It feels different.

That's the first thing Central notices, now that he really can take a moment to notice things. He's seated in the dark, on his bed, sweater half folded in his hands.

Something is different. He can feel it— a thrum of energy and life that isn't entirely alien (ha, he thinks bitterly, and then focuses again). There always was some kind of spark in this, that the other items he owned lacked (well, besides his car, but automobiles often had it, so it wasn't as striking). But it feels louder now. Augmented.

Central runs fingers across the fabric, feels for emotions, gets back -

hello.

He starts, looks around, realizes that's foolish because the sound comes from inside his head. He blinks down at the sweater. That's new. He usually doesn't hear words when he reaches out. Usually it's just feelings. He doesn't think he's ever heard a object use words, ever had one speak so clearly in his mind.

"Hi?" he says, and it's a weak thing - it's been a long time, and it feels awkward to address something that doesn't look human, that isn't human, that isn't alive in the sense of—

you're still sad.

"I'm sorry?"

Now he senses emotion: a pitying sadness, which makes his gut turn. Before it even speaks again, he knows what it's on about, and it feels bad, to get pity from something that one would assume could not pity at all.

you still miss something.

A pause.

someone.

"How are you doing this?" he asks, and it's a deflection.

A image in his mind— psionic energy coursing around, infusing every thread, years upon years of this, the small spark of sentience everything has fostered in the purple glow.

He gets the impression it is thinking. Then: i missed you.

He doesn't say anything back, but reflects the feelings.

Another image in his mind: the Commander at his door in HQ, holding a sweater. The feel of specially chosen knitted garment under his hands, that didn't make his sensory issues flare and scream; a realization this had been why they'd asked him about wool and his preferences. 'Something unregulated', they had laughed, and he had been grateful. The uniform sweaters were so damn itchy.

you didn't find them?

He knows the question isn't accusatory, but it still hurts. He swallows, finds his throat dry, fumbles for his flask.

"Not yet," he manages around a mouthful of drink.

A sense of puzzlement, at what he's doing, and then understanding, and then comforting mixed with more pity. His free hand squeezes a palmful of the sweater tightly.

but you will.

"Thanks for the note of encouragement."

He pauses; something lights up in his brain. "Do you... know anything?" He tries to keep his voice steady.

It's thinking again. He holds his breath.

no.

He lets the cautious hope in his heart drop heavy to his stomach, swallows again from the flask. "I guess I shouldn't have hoped for anything else."

hope is good. you are good.

He hmms at that. He doesn't feel very good. He feels tired, mostly. Not good.

There is sense of wanting to be worn from it, that it wants to comfort him in the best way it knows how, and he indulges. It takes some wriggling, and it's a snug fit, but that helps somewhat - it feels almost like a hug.

it's going to be ok.

"You can't promise me that," he says, lying down, staring up at the ceiling as he passes the flask between his hands, back and forth and back and forth.

There is a long silence, so long he thinks the sweater has decided to leave him alone, when it speaks again.

they love you.

Tears immediately prick his eyes.

i love you, it says, and it's their voice, and he is crying, wiping his face on his sleeves like a little kid.

False voice rings in his ears, and for a moment he is back at HQ, as everything is crashing and burning, and the Commander is separated from him across the room and the fire, and they have just yelled to him, 'I love you!', and he is trying to call back, say it back because there might not be another chance, but there is too much smoke and he's coughing too much and then there is a Muton and and and —

breathe.

He takes a shuddering breath. Blinks back to reality. If it is possible, the sweater feels tighter. Grounding.

breathe.

Another breath, longer, deeper. There is no smoke here. There is not fire here. There are no aliens.

(There is no Commander.)

"But I got you back," he says, and he curls that knowing around the small flame of hope that still burns in his chest. If he could get this back, there's still a chance. There's still a chance. He just has to keep looking.

The sweater is quiet. It just is, holding close to his form, occasionally sending flickers of its emotions across his mind (love and love and love and love and love and love and love).

And that is enough for tonight, to feel that and know it is both from the object itself and from its maker. That is enough.

(He sleeps, and for the first time in years, does not have a nightmare.)