's not supposed to be like this. She forces herself to exhale, and shakes her head. ] —hard to tell. Right now.
[ She shouldn't have come in the first place? Why did she come over? Why is she here? Why is she still here? What's the point? Why is she here?
With a shake in her inhale and another shake of her head, her hands drop briefly to her lap. ]
Can I have some water? Or whatever. Please.
[ She doesn't look at Jaime when she speaks. Slowly, deliberately, she sets the recipe card on the nearest table, and moves from that straight to the methodical unlacing of her boots, the careful loosening of the gusset and shafts. The dull noise of each empty shoe put once more on the floor is pronouncement: I'm staying put. I'm staying here. ]
I don't know if my tea survived.
She manages to get to the couch alright, and sits as far into the corner of it as she can manage; the rest of the seating winds up on her blind side, as though the figurative wall at the edge of her vision could create a barrier in reality.
He frets; he worries; he questions, anxious, poisoned by her misery and producing misery in turn. For as awful as this is, she wishes more that she could just stop crying so he wouldn't have to worry so much. The line between obligate care and sincerity doesn't seem as important now as the why she doesn't, but how is — how is she supposed to do anything when she's the one making it worse? ]
I don't know. Yet. It's— [ Something. Bittersweet, and familiar, but... why is she still so upset? It's not supposed to be like this. She forces herself to exhale, and shakes her head. ] —hard to tell. Right now.
[ She shouldn't have come in the first place? Why did she come over? Why is she here? Why is she still here? What's the point? Why is she here?
With a shake in her inhale and another shake of her head, her hands drop briefly to her lap. ]
Can I have some water? Or whatever. Please.
[ She doesn't look at Jaime when she speaks. Slowly, deliberately, she sets the recipe card on the nearest table, and moves from that straight to the methodical unlacing of her boots, the careful loosening of the gusset and shafts. The dull noise of each empty shoe put once more on the floor is pronouncement: I'm staying put. I'm staying here. ]
I don't know if my tea survived.
Then take it for now. We can figure the rest out another day.
[ Jaime picks the remote up from off the couch and sets it beside her - doesn't hand it to her, not right away, just in case she doesn't feel like being barraged by something else, no matter how mild. Jaime suspects there's not much in the way of emotional attachment on the remote, but how is he to know? In the sorts of places Ruka likely frequents, this is the place with the strongest emotions attached to it. Despite the fact that imPorts live transient lives, Jaime's stayed right here the whole time, enough for years and years of experiences to accumulate. Like her, he grew up here. That's not without its complications. ]
Put whatever you like on. I'm not fussy.
[ Though for his money, when he wants to turn off his brain and stare at a screen, he goes for some nature documentary. He's not sure what Ruka's programming of choice is. ]
I'll get that water. Hang tight.
[ He'll even take a little too long getting the water - to get his own emotions under control, and to give Ruka the time she seems to desperately need to be on her own for a minute or two, let herself feel whatever the heck she's feeling without the need to stifle it and hide it. It's not as though she can hide it, right now, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been trying. Maybe he wouldn't leave for long if she hadn't taken off her shoes, worried that she'd just sprint out of there given the earliest opportunity, but they've found some neutral ground. He thinks. He hopes. ]
[ Jaime picks the remote up from off the couch and sets it beside her - doesn't hand it to her, not right away, just in case she doesn't feel like being barraged by something else, no matter how mild. Jaime suspects there's not much in the way of emotional attachment on the remote, but how is he to know? In the sorts of places Ruka likely frequents, this is the place with the strongest emotions attached to it. Despite the fact that imPorts live transient lives, Jaime's stayed right here the whole time, enough for years and years of experiences to accumulate. Like her, he grew up here. That's not without its complications. ]
Put whatever you like on. I'm not fussy.
[ Though for his money, when he wants to turn off his brain and stare at a screen, he goes for some nature documentary. He's not sure what Ruka's programming of choice is. ]
I'll get that water. Hang tight.
