[There are things she notices. Things like the lack of certain people at the Jump, and she keeps a log in her impossibly big brain about them - people who disappear, people who are important to other people who disappear, people who-
Well.
The point is.
She knows Edgeworth is gone. She knows, too, that either Sirius a: knows, and will be angry about it because he has the emotional competence of a toddler, or b: doesn't know, in which case she'll let him know and probably get kicked out for her trouble, because of the aforementioned emotional competence of a toddler.
But Seraphim will take the risk either way. She has a basket with all he space chocolate and space liquor she could wrangle up on short notice, which is apparently a lot, especially considering she's been stashing the chocolate away for months inside on of her pillowcases.
She knocks on his door, quiet once, then a little bit more loudly, the second time.]
[At the second knock, the door opens suddenly, nearly right out from under Sera's hand. And if it's not obvious from that violent style, it should only take a glance to work out whether or not Sirius knows about Edgeworth's departure. He knows. His eyes are a little red, and definitely furious. He's got one arm braced against the doorway, stopping her from ducking in, or even really looking into the room. And he already smells a little of alcohol, something of the awful space variety.
[Right, so, he knows. She purses her lips tightly together, and pushes the basket straight into his midsection, and uses her weight - not that there's much of it - and pushes hi inside, too. She can smell the reek of alcohol, and well, she brought a bottle of water, too.
When she is enough in the doorway that closing the door on her would be hard, she opens her mouth, closes it, and then takes her slate from her wrist.]
[Don't give me that look, he tries to start, but then she's shoving the basket at him, pushing into him and stepping inside--and he's stronger than her, of course he is, but his unsteadiness sets him back on his heels a little.]
Don't--
[That one is don't come in, but she's already stepping inside and writing so, fine, whatever, do what you like. Mental girl. Sirius has his arm under the basket, supporting it, but he turns away (with effort) and sets it down, hard, on the bed opposite. The room is a wreck, but a casual wreck. There was no real destruction waged here. The untidiness is all from daily life.
There are some scorch marks on the ceiling. Deliberate. Sirius turns back to face Sera, his arms spread wide.]
[It is a wreck she recognizes. She looks around a moment, picks up a discarded pillow, sits on his bed and raises her legs up so clearly the message is that she is going nowhere. Luckily, the look on her face has already faded into something a lot less loaded and a lot more neutral.
She takes a quiet moment before she pulls out her slate again.]
He never liked me. Edgeworth. Well, he didn't dislike me actively, but he never was friends with me. He liked my music, though. I used to play the Devil's Trill outside his door but it didn't annoy him.
[MERLIN, he thinks, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't trust himself to leave it there without tacking on a whole load of swearwords and insults and things as well.
Instead, he shoves the basket she's brought onto his bed without considering its content and turns to stare, furiously, at the floor. The scratch of chalk against the slate should get his attention, but he deliberately ignores it--and he's successful, for a few moments at least, but then he wants to know.]
This isn't his wake. You don't have to say nice things about him. Or whatever-- passes for nice things, with Edgeworth.
[The expression on her face is curiously neutral. Incredibly so, considering. But he hasn't physically or magically kicked her out, so she'll take what she can get. She knows he's angry, but-
[He spits the words at her, still trying to control himself--but it's a little more difficult right now; his anger surges up in his chest, hot, insistent--]
It's not like a maze that we're stuck in. We don't know what happens. D'you know what he thought this place was? He thought it was a trick. That we'd never lived our old lives at all, that they were--shoving memories into our heads and making us think we'd done.
So if he's gone, he left believing that. Maybe he was right. Where d'you think that puts him? Home, safe, in his own bed?
Right. But I'm asking. I'm asking for you to tell me, what d'you think happens. What happened to him.
[He points, toward the door, a gesture toward Edgeworth--wherever he is, whatever's happened to him. It's stupid and futile and angry, and sloppy. He's not had entirely too much to drink, but he's a bit closer to that state than not.]
[This takes her a while, because she starts writing things out three times, erasing each instance, closing her eyes, rewriting, until finally she words it in a way she is certain of.]
I don't think we are being experimented on. I don't think that we have false memories. I think, one day, if I live, I'll be home again, and I'll remember this like a dream. That I'll have a fondness for oversized coats and men with your accent or I'll smile when I see someone who reminds me of Dean and I'll hoard chocolate and not know why.
And I think Edgeworth is wherever his home is now, looking for something that he's missing and doesn't know why.
