[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
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.
[ 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.
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.
[ 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?
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ It feels like skating across weak ice. They're both trying their best to navigate without putting down too much weight, without breaking the veneer of an easy conversation. It says something about them, that they're both managing so well now, but maybe that's only because her heart feels numbed in the aftershock of breakdown. ]
I moved around a lot, so things got lost sometimes. Or it wasn't worth the effort of saving. My last big move, back then, I think I ended up throwing away, like, a dozen old communicators. Stuff like that.
[ Jaime crosses his legs on the couch, shifting a little to hug one knee to his chest, chin resting lightly upon it as he listens to her talk. He's felt the desire to move before. Several times, in fact. Every time a roommate he had gotten close to leaves, he thinks about packing up his things and moving to apartment where he can live alone, no more roommates to greet and to get close to, no more memories surrounding him. It would be easier. He knows that it would be easier.
He's never done it. Every time he's started going through the motions, he's overcome with a sensation of prolonged loneliness, like he's trying to wipe away all that there's been. He doesn't want to do that.
So he stays right here, and he doesn't throw anything away. Maybe they're gone, but he'll hold onto what's left of them. It's worked for him. ]
Is that why you live alone now? So you don't have to?
Rua got assigned an apartment of his own, when he arrived, so I moved in with him. It seemed easier than the other way. He always got close to people really fast, so it always hurt him worse when they left.
[ She hasn't said it directly, but it's there; speaking in the past tense. It's a recent sting, but a familiar one. It's, what, the fourth time she's lost him? The fifth? She's losing count, and what does that say?
She shakes her head, and finishes her tea, and sets the empty cup back on the table. ]
The City wasn't like here. We didn't just get houses, or assignments like this. You got an apartment at the MAC, but so did everyone else. It was really sketchy. After a while, I was taken in by other people, but when they left, it's not like I could pay a mortgage or anything on my own. I didn't have much of a choice.
[ She was a child; she had caretakers, and for a while parents, and after that, family friends, and then... well, she'd done everything she could to leave it all behind, hadn't she? But no matter where she tries to carve a place for herself, she can't keep it. ]
So... it's something like that, I guess. You can't lose anything else, if you don't have anything left to lose. What do I need another big empty house for?
Besides, I'm a pain to live with, anyway. [ She shrugs, settling back against the cushions. ] Nobody wants to be landed with a total stranger who always knows how you feel. Resentment builds up fast.
[ Jaime doesn't quite grimace. Instead, his mouth bunches up to one side, his brow creased in both understanding and sympathy - or, no. Not quite sympathy. Empathy. It hurts when people leave, when you're left with nothing but an empty house filled with the echoes of what's been lost. It must be harder still when it's family.
When his parents had been here, they'd lived next door, but he had never made the move to move in with them, nor did he ask them to move in with him. Maybe he should have. Heck, maybe it would have been expected. But there was a part of him that knew with a terrible sort of certainty that he would be here long after they left and the idea of going back to what he had once considered to be normal only to be left alone again seemed too painful a notion.
Ruka had doubtlessly expected Rua to leave. Frankly, Jaime had too. It seems like the closer you are to someone back home, the more likely it is that their stay here will be a short, fleeting thing. For Jaime, it had been worth it. For Ruka... he's not so sure. ]
It only sucks being around an empath if they always point out how you're feeling. You never do that. But I get how it'd make things harder for you. [ He bumps her shoulder with her own, a small gesture that can be mistaken for carelessness. It's what he specializes in. ]
[ What else is she supposed to say about him? Jaime knows. Maybe not a brother, or a sibling by blood, but he's lost his friends here. He's lost his family, here. She felt the familiar ache of it in that recipe card, and she feels the echo of it now, like the singe that comes from sitting in a dark room and staring too long at the flames of too many candles. It hurts, but she expected it. She has regrets, but they're the same regrets as always, the seesaw of action and inaction, of speech and silence, and never choosing right.
She wonders, with a hollow sort of hurt she can never speak aloud, if it was the burdensome weight of her trauma in that catastrophe that broke the tether. If her tremors, and her nightmares, her jittery paranoia, the ever-present companion of terror, that chased him back into the void between worlds.
Nobody would agree with that assessment. Nobody would nod their heads, or murmur small yeah, maybes, but it doesn't need to be spoken to be true. Everyone who loves her leaves. Everyone she loves leaves her.
