XLIX: The Capitol - Ashland North Police Station.

Soran Faerber, 19
Applicant #8

It feels like days.

It's all about retreating into his own head. It's not safe there, but it's not safe anywhere as he learned. If he's in there at least no one else can get him. Everything is just stunningly, blissfully empty, or at least he's forcing it to be that way. He clears out a corner of his brain until there's nothing even close to touching it and then resides there.

There's no drowning out everything going on around him, but that would be impossible. This part of his brain may be empty but that doesn't stop him from hearing things, seeing them out of the corner of his eye. They're never there for real, but he can see them.

And the look on Ria's face is still there, too. How distraught she had looked before the pain had set in, and that was all he could see. It didn't look broken, but he didn't know any better. It's not like he could do anything.

He never used to wish he could do things until now.

They take him out again to talk to him, but they let him sit there a long while before they do. It must be hours that Ria's been gone, now, and someone finally comes back for him. It's just more of the same; questions and photographs and weapons, more questions when he doesn't answer the first ones properly. He feels robotic, like everything that's coming out is an automated reply. They even get a few different people to try, but nothing changes. Part of him wants to say it's not you, don't worry but they wouldn't care.

He's back in the same holding cell, again, when the door slides open and slams into place.

He didn't even make it to the bench last time - he claimed the floor again because it felt easier, because there was no one else there to tell him not to. None of the guards care.

There's a problem with his head, though. He's imagined the door opening maybe a half dozen times but it never was, not for real. He would look, but it was never real.

And he's so, so tired of looking.

"C'mon, kid."

Or what, he wants to ask? Or what? Are they going to come in here and try to snap his wrist as well? It doesn't even fucking matter.

He looks up. His eyes are all fuzzy, and there's no expression on the man's face that he can pick apart from the others. The door is actually open. There's someone else with him, too, and oh—

Pandora wasn't there before. Maybe this is real.

He stays on the floor for a few extra seconds, though, and stares. Neither of them go away. The door is still wide open. He's going to have to get up and get out of here, or else he's going to fuse to the floor. Not the worst fate to have, he's sure, although Pandora may beg to differ. She is here for real, after all, so someone would care. Not him, but someone.

He grabs the bars nearest to him and pulls himself back to his feet, ignoring all of the pops and creaks coming from every single inch of his body as he does so. It feels like a long, mile walk, but the guard steps aside and lets him out. Pandora doesn't look good. Upset, maybe? Upset about what? He's not even sure that's the right emotion but he's not sure what else to call it.

"Let's go," she urges quietly. "We're getting out of here."

Well, that's nice. It's about time too. This guy could probably snap her in half but she still steps between the two of them while he gets to work locking up the door once again. A hand lands on his back but it's gentle, still insistent in the way it presses him in one direction over the other. She doesn't let up on it, either, once he finally gets the message to start walking. The guard is clearly still behind them. Her attempting to be the protector right now feels way too backwards to be viable, but it's definitely not him.

"You okay?" she asks him and he nods, but it still feels robotic. There's morning light coming in through the windows of the lobby. Morning, already.

"Just wait outside," she tells him. "I just have to make sure we're all good."

She walks him nearly all the way to the door before she turns away, back to the front counter. Soran nudges the door open with his foot, sliding out into the early light with hardly a sound. The change renders him half-blind for a few long seconds, in which he hears a few muffled and colorful swears. A hand lands on each of his arms, squeezing, and his vision comes back in time for him to see a quick glance of Icarus' face before the hands disappear and then he's crushed against his chest.

Alright, well, he wasn't planning on dying via hug after this, but whatever. It's fine.

Icarus is squeezing him so tight it'll be a miracle if he walks away from it without bruises. He shifts a bit, trying to free his trapped arms, and eventually succeeds in getting one up just enough to cling to his side. It doesn't feel like enough.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head. It's a futile effort with his head trapped in the crook of Icarus' shoulder, but he thinks the message gets across. This is the first time he hasn't been in any sort of physical pain in a long time. It's almost enough to be nice.

Almost.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know," he says hoarsely. He can't even get his head up to say it properly because of how tightly Icarus has got him.

"That's fine. It's okay."

It's not fucking fine, it's not. How does he not know if he's okay? How come he doesn't know anything right now beyond the fact that that ugly feeling that he's about to cry has come back? What will happen if he just randomly bursts into tears in the safety of Icarus' arms - will he die on the spot? Probably? Icarus would look even more upset than he already does, and he was matching Pandora in that regard. Soran still doesn't know why.