[ He'll even take a little too long getting the water - to get his own emotions under control, and to give Ruka the time she seems to desperately need to be on her own for a minute or two, let herself feel whatever the heck she's feeling without the need to stifle it and hide it. It's not as though she can hide it, right now, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been trying. Maybe he wouldn't leave for long if she hadn't taken off her shoes, worried that she'd just sprint out of there given the earliest opportunity, but they've found some neutral ground. He thinks. He hopes. ]
[ Once Jaime's out of the room, Ruka forces out another exhale, but it doesn't feel like relief. It doesn't feel like anything. Okay. Okay. She's almost through this, she thinks; it's just a matter of getting these tears out, and getting her lungs and her heart back under control, and to stop picking at the scab of hurt and death and failure and fear, and just burn out the shadows from her heart, and go back to her usual self. Easy.
Oh, who is she kidding?
Ruka turns on the TV. She cycles through the most recent channels, opens the channel guide, scrolls down three pages, then gives up even the pretense of focus and sets it to scan mode. There. Set to crawl up the channels, station by station, seconds apiece for each, a dull background noise to hide herself from Jaime — and cover any words he might have with himself, in the other room.
She braces her hands on her knees, and tries once more for those ineffective breathing exercises. In slow, held long, and out slower, with her elbows locked to keep her shoulders from shaking and her body from heaving at the effort of it. She's tired, but it's nothing that sleep will fix. She's hurt, but it's nothing braces or bandages can set right. She doesn't want to be here, but grabbing her boots and sneaking out the front window isn't the escape that counts. (Besides, her keys are in her coat, and her coat's in the kitchen.)
But the crest of the worst of it has passed, and knowing numbness settles in its place. Feelings ebb, labeled and pinned into place like butterflies in a case, wing beats only the spasms of death as the glass is fixed above them. It would be easier to get back to this sort of stasis with her old relics, but that's nothing she can talk about, either. Not really.
She has to tell him something...
...
When Jaime finally returns to the living room, some things have changed. Ruka sits with her back against the couch, but is more towards the center than when he left; it turns out it's hard to look at a screen that's primarily on your blind side. She has also, despite obviously making zero efforts to do so, somehow acquired both dogs — one in the lap and one against her thigh, clearly wishing he'd gotten to there first. The TV has made it to the chain of international sports channels, blipping from Japanese Baseball to Argentinian Futbol to International Competitive Cup-Stacking (hosted in the Baltics this year).
It's... hard to say if she looks better, but she's not sobbing any more, and when she turns her head to catch his entrance, the tears on her cheeks are smeared and drying. Her eye's bloodshot, sure, but it seems drier, too.
Pro...gress... ]
Oh, who is she kidding?
Ruka turns on the TV. She cycles through the most recent channels, opens the channel guide, scrolls down three pages, then gives up even the pretense of focus and sets it to scan mode. There. Set to crawl up the channels, station by station, seconds apiece for each, a dull background noise to hide herself from Jaime — and cover any words he might have with himself, in the other room.
She braces her hands on her knees, and tries once more for those ineffective breathing exercises. In slow, held long, and out slower, with her elbows locked to keep her shoulders from shaking and her body from heaving at the effort of it. She's tired, but it's nothing that sleep will fix. She's hurt, but it's nothing braces or bandages can set right. She doesn't want to be here, but grabbing her boots and sneaking out the front window isn't the escape that counts. (Besides, her keys are in her coat, and her coat's in the kitchen.)
But the crest of the worst of it has passed, and knowing numbness settles in its place. Feelings ebb, labeled and pinned into place like butterflies in a case, wing beats only the spasms of death as the glass is fixed above them. It would be easier to get back to this sort of stasis with her old relics, but that's nothing she can talk about, either. Not really.
She has to tell him something...
...
When Jaime finally returns to the living room, some things have changed. Ruka sits with her back against the couch, but is more towards the center than when he left; it turns out it's hard to look at a screen that's primarily on your blind side. She has also, despite obviously making zero efforts to do so, somehow acquired both dogs — one in the lap and one against her thigh, clearly wishing he'd gotten to there first. The TV has made it to the chain of international sports channels, blipping from Japanese Baseball to Argentinian Futbol to International Competitive Cup-Stacking (hosted in the Baltics this year).