There's nothing to say about that. So, instead, after the long seconds of silent grief, she finally digs her elbow into Jaime's ribs — pressure without force. ]
Just because you never see it doesn't mean I never do it, Jaime. I do it all the time.
[ She's done it to him before, more than once. Hell, she pulled it with Khaji Da, when he came to the forefront. Anyone she's met, anybody she's cared about, she's sure she's done it to them. It's why Mitchell always felt her to be kind of a pain in the ass, even as they commiserate; it's why she and Karkat were always arguing, constantly pulling at the threads and the seams of one another's hearts to unravel them and prove the other's damage. Even before it was proximity, even when it was objects, when it was reading faces and guessing intentions, it's how she always circumvented others' defenses. Hiro, and Nygma, and Mitch, and Blue, and Eridan, and Bruno, and her father...
Learn their heart, and confront them with it; a stalking mirror. ]
We only haven't needed to fight about it. That's all.
He has, for a not insignificant portion of his life, lived with another entity in his head. He's unable to escape another being having access to his every emotion at every point in time and, to boot, another being pointing out his every emotion without any care for petty things like appropriateness or tact. As someone who tends to wear his heart on his sleeve anyway, it's resulted in the complete erosion of anything even remotely resembling personal boundaries. The true nature of his heart may be a privilege afforded to only a precious few, but even others can catch onto any fleeting joys and sorrows in a way he'd never quite learned to hide.
Has she pointed it out before? Because of her empathy? Jaime doesn't think so. Or, at least, he can't ever recall it happening. He'd always thought she has remarkable tact considering the intrusive nature of her powers, particularly when comparing her to Khaji Da, cheerfully bulldozing his way through his heart with all the delicacy of a five year old presented with an immaculate, intricate sandcastle. ]
Well... you never do it to me. And we're closer than most. [ It slipped out without thinking. It's true, isn't it? Or is she like this with everyone? He's never seen her talking to anyone else as her true self long enough to tell. His teeth worry at his bottom lip. ] Or -- I think we are, anyway. So wouldn't it have come up?
[ It probably hasn't been even an hour since he had her sort through his things in the kitchen, picking apart the remnants of his old emotions. When he'd heard her evaluation, he'd admitted it wasn't a new one — but they usually didn't say it was a good thing. Is that why? Does he think it only counts if it's callous, if it's critical?
Expression matches feeling; her gaze flicks to the way he gnaws at his lip for concern, the worry preceding fear, and it's a strange sensation no matter how she tries to piece it together. What is it, really? Is it concern about their friendship? (Are they closer than most? Sure, she's told him things she hasn't told anyone else, and so has he — is that all it takes? Are they?) Or is he worried that she's hiding some great litany of complaints about the clarity of his heart?
(Why would he be worried about her opinion in the first place, anyway?) ]
... Just because you don't always see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. [ It's not quite repetition; her attention ducks away, but she pushes the loose hair behind her ear, not trying to close him off completely. She's not sure how to explain everything else. It's hard to be forthright. ] But... there's no point to calling attention to something we both know is obviously true, you know? You don't try to hide from yourself, around me.
As for the rest... [ This time she's the one biting her lip, looking for words. Her fingers toy with one of BB's ears, though he sleeps through it. ] ... If you think so, then you're not wrong. I don't... really go out of my way, to get close to people, anymore. I haven't in a long time. I used to bend over backwards for it.
We're... this is different. From the friendships I've had, before. [ Ugh, obviously. Her breath comes out in a huff, and Ruka shakes her head. ] Though, I don't know how much that's worth, really. I don't have that much to compare it to, after all.
[ You don't try to hide from yourself, around me. Jaime supposes that's true. He's more evasive around others, trying to present a front that isn't necessarily false, but isn't necessarily the truth either. There's no point in hiding around Ruka. She understands most everything he's been through, been through it herself and worse, and even without empathy on her side, she already knows everything. It would be ridiculous to hide around her. Useless, really. All that would do is drive her away.
Jaime's the one who pursues after those who don't wish to be chased. Ruka isn't. He lets that idea settle for a moment, nodding along to acknowledge that of course they're different - she doesn't let anyone else in. He doesn't think there's anyone else here quite in their position. Even if it was a different version of him, even if he doesn't remember it, they still have a history. He huffs out a breath, half a laugh. ]
Yeah. Me neither. [ He has more friendships than Ruka, perhaps, but none of them are the same. How could they be? ] I guess it's dumb to spend too much trying to, um, analyze that sort of thing? [ He crosses his legs, propping an ankle atop a knee. ] There's no point in hiding stuff around you. You get it. [ He glances at the recipe card in her hands. ] Even if you don't wanna.
