[Most things, however improbable, are possible. There's no feasible way for them to avoid every possibility, but of course he knows that already. There's no need for her to say as much just because it's true. He isn't like the young hosts. Those she strives to be completely frank with in most circumstances, as honest as she knows how to be. Better that they learn as much as they can as quickly as they're able. But he knows most of what she does, most of what he's deemed necessary. There's no point in telling him things he's already certain of. The Prince dislikes hearing the same thing twice.
There will be more dead, or effectively so. Would Anduin wake as Anakin Skywalker had? How long until someone else had to be gently reattached to the Station, perhaps never to wake up?]
Yes. [Agreed, easily enough even if it's a cruel kind of concession.] But we also wonder if there isn't something wrong with this hatch. They're a strange combination.
[There are broken people, of course, but some of these seem especially... damaged. Not unuseable, of course, but difficult to be made to work in harmony. It seems to her eye to be something of a design flaw. If there were more hatchlings, more hosts, she might suggest simply culling this group and being done with it. As it is, though?
It's impractical. Dangerous. Chopping off a limb rather than first attempting to stitch the wounds closed and wait for infection the clear. It's been a long time since the last hatch and they can't afford to trust there will be another any time soon.
After a moment's consideration, she shifts her hand and sets her small finger against the warmth of his neck - a miniscule brush of skin to skin contact.]
Steve Rogers shares your concern. He asked us if we knew when they'd be sent out again.
[How easily she voices the very possibility he has been dreading. As if it were a simple truth. She could never seem to let things lie, she would drag them to the surface and carve them open to see them for what they truly were stare at the beating of their exposed hearts, where he would rather keep them down and deep and hidden. As if her voicing it made it more real.
Foolish.
She is too near for him to miss the gentle flutter of her thoughts as she turns them to solutions. It makes him momentarily ill, but although it shows on his face, a flinch, he doesn't pull away from her. For as bloodless and impersonal as her thoughts could be, there was a necessity to her pragmatism, even if he would argue against it were she to consider it a more valid option.
For now, she doesn't, it passes quickly, and she changes like the wind, the touch of her finger as cool, for all that it pulls at him. It never really faded, that want, the temptation to allow himself to be carried out, just a little further, just a little deeper. It would be easy. Too easy.]
Too soon. [An answer for someone not there, spoken on a sigh as his shoulders curl.] He is quite strong. I hope he is strong enough to survive them.
[The members of Castor that weren't poisonous still had it flowing through their veins. To fight it off or succumb- neither was envious.]
[A moment's consideration. Steve Rogers is like a small stone in a river; how far above the water's surface does he have to stay to keep from being either washed away or worn to a smooth, featureless shape? But the opposite is true as well: his place there changes the flow of the water around him, the thoughts and processes of his brood. There is nothing to survive; it would be like a body fighting itself. Better to simply shape the form into a structure that was efficient, and pleasurably so.
She strokes the side of her smallest finger along the side of his neck, humming a soft noise of acknowledgement - agreement, in a way. Whatever happens, they will do what is necessary and what is best for the continued survival of these people, this place and those beyond it. Won't they?]
Would you like to play a game? [She has a deck of cards on her. They could deal right here on his couch. She could teach him a new game if he liked - one she's just learned with complicated rules. Not a distraction, she thinks, but something to sooth his mind so that the next time one of the young hosts comes to him ready to spit he might think on it and on her and be more sure for it. He is a good tactician - sensible and straightforward.
Or maybe he'd prefer something else of her. Whatever he cares for.]
[This close to her, with her skin on his skin, her thoughts are nearly his, they run just under the surface and they seem nearly as sensible as his own. Even the ones he finds distasteful.
For her, survival was a much different thing than it was for him. She sees Steve changing as something both necessary and good. Imagines them together becoming one thing that is different and greater.
But that was not his way. He valued individuality, he had clung to it. For Steve to truly survive in his eyes he must remain himself. She knew that, of course. The stubborn part of her greater whole.
Of course. They always had, and they always would, as long as they were capable, as long as they lived. Protect what they could, save what they could, delay what seemed inevitable.
His gaze slides to her at the question, silent still. Hearing the unspoken additions. She thinks to sooth him. It makes him feel foolish- foolish and young, that she should need to. That he would need any sort of break from his duty. She doesn't see it as a weakness, but-
At the last suggestion his eyes dart away again like he'd been slapped, color rising up his neck. Foolish, foolish.]
If you like.
[To play a game. He was willing, even if it wasn't what he had been intending. He had found a book, on Avera 9. He intended to begin it tonight.