It's... hard to say if she looks better, but she's not sobbing any more, and when she turns her head to catch his entrance, the tears on her cheeks are smeared and drying. Her eye's bloodshot, sure, but it seems drier, too.
Pro...gress... ]
[ When Jaime comes back, it's with a tray. On it are two mugs - both tea, remade from after it spilled everywhere - two cups of water, and a bowl of those Japanese rice crackers that Shinji and Yusuke always got Jaime to get whenever he was flying off to where a Japanese grocery store was. He sets it down on the coffee table and sits beside Ruka on the side where Mako and BB aren't trying to hog her attention though, even after all that, he can't restrain a small smile.
They always make him feel better. He hopes that they're making Ruka feel better too. They must be; it's impossible for life not to feel as though it's slightly less overwhelming with dogs on your side.
(At least, unless you know that they're going to keep dying in an endless loop unless you do something. That had been a bad week that even dogs can't fix. Happily, they're still here, alive and well and ultimately content to have a warm lap to lie on.) ]
Hey. I figured all of the above couldn't hurt. Just take what you like.
[ If he was thinking more clearly, he'd realize how familiar this scenario really is. Maybe the tea and crackers would be replaced by some buns and hot cocoa, as Jaime always likes it, but this is exactly what happens every time Jaime winds up bursting into tears in front of his Mom - which happens more often than he'd care to admit. She always brings him something, always sits with him and waits until he's ready to talk about it. It never takes Jaime long to open up after that.
That's not the case for Ruka, he's sure, but maybe she'll feel better anyway. This had just been his first instinct. When he sits, it's close enough so that they're not quite knee-to-knee, but close enough that she could lean on him, if she wanted to. He looks at the TV. Weird choice, but he can roll with it. ]
They like you.
[ The dogs, he means. It's a nice, comfortable, safe subject, one that he's certain can't possibly backfire. ]
They always make him feel better. He hopes that they're making Ruka feel better too. They must be; it's impossible for life not to feel as though it's slightly less overwhelming with dogs on your side.
(At least, unless you know that they're going to keep dying in an endless loop unless you do something. That had been a bad week that even dogs can't fix. Happily, they're still here, alive and well and ultimately content to have a warm lap to lie on.) ]
Hey. I figured all of the above couldn't hurt. Just take what you like.
[ If he was thinking more clearly, he'd realize how familiar this scenario really is. Maybe the tea and crackers would be replaced by some buns and hot cocoa, as Jaime always likes it, but this is exactly what happens every time Jaime winds up bursting into tears in front of his Mom - which happens more often than he'd care to admit. She always brings him something, always sits with him and waits until he's ready to talk about it. It never takes Jaime long to open up after that.
That's not the case for Ruka, he's sure, but maybe she'll feel better anyway. This had just been his first instinct. When he sits, it's close enough so that they're not quite knee-to-knee, but close enough that she could lean on him, if she wanted to. He looks at the TV. Weird choice, but he can roll with it. ]
They like you.
[ The dogs, he means. It's a nice, comfortable, safe subject, one that he's certain can't possibly backfire. ]
[ The TV keeps its slow crawl through sports, heading into niche music stations (none of which are ever playing music, as usual); Ruka shifts a little, placing a supporting hand on the dog in her lap so he doesn't go falling off when she takes one of the mugs of tea. Leans back, gives each a little ear scratch, and wraps both hands around the ceramic to let the heat warm her fingers. ]
Yeah. Most animals do. Most anything or anyone that isn't human does, really. [ It's a little wry, and a little sad — then again, how could her expression be anything but, so fresh from crying? — but she shrugs her shoulder, a smile at the corner of her mouth. ] There's exceptions, of course. But for the most part. I've never been much of a... people-person. It's not as easy.
[ It's... probably not as nice, safe, and comfortable as Jaime would have liked, but at least she didn't start thinking about all the pets she lost when the other world got destroyed and bawling again. This is fine. ]
Yeah. Most animals do. Most anything or anyone that isn't human does, really. [ It's a little wry, and a little sad — then again, how could her expression be anything but, so fresh from crying? — but she shrugs her shoulder, a smile at the corner of her mouth. ] There's exceptions, of course. But for the most part. I've never been much of a... people-person. It's not as easy.