[ It's part of the problem. Where Jaime sees it as a reason to commiserate, to be open about things he might otherwise bury, Ruka digs and builds new catacombs beneath them. He understands, but she doesn't like talking about the things that happened. She doesn't like excavating her hurts, and making anyone else endure them. She can't bear them alone, but that's better than seeing anyone else suffer under their weight.
The fact is, he would understand most anything she gave him — even what happened to Kirie, and to Will, and why it sticks so much in her heart, and why she's so damn afraid all the time. He would understand, and that's enough.
She shifts on the couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushions (to some quiet, sleepy protest from sleeping dogs), retreating back, sinking — shrinking — into the furniture. ]
[ Jaime stretches his legs out in front of him with a shrug. ] I always kind of thought she just forgot about me.
[ It's how it feels like, sometimes. He's gone home a few times, but rarely for long on either end of the scale. Unlike others, who seem to be ported in and out at a great rate until they eventually disappear, or seem to be at the whims of this world more than he's been, it feels as though he's been forgotten, as though he's more a native of this world than a native of his own. There's no logical basis for that. Maybe it's just because everyone else has forgotten him - why wouldn't the Porter forget about him too? He rarely makes enough of a fuss to be noteworthy. He's just here, steady and stalwart, as consistent as the home he's built here.
But Ruka was gone. She had been gone for a really, really long time. And, astonishingly, she's back with all of her memories intact, at the same age she was as she left. That's more than just improbable. That's almost unheard of - and that's coming from a guy who has a ledger on every scrap of Porter activity he's been able to get his hands on. ]
[ She hums a quiet note, understanding. ] You never had the chance to know her.
[ For a moment, it's all she says, but the silence isn't one of a complete thought. There's worry in her face, pursing her lips, pinching them in her teeth as she tries to find the right words to say. It's not easy topic — but it's easier to talk about the past. ]
... He was part of the first group. October tenth, oh-eight. [ Only a month away, now. ] Most of the rest of the firsts left, here and there, pretty quick. Two years in, I think there were only... three or four of them left, from that group. She sent us cards on her "birthday." He and Abby got cakes. I think he was like me, he only ported out... once, or twice, maybe, before he was gone for good. In the final year. And you haven't left here for very long, either, have you? So... for ten years, there only hasn't been a you for... a year. Year and a half, at the most. And only two of you. One for one world. A new one, for the new.
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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[ 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. ]
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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... ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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.
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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. ]
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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.
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[ 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?
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[ 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.
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[ 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.
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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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[ It feels like skating across weak ice. They're both trying their best to navigate without putting down too much weight, without breaking the veneer of an easy conversation. It says something about them, that they're both managing so well now, but maybe that's only because her heart feels numbed in the aftershock of breakdown. ]
I moved around a lot, so things got lost sometimes. Or it wasn't worth the effort of saving. My last big move, back then, I think I ended up throwing away, like, a dozen old communicators. Stuff like that.
... I'm sick of it.
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[ Jaime crosses his legs on the couch, shifting a little to hug one knee to his chest, chin resting lightly upon it as he listens to her talk. He's felt the desire to move before. Several times, in fact. Every time a roommate he had gotten close to leaves, he thinks about packing up his things and moving to apartment where he can live alone, no more roommates to greet and to get close to, no more memories surrounding him. It would be easier. He knows that it would be easier.
He's never done it. Every time he's started going through the motions, he's overcome with a sensation of prolonged loneliness, like he's trying to wipe away all that there's been. He doesn't want to do that.
So he stays right here, and he doesn't throw anything away. Maybe they're gone, but he'll hold onto what's left of them. It's worked for him. ]
Is that why you live alone now? So you don't have to?
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[ She hasn't said it directly, but it's there; speaking in the past tense. It's a recent sting, but a familiar one. It's, what, the fourth time she's lost him? The fifth? She's losing count, and what does that say?
She shakes her head, and finishes her tea, and sets the empty cup back on the table. ]
The City wasn't like here. We didn't just get houses, or assignments like this. You got an apartment at the MAC, but so did everyone else. It was really sketchy. After a while, I was taken in by other people, but when they left, it's not like I could pay a mortgage or anything on my own. I didn't have much of a choice.