(He doesn't want her to leave, pushed deep down, ignore it long enough and it is almost like he isn't being weak).]
[A moment's hesitation, her small finger lingering warm against his pulse. A breath of hot air through an open window. A thin, gauzy curtain turns in it. A small insect flutters in to land on the sill. Does it make a sound? Do it's small legs rasp against one another to play a note of some summer far removed? Who's home does it come from? It's not hers - it doesn't belong to the Cathaway who woke here so many years ago -, but in the same breath it belongs to her: as intimately owned as this skin.]
We would.
[She draws her hand away and straightens from him. Drawing the pack of cards from one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her wrap, she peels her arm from one sleeve of the wrap and then the other. The better to shuffle and deal with. She does both, stripped to the close suit that matches his own.]
Here, we will show you how the rounds are played. [It would be easiest to simply give him the information - to touch his mind and let him see -, but instead she runs through a round of the game, playing both hands off herself in quick succession.]
[It is not hers. It is intimate, warm and quiet and peaceful, it belongs to someone else, to the warm corners of their mind. He feels like an intruder. Frequently. She draws her hand away and he wishes to be grateful for it. It quiets the connection between them at least. By degrees. The game would go very poorly if it did not.
He shifts slightly on the couch, moving back, twisting his knee up onto the cushion to watch her as she shuffles, delicate fingers at the end of slim wrists, the slight chime of her bracelets as she deals. It is easier to watch her play, to focus on her quick explanation- without thought to slow and check that he is following along- than it is to look at her. It seems like an interesting game, although he doubts it presents much of a challenge when played against herself.
Perhaps there was some value to be had to her, in his refusal to fold. She would always have a challenger, when she wished for one. Even if the rest of them eventually did.]
And when does the game end?
[It is a carefully measured question. The color has faded from his cheeks, by then.]
When most do. [She draws another card from the deck to replace those played from the hands. A new round. The deck grows thinner.] When you run out of cards.
[And then, demonstration complete, she turns all the face up cards over, collapses both hands and merges them once more into the deck. It's an easy matter to reshuffle, to cut, to shuffle again. She squares the deck neatly against the top of her thigh between both hands, then regards him evenly.]
[He nods, once, shallowly. Yes, that was traditionally the way of it. The game continued until you could no longer play.
He is feeling unusually fatalistic. Something else to correct.]
Yes, I believe so.
[It was not so complicated that he would fail to catch on, within a round or two. She would likely rout him entirely the first time, the second, but after that there would be slightly more balanced.
He could always get to the book afterwards. It was unfamiliar to him, perhaps it was a story even she had not heard yet.]
[She nods and summarily begins to deal: seven cards to each hand, the rest stacked to the side of the cushion intervening between them. It's impossible to keep the draw deck square then; the surface isn't quite flat and the cards aren't yet old - they slide a little, becoming a jumbled mess. She doesn't mind it, and so makes no effort to correct it as they begin to play.
There's no going easy on him; rather she simply plays according to her luck. She at least doesn't cheat, which would be easy to do for any number of reasons.]
[Seven cards, which he takes, studies, and organizes in the manner he believes most efficient. His expression is set in serious lines, brows furrowed and lips thinned. It looks very little like he is enjoying himself, but he is, inwardly, at least slightly more centered. Slightly more still, even as, with every draw of a new card he compulsively straightens the pile. He barely notices he's doing it.
He doesn't expect her to allow him time to catch on, and we're it forty cycles ago he would not even expect her to play fair, when he had been a poorer loser than he was now.
It is peaceful, in a kind of way. Almost easy to forget that they would not be able to put off the summons of the other Hosts, the senior ones, the list of those who requested help, now that they knew that the new ones had awoken. They could not hold them here and coddled forever, not with the notable skills that many of them already possessed.
Still, he draws a fortuitous card, and it demands his attention. The quiet statement of the games intent the only words that pass his lips, the only sound beside the gentle slide of card over card hers and the chiming of her wrist.
She had said she believed the new hatching would be good for him, and perhaps she was right, but they had had many countless days of silence, and perhaps he had not adjusted himself to the fact they had ended, for now.]
[She likes the game because it can be played quickly or meticulously depending on the temperament of those holding the cards - some movements pass in a flurry, others are measured and calculated. Some moves are held. Some hands are forced. There's a pleasantness to the rhythm, to each flickering moment; she takes great pleasure in whittling down the cards until there's nothing left of the draw deck and thinks of little else but the game between them.