[ It's... probably not as nice, safe, and comfortable as Jaime would have liked, but at least she didn't start thinking about all the pets she lost when the other world got destroyed and bawling again. This is fine. ]
A friend of mine was always telling me the same thing.
[ He ruffles BB's ears, thinking idly of Will. He'd always been more at home with dogs than people. Considering the contents of his life, Jaime could never find it within himself to blame the guy - nor can he blame Ruka for it. He wishes that Will were still around anyway. Somehow, he has a feeling that he and Ruka would get along like a house on fire. Despite their surface dissimilarities, they're more alike than not.
It's a stupid thing to dwell on, though. He's gone, and that's that. Even if he does come back, he's unlikely to remember, which means he's unlikely to be the same person that Jaime had come to know. BB cranes his head towards Jaime, sniffing at his face, and Jaime feels moved to kiss him on the nose. It's obvious that these dogs are spoiled absolutely rotten. ]
But in my experience? People are worth the work anyway.
[ He ruffles BB's ears, thinking idly of Will. He'd always been more at home with dogs than people. Considering the contents of his life, Jaime could never find it within himself to blame the guy - nor can he blame Ruka for it. He wishes that Will were still around anyway. Somehow, he has a feeling that he and Ruka would get along like a house on fire. Despite their surface dissimilarities, they're more alike than not.
It's a stupid thing to dwell on, though. He's gone, and that's that. Even if he does come back, he's unlikely to remember, which means he's unlikely to be the same person that Jaime had come to know. BB cranes his head towards Jaime, sniffing at his face, and Jaime feels moved to kiss him on the nose. It's obvious that these dogs are spoiled absolutely rotten. ]
But in my experience? People are worth the work anyway.
[ There's probably something to be said, for everybody's favorite empaths to both be self-professed not-people-persons, but she wouldn't know. Jaime doesn't mention that person by name, and all Ruka gets is the fondness in his voice, the wry little shift in his expression; the longing and the acceptance of an old loss. Was.
But Jaime's feelings are direct, and he's able to quiet those little murmurings with an ease Ruka envies, and what follows is a pure and easy affection that settles with all the heat and comfort of a bright hearth fire.
(It's hard to trust easy. She's too exhausted to distrust easy. She's tired, and hurt, and miserable, and these spots of brightness are so hard to make for herself now. Can't she take comfort in something like this, without trying to break it into pieces, or split herself down her fault lines? Can't she be selfish, just this once?)
(Just this one time?)
(There's no promise any of this will be here tomorrow.)
Ruka closes her eye. The breath she pulls in is all aroma and taste of warm peppermint, and the one she pushes out is all stress. She shifts the cup into a one-handed grip so her free hand can fall once more to the small dog at her side, petulantly dropping a head on her thigh and whining that somebody else is getting nose kisses!!! ]
Well. Maybe, sometimes. [ The answer is soft, and despite the words being dismissive and petulant, the tone is fond acquiescence. It's one of her common plays in defense — to avoid putting the words into reality, to avoid committing to an earnest heart, to avoid the full hurt of irony and betrayal. She's smiling when she says it, but even that she hides behind her mug. ] Even if they don't bother telling you their dogs' names when you meet them.
[ Rude. ]
But Jaime's feelings are direct, and he's able to quiet those little murmurings with an ease Ruka envies, and what follows is a pure and easy affection that settles with all the heat and comfort of a bright hearth fire.
(It's hard to trust easy. She's too exhausted to distrust easy. She's tired, and hurt, and miserable, and these spots of brightness are so hard to make for herself now. Can't she take comfort in something like this, without trying to break it into pieces, or split herself down her fault lines? Can't she be selfish, just this once?)
(Just this one time?)
(There's no promise any of this will be here tomorrow.)