[He stares, furiously, at her, at what she's writing--at the chalk, at the slate, through the slate. There's a muscle working in his jaw. The twinge feels like it's keeping time with his pulse, which is entirely too fast for someone stood still.
He keeps his silence a moment longer, once she's stopped writing. Fists clenched at his sides, muscle still working in his jaw. It feels hard to breathe, like someone's pushing down on his chest.
All at once, then, he turns and kicks, savagely, at the wall. It's such an impotent and childish movement, but he does it again, too angry to think with any greater clarity--and again, and then he gives up and punches at it instead, once, hard, and his knuckles immediately split under the force of it.]
[She closes her eyes, like he's punched her, but then when she opens them he's bleeding, and-
She didn't bring bandages but she always has things in her pockets, bits of string, little squares of cloth. And so she stands and takes his hand, and very gently presses a piece of cloth against his knuckles. Everything about her is gentle, silent, even as she leans into his space, and eventually her forehead is just against his shoulder.
It's not much weight, just a bit of pressure.
She has her hands on his so she might as well say something, but there's nothing to say.]
[He twitches away from her at first--from the touch of her hand, the brush of the cloth--and then again, from her lean, the weight of her forehead against his arm. He jerks back, or starts to, at least--]
Don't-- don't, stop--
[It doesn't come out as sharply as he wants it to, and he aborts the move back midway through. The hand that she's got the cloth against twists away from her touch--but only so he can grab hold of her hand instead, crushing her fingers in his grip.]
Don't. I don't want this.
[That's what he says, but he's not pulled away yet. He keeps his grip on her, hard.]
[Her hands are rougher than people may imagine a girl like hers hands would be, but they are, callused from all that violin, musician's hands. And he's crushing her hand and telling her to stop, but she doesn't pull away. Instead she moves in closer.
She knows that what he says, it may not really be true. If he didn't want her so close, he would push her, not grip her like maybe she's holding him in place.
She's close enough that she moves her head a bit, so her head is on his shoulder, and doesn't say anything, just stays there, the weight more solid now.]
[He doesn't cry. His throat gets tight and his eyes get that stupid hot feeling, and when he tries, again, to tell her to leave, it comes out thick. More like gerowf, and his shoulders hunch up--
But he doesn't cry. His fingers grip at her hand, sticky with his own blood. The ache of it spreads up his hand, his arm, and, miserably, he laughs.]
This is what I did. Before. When Remus--
[Merlin. He shuts his eyes. It feels like he's trying to breathe around something sharp in his chest.]
[She nods. She's never been like this, she's never felt so deeply, but when Dean left she felt like part of her heart had gone with him. It's worse, she thinks, when they're not from home. When they come back not remembering who you are.
Her free hands goes to his hair, and she squeezes out on the one he's holding:]
[There's still anger in him. Anger is easier than anything else. He knows what to do with anger. He feels at a loss with everything else, the more subtle or more complex--so it's easier, then, to turn it into anger.
But he still knows what the words mean, when she squeezes at his hand. He actually has the capability to understand the quieter things, too. It makes him angry, but there's more to it.]
I don't want to sleep.
[He still doesn't pull away. He stares down at her hand, at the little flexing that it makes when she spells out her response.]
I want to find him.
[Stupid, childish, stubborn. He doesn't take it back.]
[She looks up at him, then, still holding on, unwilling to let go. He wants to find him, and why not. Remus would have been waiting at home. Edgeworth is out in some other universe entirely.
There are platitudes, there are reassurances, but she doesn't have any of those for him. They're lies, little lies to reassure someone who is hurting. You'll find him won't help anyone.]
[It doesn't come out tired, which is the way that it starts. It comes out with a little snarl, with a glare thrown down at her face. He still doesn't pull away.]
Because it doesn't matter, does it? No one can do anything. He's gone. That's where this ends. He's gone, and running around the ship looking for him doesn't do a fucking thing. I don't want to be here, that's what I don't want. I don't want to be standing around doing nothing, but the thing is, there's nothing to do.
[And now he does pull away--quickly, like he's got to force himself--so he can pace over to the wall that he had punched. Not to hit it again, just to glare at it, darkly.]
[She watches this, she moves back to the bed and sits on it again, cross-legged, and she's back to her slate. He hates this place, which is no different from how anyone else feels.
She doesn't want him to suffer but she cannot fix this, there is nothing she can do to make it better except be in this space.]