[ She was a child; she had caretakers, and for a while parents, and after that, family friends, and then... well, she'd done everything she could to leave it all behind, hadn't she? But no matter where she tries to carve a place for herself, she can't keep it. ]
So... it's something like that, I guess. You can't lose anything else, if you don't have anything left to lose. What do I need another big empty house for?
Besides, I'm a pain to live with, anyway. [ She shrugs, settling back against the cushions. ] Nobody wants to be landed with a total stranger who always knows how you feel. Resentment builds up fast.
It's better for everyone, this way.
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When his parents had been here, they'd lived next door, but he had never made the move to move in with them, nor did he ask them to move in with him. Maybe he should have. Heck, maybe it would have been expected. But there was a part of him that knew with a terrible sort of certainty that he would be here long after they left and the idea of going back to what he had once considered to be normal only to be left alone again seemed too painful a notion.
Ruka had doubtlessly expected Rua to leave. Frankly, Jaime had too. It seems like the closer you are to someone back home, the more likely it is that their stay here will be a short, fleeting thing. For Jaime, it had been worth it. For Ruka... he's not so sure. ]
It only sucks being around an empath if they always point out how you're feeling. You never do that. But I get how it'd make things harder for you. [ He bumps her shoulder with her own, a small gesture that can be mistaken for carelessness. It's what he specializes in. ]
I'm sorry about Rua.
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[ What else is she supposed to say about him? Jaime knows. Maybe not a brother, or a sibling by blood, but he's lost his friends here. He's lost his family, here. She felt the familiar ache of it in that recipe card, and she feels the echo of it now, like the singe that comes from sitting in a dark room and staring too long at the flames of too many candles. It hurts, but she expected it. She has regrets, but they're the same regrets as always, the seesaw of action and inaction, of speech and silence, and never choosing right.
She wonders, with a hollow sort of hurt she can never speak aloud, if it was the burdensome weight of her trauma in that catastrophe that broke the tether. If her tremors, and her nightmares, her jittery paranoia, the ever-present companion of terror, that chased him back into the void between worlds.
Nobody would agree with that assessment. Nobody would nod their heads, or murmur small yeah, maybes, but it doesn't need to be spoken to be true. Everyone who loves her leaves. Everyone she loves leaves her.
There's nothing to say about that. So, instead, after the long seconds of silent grief, she finally digs her elbow into Jaime's ribs — pressure without force. ]
Just because you never see it doesn't mean I never do it, Jaime. I do it all the time.
[ She's done it to him before, more than once. Hell, she pulled it with Khaji Da, when he came to the forefront. Anyone she's met, anybody she's cared about, she's sure she's done it to them. It's why Mitchell always felt her to be kind of a pain in the ass, even as they commiserate; it's why she and Karkat were always arguing, constantly pulling at the threads and the seams of one another's hearts to unravel them and prove the other's damage. Even before it was proximity, even when it was objects, when it was reading faces and guessing intentions, it's how she always circumvented others' defenses. Hiro, and Nygma, and Mitch, and Blue, and Eridan, and Bruno, and her father...
Learn their heart, and confront them with it; a stalking mirror. ]
We only haven't needed to fight about it. That's all.
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He has, for a not insignificant portion of his life, lived with another entity in his head. He's unable to escape another being having access to his every emotion at every point in time and, to boot, another being pointing out his every emotion without any care for petty things like appropriateness or tact. As someone who tends to wear his heart on his sleeve anyway, it's resulted in the complete erosion of anything even remotely resembling personal boundaries. The true nature of his heart may be a privilege afforded to only a precious few, but even others can catch onto any fleeting joys and sorrows in a way he'd never quite learned to hide.
Has she pointed it out before? Because of her empathy? Jaime doesn't think so. Or, at least, he can't ever recall it happening. He'd always thought she has remarkable tact considering the intrusive nature of her powers, particularly when comparing her to Khaji Da, cheerfully bulldozing his way through his heart with all the delicacy of a five year old presented with an immaculate, intricate sandcastle. ]
Well... you never do it to me. And we're closer than most. [ It slipped out without thinking. It's true, isn't it? Or is she like this with everyone? He's never seen her talking to anyone else as her true self long enough to tell. His teeth worry at his bottom lip. ] Or -- I think we are, anyway. So wouldn't it have come up?