Ruka closes her eye. The breath she pulls in is all aroma and taste of warm peppermint, and the one she pushes out is all stress. She shifts the cup into a one-handed grip so her free hand can fall once more to the small dog at her side, petulantly dropping a head on her thigh and whining that somebody else is getting nose kisses!!! ]
Well. Maybe, sometimes. [ The answer is soft, and despite the words being dismissive and petulant, the tone is fond acquiescence. It's one of her common plays in defense — to avoid putting the words into reality, to avoid committing to an earnest heart, to avoid the full hurt of irony and betrayal. She's smiling when she says it, but even that she hides behind her mug. ] Even if they don't bother telling you their dogs' names when you meet them.
[ Rude. ]
You never asked! Maybe I'm using Khaji's method. [ He pauses, realizing that she doesn't actually know what Khaji's method is. More than that, he's just relieved that this is what she's talking about, that there's no betrayal of how she feels on his face, no immediate push-back saying that it's not worth it, that it's just pain and sorrow and misery. She wouldn't be entirely wrong to say so, not after the life she's had, so - sometimes. He'll take sometimes. Sometimes sounds a lot like hope to him. He relaxes into the couch a little more, propping his ankle up on his knee and resting his mug of tea precariously on the side of it. ]
He doesn't tell his name unless someone actually asks if he's got one. It's one of his things. I try to respect that. [ It is, in some way, a test. Khaji's opinion of anyone who asks is immediately improved. It's the first step to getting closer to him and Jaime doesn't argue with that; if that's the way Khaji wants to weed out anyone who won't think he's a person, then that's the way things will be. ]
The beagle right there's BB - the Blue Beagle. Ted's idea, not mine. [ He really is the worst at keeping up his secret ID. ] The corgi's name is Mako.
He doesn't tell his name unless someone actually asks if he's got one. It's one of his things. I try to respect that. [ It is, in some way, a test. Khaji's opinion of anyone who asks is immediately improved. It's the first step to getting closer to him and Jaime doesn't argue with that; if that's the way Khaji wants to weed out anyone who won't think he's a person, then that's the way things will be. ]
The beagle right there's BB - the Blue Beagle. Ted's idea, not mine. [ He really is the worst at keeping up his secret ID. ] The corgi's name is Mako.
[ She hums a little affirmative note, and the words that follow are quiet — spoken more to herself than to Jaime. ] So that's why.
[ She doesn't elaborate, instead watching the way Jaime relaxes, following the movement of his hands as he indicates each animal in turn. It's the second time he's mentioned Ted by name; different pieces come together in her mind. The name, the new memorial, old conversations in lost archives — and though it's nothing like a full picture, it's a decent corner. Something to build from. ]
Ted Kord? He's a Blue Beetle, too, right? [ She doesn't speak much more loudly than she did before, and the questions are formed soft, but she's back to watching his face for reaction, eased back into the couch cushions; the flickering television screen and its noise, forgotten. ] Did you inherit Mako from him, too? Or, just BB?
[ She doesn't elaborate, instead watching the way Jaime relaxes, following the movement of his hands as he indicates each animal in turn. It's the second time he's mentioned Ted by name; different pieces come together in her mind. The name, the new memorial, old conversations in lost archives — and though it's nothing like a full picture, it's a decent corner. Something to build from. ]
Ted Kord? He's a Blue Beetle, too, right? [ She doesn't speak much more loudly than she did before, and the questions are formed soft, but she's back to watching his face for reaction, eased back into the couch cushions; the flickering television screen and its noise, forgotten. ] Did you inherit Mako from him, too? Or, just BB?
Yeah. He was the one before me.
[ He doesn't have to say much more on that topic. He's fairly certain Ruka is able to glean from all of the information at hand that he's dead; Jaime likely wouldn't have named the entire memorial after him if not for that unfortunate detail. He's happy to have gotten a chance to meet him, grateful beyond reason, but his loss still stings like an ache far older than it is. Maybe he'll meet him again. If he does, he doubts it will be with his memories intact, and that awful period of hoping he'll take being replaced well will repeat anew. ]
We took care of BB together - we didn't think either of us had enough time to take care of him part-time, but obviously that, um, didn't pan out. Mako used to belong to a couple of guys I knew. Kaidan and Shepard.