Then she turns the remainder of her hand over. She matches her cards against the ones he holds and makes a small noise of delight for the win it amounts to. An expected result, but not guaranteed. Probable, but not promised.]
You're good at this. [A better match for him than most. She had thought it wasn't terribly different from some of the games he knew by heart.]
[The game takes time, but he is used to time, by now, and it is not an exorbitant amount. And it is interesting, throughout, as he finds himself settling into the rules, parsing out the more subtle aspects as they go on. And her easy enjoyment, the fact that she is almost entirely present, leaves him as close to content as he is ever likely to be.
Even when, with a small, pleased noise she wins, taking the game. She had never liked to lose, really, too accustomed to being the best. He finds it impossible to be irritated by it, the way he used to be.]
And yet, you are better. [It's not bitter in the slightest, an easy surrender of superiority, in this, at least.
The game was done. He thinks, quite likely, the reason for her coming here has been resolved in that final hand. His concerns about these Hosts had not been assuaged entirely, but he had managed to find some distance from it. To recognize that he could only adjust course and continue on. That, while he bore the blame for the death of that boy, he had to stay focused. There were others that could go as easily as he had. And so likely she had accomplished her goals.
And yet, he did not-- revel in the idea of her departure. Foolish, again.]
Yes, well-- [She smiles, all teeth and consideration.] We can't help it.
[There's a low rasp as she collects the cards together, sorting them patiently and squaring them between her hands against her thigh. It's easy to do, simple like listening to the small hum of him at the side of her mind - a low, gentle note. When she finishes, she secures the cards with a tap and then tucks them back into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her wrap. Then she shifts her attention back to him.
For the moment she is here, present and attentive and studying him. Her wrists turn, a small gentle chime, and she sets her hands gently palm up on the cushion between them.]
[It is only natural, for his eyes to follow the motion of her hands as she gathers up the cards between them. There is very little else to focus on at the present, very little distraction, so it is only natural then to follow them as they tuck the cards away into her shed wrap. And it is only natural to watch her settle them on the cushion between them, palm up, a gentle offer in the subtle curl of her fingers.
His gaze sticks, even when she speaks. Trapped there between her open hands.
No-yes. Both, neither. How frustrating she must find him, that he would not just decide. That he lacked the fortitude to truly turn from this. He wants to set his fingers in hers, and that alone makes him want to send her away. It should be more clear- whether his purpose in this stayed true, or whether by this point it was simply habit and denial for denial's sake.
He would find no answer in the delicate winding lines of her palm. His fingers curl into themselves, a subtle shift as he tips his face back up to her.]
It is not so late, yet, and I have no particular duty to attend to.
[It is half an answer. He wonders what he would say if she demanded the rest.]
I thought to begin a new book. I do not know, however, if the story would be of any interest to you.
[Perhaps she would find it silly. He had hardly carefully vetted it, and she saw so much now that he wondered if fiction held any interest for her any longer- he thinks only of her thought of the story, he is not embarrassed to read and recite, long ingrained into him, one of those unshakable habits that had not been lost even when he became aware that it was not common among those not from his world.]
[There's a moment, full and round like a circle, where she studies him and feels the rhythm of that repetition - the cycle of one possible conversation overlaid with another. She can't find herself minding, not the parts where this is different from what it could've been - not the part where his needs and wants are divided. Those are inevitable. He will never be sure when he is so fragmented, so she must be secure for the pair of them.
At length, she draws her hands back - she leans back as well, settling herself comfortably across the arm of the sofa behind her. Cathaway knits her fingers gently across her middle, tucks her feet onto the cushion with her, and patiently settles in.]
[That is the problem, perhaps, she never demands. She never attempts to prise it from him. She knew his heart because it was a open to her as it was to him, and perhaps that was enough to her. It wasn't enough to him. So then, again, it was to him.
And for now, his only answer is to nod, slightly, to stand as she settles back into the cushions of the couch and move away from her, deeper into his rooms, into the place he slept for a moment or two before he reappears to her, book in hand. It looks old, but it is impossible to say what that amounted to on Avera.
He moves, sits on the other end of the couch, clearing his throat lightly as he opened the book, ankles crossing.]
There is no scent on any world similar to the scent of the rain of Farrow province-
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no subject
There will be more dead, or effectively so. Would Anduin wake as Anakin Skywalker had? How long until someone else had to be gently reattached to the Station, perhaps never to wake up?]
Yes. [Agreed, easily enough even if it's a cruel kind of concession.] But we also wonder if there isn't something wrong with this hatch. They're a strange combination.