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Expression matches feeling; her gaze flicks to the way he gnaws at his lip for concern, the worry preceding fear, and it's a strange sensation no matter how she tries to piece it together. What is it, really? Is it concern about their friendship? (Are they closer than most? Sure, she's told him things she hasn't told anyone else, and so has he — is that all it takes? Are they?) Or is he worried that she's hiding some great litany of complaints about the clarity of his heart?
(Why would he be worried about her opinion in the first place, anyway?) ]
... Just because you don't always see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. [ It's not quite repetition; her attention ducks away, but she pushes the loose hair behind her ear, not trying to close him off completely. She's not sure how to explain everything else. It's hard to be forthright. ] But... there's no point to calling attention to something we both know is obviously true, you know? You don't try to hide from yourself, around me.
As for the rest... [ This time she's the one biting her lip, looking for words. Her fingers toy with one of BB's ears, though he sleeps through it. ] ... If you think so, then you're not wrong. I don't... really go out of my way, to get close to people, anymore. I haven't in a long time. I used to bend over backwards for it.
We're... this is different. From the friendships I've had, before. [ Ugh, obviously. Her breath comes out in a huff, and Ruka shakes her head. ] Though, I don't know how much that's worth, really. I don't have that much to compare it to, after all.
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Jaime's the one who pursues after those who don't wish to be chased. Ruka isn't. He lets that idea settle for a moment, nodding along to acknowledge that of course they're different - she doesn't let anyone else in. He doesn't think there's anyone else here quite in their position. Even if it was a different version of him, even if he doesn't remember it, they still have a history. He huffs out a breath, half a laugh. ]
Yeah. Me neither. [ He has more friendships than Ruka, perhaps, but none of them are the same. How could they be? ] I guess it's dumb to spend too much trying to, um, analyze that sort of thing? [ He crosses his legs, propping an ankle atop a knee. ] There's no point in hiding stuff around you. You get it. [ He glances at the recipe card in her hands. ] Even if you don't wanna.
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[ It's part of the problem. Where Jaime sees it as a reason to commiserate, to be open about things he might otherwise bury, Ruka digs and builds new catacombs beneath them. He understands, but she doesn't like talking about the things that happened. She doesn't like excavating her hurts, and making anyone else endure them. She can't bear them alone, but that's better than seeing anyone else suffer under their weight.
The fact is, he would understand most anything she gave him — even what happened to Kirie, and to Will, and why it sticks so much in her heart, and why she's so damn afraid all the time. He would understand, and that's enough.
She shifts on the couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushions (to some quiet, sleepy protest from sleeping dogs), retreating back, sinking — shrinking — into the furniture. ]
We always were her favorites.
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[ It's how it feels like, sometimes. He's gone home a few times, but rarely for long on either end of the scale. Unlike others, who seem to be ported in and out at a great rate until they eventually disappear, or seem to be at the whims of this world more than he's been, it feels as though he's been forgotten, as though he's more a native of this world than a native of his own. There's no logical basis for that. Maybe it's just because everyone else has forgotten him - why wouldn't the Porter forget about him too? He rarely makes enough of a fuss to be noteworthy. He's just here, steady and stalwart, as consistent as the home he's built here.
But Ruka was gone. She had been gone for a really, really long time. And, astonishingly, she's back with all of her memories intact, at the same age she was as she left. That's more than just improbable. That's almost unheard of - and that's coming from a guy who has a ledger on every scrap of Porter activity he's been able to get his hands on. ]
...I guess I can't say the same for you, though.
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[ For a moment, it's all she says, but the silence isn't one of a complete thought. There's worry in her face, pursing her lips, pinching them in her teeth as she tries to find the right words to say. It's not easy topic — but it's easier to talk about the past. ]
... He was part of the first group. October tenth, oh-eight. [ Only a month away, now. ] Most of the rest of the firsts left, here and there, pretty quick. Two years in, I think there were only... three or four of them left, from that group. She sent us cards on her "birthday." He and Abby got cakes. I think he was like me, he only ported out... once, or twice, maybe, before he was gone for good. In the final year. And you haven't left here for very long, either, have you? So... for ten years, there only hasn't been a you for... a year. Year and a half, at the most. And only two of you. One for one world. A new one, for the new.
No, she'll never forget you.
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I would like to point out this is BEFORE he figured out them dokis
he's HOPELESS (they're both hopeless)
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#still not dokis
listen, he's faster than her!!
you can call her dumb as a rock it's Okay it's True
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