[ Has Ruka met them? Maybe, in this world or the last. There's no way of telling. ]
And I got a snake too, upstairs in her tank. Malina. She's from Chato, my old roomie.
[ This is why his house seems so comfortable, so lived-in; he's been here long enough to have been through it all. Everything he owns is embued with some emotion. They've been through as much as Jaime has, staying exactly where he is, immoveable as anything, as though his presence alone can string the branches of the past together.
[ He doesn't have to say much more on that topic. He's fairly certain Ruka is able to glean from all of the information at hand that he's dead; Jaime likely wouldn't have named the entire memorial after him if not for that unfortunate detail. He's happy to have gotten a chance to meet him, grateful beyond reason, but his loss still stings like an ache far older than it is. Maybe he'll meet him again. If he does, he doubts it will be with his memories intact, and that awful period of hoping he'll take being replaced well will repeat anew. ]
We took care of BB together - we didn't think either of us had enough time to take care of him part-time, but obviously that, um, didn't pan out. Mako used to belong to a couple of guys I knew. Kaidan and Shepard.
[ Has Ruka met them? Maybe, in this world or the last. There's no way of telling. ]
And I got a snake too, upstairs in her tank. Malina. She's from Chato, my old roomie.
[ This is why his house seems so comfortable, so lived-in; he's been here long enough to have been through it all. Everything he owns is embued with some emotion. They've been through as much as Jaime has, staying exactly where he is, immoveable as anything, as though his presence alone can string the branches of the past together.
Mmm.
[ She doesn't have to ask; the pieces are big, and easy to put together, and even if they weren't, there's the way his mouth turns on was, and the aches that follow are familiar. The other names she thinks she recognizes, in passing; people she saw around on the Network, but if they talked, it wasn't much. There isn't anything she can say about them, especially knowing they're gone — and asking him to open up about them seems cruel, when curiosity is so idle.
Her eye closes, and her free hand falls to Mako's little shoulders; her fingernails scruff against fur and collar. ]
It was like that for me, too. I had a dog, and a couple cats, and a space mouse, and... no, maybe that was it. [ They didn't keep the fucking alligators. ] ... When you're the one that's always left, you tend to get what everyone else leaves behind.
[ She doesn't have to ask; the pieces are big, and easy to put together, and even if they weren't, there's the way his mouth turns on was, and the aches that follow are familiar. The other names she thinks she recognizes, in passing; people she saw around on the Network, but if they talked, it wasn't much. There isn't anything she can say about them, especially knowing they're gone — and asking him to open up about them seems cruel, when curiosity is so idle.
Her eye closes, and her free hand falls to Mako's little shoulders; her fingernails scruff against fur and collar. ]
It was like that for me, too. I had a dog, and a couple cats, and a space mouse, and... no, maybe that was it. [ They didn't keep the fucking alligators. ] ... When you're the one that's always left, you tend to get what everyone else leaves behind.
[ Oh. It's almost a little odd to think of Ruka as having pets. It would make sense, of course. She's said it herself: animals tend to like her more than people, and he wouldn't be surprised if that sentiment is one she returned. But Ruka's not in the habit of trying to even come close to setting roots. She'd taken forever to come out with the fact that she even existed on the network, after all.
But she would have been young, then, and less inclined to push others away. He almost, almost asks her where they are now when he realizes that they're from a planet that's long since been destroyed. He'd experienced that in only brief moments, knowing that his animals wouldn't remember their repeated demise. He can't imagine experiencing it permanently.
He swallows past the question. They can evade that one too. They've gotten good at that. Instead, he gestures at the house around them. ]
No kidding. That's how I've accumulated so much crap. Maybe I just built the memorial as one big storage shed.
But she would have been young, then, and less inclined to push others away. He almost, almost asks her where they are now when he realizes that they're from a planet that's long since been destroyed. He'd experienced that in only brief moments, knowing that his animals wouldn't remember their repeated demise. He can't imagine experiencing it permanently.
He swallows past the question. They can evade that one too. They've gotten good at that. Instead, he gestures at the house around them. ]
No kidding. That's how I've accumulated so much crap. Maybe I just built the memorial as one big storage shed.
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