I'm sorry.
[That is not a platitude, that is honesty, and she looks away after she writes it.]
[The room is very quiet except for the scrape of the chalk. Sirius knows that she's writing, but he doesn't look around straightaway. He stares, heatedly, at the wall, as if he could put a hole through it on mere concentration alone.
Eventually he's got to look around, and he reads those two words, and quickly changes the track of his gaze.]
Yeah. Well, unless you sent him off-- don't be.
[But he knows what she means. He's just being a prick. Frustrated, somewhere beyond mere frustration, he lets out a breath and sinks down to a crouch, shoving his fingers through his hair and gripping, hard, at his scalp. There is less hair there to grip. Tyke had cut it quite short, but it's grown back very quickly.]
[She just sits there and watches him, let's him have his moment. There is no need to interrupt it.
After a while she finally gets up and goes to her basket, picks out a bar of chocolate and goes to sit next to him, and eats a piece, then offers him the other one.]
[There's blood, from his hand, smeared in his hair. He can smell it, above the usual flat smells of the ship. And then there's the quiet snap of the chocolate bar, and the smell of it, and Sirius still doesn't look up, not just yet. He registers Sera coming to sit beside him, the soft sound of chewing.
Eventually, he sits up a little, and looks over at the chocolate that she's offering him.]
Why is it always chocolate.
[He says it a little heavily, but finally, he sounds more tired than angry, and he reaches out to accept the piece.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a bit after the jump; I just didn't feel like we have enough threads or something
Well.
The point is.
She knows Edgeworth is gone. She knows, too, that either Sirius a: knows, and will be angry about it because he has the emotional competence of a toddler, or b: doesn't know, in which case she'll let him know and probably get kicked out for her trouble, because of the aforementioned emotional competence of a toddler.
But Seraphim will take the risk either way. She has a basket with all he space chocolate and space liquor she could wrangle up on short notice, which is apparently a lot, especially considering she's been stashing the chocolate away for months inside on of her pillowcases.
She knocks on his door, quiet once, then a little bit more loudly, the second time.]
we don't have enough you're right
At the sight of her, he smiles, sharply.]
What d'you want.
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When she is enough in the doorway that closing the door on her would be hard, she opens her mouth, closes it, and then takes her slate from her wrist.]
Checking in on you.
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[Don't give me that look, he tries to start, but then she's shoving the basket at him, pushing into him and stepping inside--and he's stronger than her, of course he is, but his unsteadiness sets him back on his heels a little.]
Don't--
[That one is don't come in, but she's already stepping inside and writing so, fine, whatever, do what you like. Mental girl. Sirius has his arm under the basket, supporting it, but he turns away (with effort) and sets it down, hard, on the bed opposite. The room is a wreck, but a casual wreck. There was no real destruction waged here. The untidiness is all from daily life.
There are some scorch marks on the ceiling. Deliberate. Sirius turns back to face Sera, his arms spread wide.]
Here I am. Hullo. Thanks. [Pointedly:] Goodbye.
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She takes a quiet moment before she pulls out her slate again.]
He never liked me. Edgeworth. Well, he didn't dislike me actively, but he never was friends with me. He liked my music, though. I used to play the Devil's Trill outside his door but it didn't annoy him.
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Instead, he shoves the basket she's brought onto his bed without considering its content and turns to stare, furiously, at the floor. The scratch of chalk against the slate should get his attention, but he deliberately ignores it--and he's successful, for a few moments at least, but then he wants to know.]
This isn't his wake. You don't have to say nice things about him. Or whatever-- passes for nice things, with Edgeworth.
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Let him be angry.]
I know.
He got out.
[That's all there is to it.]
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[He spits the words at her, still trying to control himself--but it's a little more difficult right now; his anger surges up in his chest, hot, insistent--]
It's not like a maze that we're stuck in. We don't know what happens. D'you know what he thought this place was? He thought it was a trick. That we'd never lived our old lives at all, that they were--shoving memories into our heads and making us think we'd done.
So if he's gone, he left believing that. Maybe he was right. Where d'you think that puts him? Home, safe, in his own bed?
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It doesn't matter what I believe.
[And it doesn't. It matters what Sirius believes.]
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[He points, toward the door, a gesture toward Edgeworth--wherever he is, whatever's happened to him. It's stupid and futile and angry, and sloppy. He's not had entirely too much to drink, but he's a bit closer to that state than not.]