[There are broken people, of course, but some of these seem especially... damaged. Not unuseable, of course, but difficult to be made to work in harmony. It seems to her eye to be something of a design flaw. If there were more hatchlings, more hosts, she might suggest simply culling this group and being done with it. As it is, though?
It's impractical. Dangerous. Chopping off a limb rather than first attempting to stitch the wounds closed and wait for infection the clear. It's been a long time since the last hatch and they can't afford to trust there will be another any time soon.
After a moment's consideration, she shifts her hand and sets her small finger against the warmth of his neck - a miniscule brush of skin to skin contact.]
Steve Rogers shares your concern. He asked us if we knew when they'd be sent out again.
no subject
Foolish.
She is too near for him to miss the gentle flutter of her thoughts as she turns them to solutions. It makes him momentarily ill, but although it shows on his face, a flinch, he doesn't pull away from her. For as bloodless and impersonal as her thoughts could be, there was a necessity to her pragmatism, even if he would argue against it were she to consider it a more valid option.
For now, she doesn't, it passes quickly, and she changes like the wind, the touch of her finger as cool, for all that it pulls at him. It never really faded, that want, the temptation to allow himself to be carried out, just a little further, just a little deeper. It would be easy. Too easy.]
Too soon. [An answer for someone not there, spoken on a sigh as his shoulders curl.] He is quite strong. I hope he is strong enough to survive them.
[The members of Castor that weren't poisonous still had it flowing through their veins. To fight it off or succumb- neither was envious.]
no subject
She strokes the side of her smallest finger along the side of his neck, humming a soft noise of acknowledgement - agreement, in a way. Whatever happens, they will do what is necessary and what is best for the continued survival of these people, this place and those beyond it. Won't they?]
Would you like to play a game? [She has a deck of cards on her. They could deal right here on his couch. She could teach him a new game if he liked - one she's just learned with complicated rules. Not a distraction, she thinks, but something to sooth his mind so that the next time one of the young hosts comes to him ready to spit he might think on it and on her and be more sure for it. He is a good tactician - sensible and straightforward.
Or maybe he'd prefer something else of her. Whatever he cares for.]
no subject
For her, survival was a much different thing than it was for him. She sees Steve changing as something both necessary and good. Imagines them together becoming one thing that is different and greater.
But that was not his way. He valued individuality, he had clung to it. For Steve to truly survive in his eyes he must remain himself. She knew that, of course. The stubborn part of her greater whole.
Of course. They always had, and they always would, as long as they were capable, as long as they lived. Protect what they could, save what they could, delay what seemed inevitable.
His gaze slides to her at the question, silent still. Hearing the unspoken additions. She thinks to sooth him. It makes him feel foolish- foolish and young, that she should need to. That he would need any sort of break from his duty. She doesn't see it as a weakness, but-
At the last suggestion his eyes dart away again like he'd been slapped, color rising up his neck. Foolish, foolish.]
If you like.
[To play a game. He was willing, even if it wasn't what he had been intending. He had found a book, on Avera 9. He intended to begin it tonight.
(He doesn't want her to leave, pushed deep down, ignore it long enough and it is almost like he isn't being weak).]
no subject
We would.
[She draws her hand away and straightens from him. Drawing the pack of cards from one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her wrap, she peels her arm from one sleeve of the wrap and then the other. The better to shuffle and deal with. She does both, stripped to the close suit that matches his own.]
Here, we will show you how the rounds are played. [It would be easiest to simply give him the information - to touch his mind and let him see -, but instead she runs through a round of the game, playing both hands off herself in quick succession.]
no subject
He shifts slightly on the couch, moving back, twisting his knee up onto the cushion to watch her as she shuffles, delicate fingers at the end of slim wrists, the slight chime of her bracelets as she deals. It is easier to watch her play, to focus on her quick explanation- without thought to slow and check that he is following along- than it is to look at her. It seems like an interesting game, although he doubts it presents much of a challenge when played against herself.
Perhaps there was some value to be had to her, in his refusal to fold. She would always have a challenger, when she wished for one. Even if the rest of them eventually did.]
And when does the game end?
[It is a carefully measured question. The color has faded from his cheeks, by then.]
no subject
[And then, demonstration complete, she turns all the face up cards over, collapses both hands and merges them once more into the deck. It's an easy matter to reshuffle, to cut, to shuffle again. She squares the deck neatly against the top of her thigh between both hands, then regards him evenly.]
Ready?
no subject
He is feeling unusually fatalistic. Something else to correct.]
Yes, I believe so.
[It was not so complicated that he would fail to catch on, within a round or two. She would likely rout him entirely the first time, the second, but after that there would be slightly more balanced.