What d'you think.
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I don't think we are being experimented on. I don't think that we have false memories. I think, one day, if I live, I'll be home again, and I'll remember this like a dream. That I'll have a fondness for oversized coats and men with your accent or I'll smile when I see someone who reminds me of Dean and I'll hoard chocolate and not know why.
And I think Edgeworth is wherever his home is now, looking for something that he's missing and doesn't know why.
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He keeps his silence a moment longer, once she's stopped writing. Fists clenched at his sides, muscle still working in his jaw. It feels hard to breathe, like someone's pushing down on his chest.
All at once, then, he turns and kicks, savagely, at the wall. It's such an impotent and childish movement, but he does it again, too angry to think with any greater clarity--and again, and then he gives up and punches at it instead, once, hard, and his knuckles immediately split under the force of it.]
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She didn't bring bandages but she always has things in her pockets, bits of string, little squares of cloth. And so she stands and takes his hand, and very gently presses a piece of cloth against his knuckles. Everything about her is gentle, silent, even as she leans into his space, and eventually her forehead is just against his shoulder.
It's not much weight, just a bit of pressure.
She has her hands on his so she might as well say something, but there's nothing to say.]
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Don't-- don't, stop--
[It doesn't come out as sharply as he wants it to, and he aborts the move back midway through. The hand that she's got the cloth against twists away from her touch--but only so he can grab hold of her hand instead, crushing her fingers in his grip.]
Don't. I don't want this.
[That's what he says, but he's not pulled away yet. He keeps his grip on her, hard.]
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She knows that what he says, it may not really be true. If he didn't want her so close, he would push her, not grip her like maybe she's holding him in place.
She's close enough that she moves her head a bit, so her head is on his shoulder, and doesn't say anything, just stays there, the weight more solid now.]
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But he doesn't cry. His fingers grip at her hand, sticky with his own blood. The ache of it spreads up his hand, his arm, and, miserably, he laughs.]
This is what I did. Before. When Remus--
[Merlin. He shuts his eyes. It feels like he's trying to breathe around something sharp in his chest.]
I hate this place. I hate this fucking place.
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Her free hands goes to his hair, and she squeezes out on the one he's holding:]
Me too.
You slept next to me, when Remus, before.
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But he still knows what the words mean, when she squeezes at his hand. He actually has the capability to understand the quieter things, too. It makes him angry, but there's more to it.]
I don't want to sleep.
[He still doesn't pull away. He stares down at her hand, at the little flexing that it makes when she spells out her response.]
I want to find him.
[Stupid, childish, stubborn. He doesn't take it back.]
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There are platitudes, there are reassurances, but she doesn't have any of those for him. They're lies, little lies to reassure someone who is hurting. You'll find him won't help anyone.]
What else do you want?
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[It doesn't come out tired, which is the way that it starts. It comes out with a little snarl, with a glare thrown down at her face. He still doesn't pull away.]
Because it doesn't matter, does it? No one can do anything. He's gone. That's where this ends. He's gone, and running around the ship looking for him doesn't do a fucking thing. I don't want to be here, that's what I don't want. I don't want to be standing around doing nothing, but the thing is, there's nothing to do.
[And now he does pull away--quickly, like he's got to force himself--so he can pace over to the wall that he had punched. Not to hit it again, just to glare at it, darkly.]
I hate this fucking place.
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She doesn't want him to suffer but she cannot fix this, there is nothing she can do to make it better except be in this space.]
I'm sorry.
[That is not a platitude, that is honesty, and she looks away after she writes it.]
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Eventually he's got to look around, and he reads those two words, and quickly changes the track of his gaze.]
Yeah. Well, unless you sent him off-- don't be.
[But he knows what she means. He's just being a prick. Frustrated, somewhere beyond mere frustration, he lets out a breath and sinks down to a crouch, shoving his fingers through his hair and gripping, hard, at his scalp. There is less hair there to grip. Tyke had cut it quite short, but it's grown back very quickly.]
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After a while she finally gets up and goes to her basket, picks out a bar of chocolate and goes to sit next to him, and eats a piece, then offers him the other one.]
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Eventually, he sits up a little, and looks over at the chocolate that she's offering him.]
Why is it always chocolate.
[He says it a little heavily, but finally, he sounds more tired than angry, and he reaches out to accept the piece.]
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It releases a chemical in your brain I think. It makes you feel better.
Besides it's tradition.
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