He could always get to the book afterwards. It was unfamiliar to him, perhaps it was a story even she had not heard yet.]
no subject
[She nods and summarily begins to deal: seven cards to each hand, the rest stacked to the side of the cushion intervening between them. It's impossible to keep the draw deck square then; the surface isn't quite flat and the cards aren't yet old - they slide a little, becoming a jumbled mess. She doesn't mind it, and so makes no effort to correct it as they begin to play.
There's no going easy on him; rather she simply plays according to her luck. She at least doesn't cheat, which would be easy to do for any number of reasons.]
no subject
He doesn't expect her to allow him time to catch on, and we're it forty cycles ago he would not even expect her to play fair, when he had been a poorer loser than he was now.
It is peaceful, in a kind of way. Almost easy to forget that they would not be able to put off the summons of the other Hosts, the senior ones, the list of those who requested help, now that they knew that the new ones had awoken. They could not hold them here and coddled forever, not with the notable skills that many of them already possessed.
Still, he draws a fortuitous card, and it demands his attention. The quiet statement of the games intent the only words that pass his lips, the only sound beside the gentle slide of card over card hers and the chiming of her wrist.
She had said she believed the new hatching would be good for him, and perhaps she was right, but they had had many countless days of silence, and perhaps he had not adjusted himself to the fact they had ended, for now.]
no subject
Then she turns the remainder of her hand over. She matches her cards against the ones he holds and makes a small noise of delight for the win it amounts to. An expected result, but not guaranteed. Probable, but not promised.]
You're good at this. [A better match for him than most. She had thought it wasn't terribly different from some of the games he knew by heart.]
no subject
Even when, with a small, pleased noise she wins, taking the game. She had never liked to lose, really, too accustomed to being the best. He finds it impossible to be irritated by it, the way he used to be.]
And yet, you are better. [It's not bitter in the slightest, an easy surrender of superiority, in this, at least.
The game was done. He thinks, quite likely, the reason for her coming here has been resolved in that final hand. His concerns about these Hosts had not been assuaged entirely, but he had managed to find some distance from it. To recognize that he could only adjust course and continue on. That, while he bore the blame for the death of that boy, he had to stay focused. There were others that could go as easily as he had. And so likely she had accomplished her goals.
And yet, he did not-- revel in the idea of her departure. Foolish, again.]
no subject
[There's a low rasp as she collects the cards together, sorting them patiently and squaring them between her hands against her thigh. It's easy to do, simple like listening to the small hum of him at the side of her mind - a low, gentle note. When she finishes, she secures the cards with a tap and then tucks them back into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her wrap. Then she shifts her attention back to him.
For the moment she is here, present and attentive and studying him. Her wrists turn, a small gentle chime, and she sets her hands gently palm up on the cushion between them.]
Would you prefer we go?
no subject
His gaze sticks, even when she speaks. Trapped there between her open hands.
No-yes. Both, neither. How frustrating she must find him, that he would not just decide. That he lacked the fortitude to truly turn from this. He wants to set his fingers in hers, and that alone makes him want to send her away. It should be more clear- whether his purpose in this stayed true, or whether by this point it was simply habit and denial for denial's sake.
He would find no answer in the delicate winding lines of her palm. His fingers curl into themselves, a subtle shift as he tips his face back up to her.]
It is not so late, yet, and I have no particular duty to attend to.
[It is half an answer. He wonders what he would say if she demanded the rest.]
I thought to begin a new book. I do not know, however, if the story would be of any interest to you.
[Perhaps she would find it silly. He had hardly carefully vetted it, and she saw so much now that he wondered if fiction held any interest for her any longer- he thinks only of her thought of the story, he is not embarrassed to read and recite, long ingrained into him, one of those unshakable habits that had not been lost even when he became aware that it was not common among those not from his world.]
no subject
At length, she draws her hands back - she leans back as well, settling herself comfortably across the arm of the sofa behind her. Cathaway knits her fingers gently across her middle, tucks her feet onto the cushion with her, and patiently settles in.]
Of course. We enjoy your stories.
no subject
And for now, his only answer is to nod, slightly, to stand as she settles back into the cushions of the couch and move away from her, deeper into his rooms, into the place he slept for a moment or two before he reappears to her, book in hand. It looks old, but it is impossible to say what that amounted to on Avera.
He moves, sits on the other end of the couch, clearing his throat lightly as he opened the book, ankles crossing.]
There is no scent on any world similar to the scent of the rain of Farrow province-
[And so it goes.]