His eyes are burning. He can't tell if he's that close to passing out or if he really is about to cry. Whatever it is, he's willing it to fuck off just for a little while. It's taking everything in him to focus on each individual inhale and exhale and crying would really not help. It's just Icarus' words right now - remember to breathe. That's all he's capable of doing.

"Where's everyone else?" he asks eventually. He could probably lift his head up now, but he doesn't want to. Just because Icarus might be about to ease up doesn't mean he's ready for it.

Is this the longest he's ever allowed himself to be hugged for?

"Evander took them back about a half hour ago and then brought the car back. Not enough room for all of us."

So that means Evander is lurking somewhere too, about to witness this? Awesome. That's a confidence booster if he's ever heard of one.

Behind them the door comes swinging out and nearly hits them both. He made it even less distance than he thought. Icarus glances up, but he stays put. There's no way it's anyone other than Pandora; they're silent, and they don't go anywhere. She's just letting him be, and they're probably sporting an equally weird, sad glance over his shoulder like they're sharing emotions.

Who knows anymore; it's definitely not him.

"You ready to go?" Icarus asks, breath tickling against the side of Soran's neck.

"I don't know," he says again. "Could I just stay here for the rest of my life?"

"We could, yeah."

We, not I. So Icarus is planning on staying with him whatever he chooses to do. He apologized earlier, right? He thinks he did, but he can't remember a single concrete thing from before eight hours ago. It's just the cell and his own head, all the questions morphing into one.

He pulls back, but Icarus doesn't let him go more than an arms-length away, holding onto him at the waist instead.

Over his shoulder Pandora still looks slightly sad. Icarus looks more than slightly sad. Evander will probably look sad too at this rate and not even have a good goddamn reason for it. It's the running gag of today, because he knows he looks less than stellar too. Nothing he can do about it unfortunately. Everything would be much easier if he could - today probably wouldn't have gone the way it did if he didn't feel this way. This station would have gladly gotten rid of him any other day, and they would have done it a lot quicker.

"Alright," he mumbles. "Let's go."

Icarus tries to smile. He appreciates the effort, poor as it is. His hands fall away from Soran's waist but one comes back up to grab his own, and even through the numbness that he's expecting to be more permanent by the day he feels how hard he squeezes, how tightly he holds on.

"Yeah," Icarus agrees. "Let's go."

Icarus Devereux, 17
Applicant #10

Soran nearly falls asleep on him in the car.

Nearly. Icarus waits with fast-fading patience, but he doesn't no matter how long he waits and watches. He's literally supporting all of his weight but he just won't go the fuck to sleep. He's actively fighting it, or else he'd be out by now. No one just spends days not sleeping and can't, especially not after how drained he is and with how quiet the car is the whole way back.

He has half a mind to yell at him, but there's a whole list of reasons why he can't. He keeps going over them in his head to avoid doing it.

One, he's seriously done fighting with him. He doesn't want to. Second, Pandora and Evander are in both the front seats, and while they're not exactly watching the backseat they're still way too close to say anything above the slightest murmur without getting caught. He definitely couldn't start yelling. And three, probably most important of them all, he doesn't want to make anything worse. He already found him on the verge of one breakdown - another one could happen at any second if the wrong thing occurs.

He has no desire to be the cause of anything like that.

Soran just looks so vacant. You know, the type that would inspire terror in a Games-type scenario but just looks awful in the midst of anything else. There's nothing he can do it fix that except to ensure he goes to sleep, so that's what he's doing to do.

Icarus doesn't give him a choice otherwise. He gives a quick, half-hearted goodbye to both Pandora and Evander, who make no effort to stop him, and then he drags Soran free from the garage and back into the Estate. He doesn't even know where he is from this direction, but navigating is solely on him. Soran looks like a five year old who missed his daily nap, half-dead on his feet and paying no mind to any of his surroundings. The edge of paranoia from before is gone and has been replaced in the face of sheer exhaustion.

He walks in a few circles before he figures out exactly which way he's going, but there's no one close enough to their right mind to notice. He only finds Emmi, eventually, but she's far off down the opposite hall and only makes a few hand gestures at him, finally settling on a thumbs up and then a thumbs down, one after the other. He waves a hand back at her, something between the both of them. He's not sure how he feels exactly, or what direction this is heading in. Right now he's just hoping it's heading towards sleep.

She leaves them be, too, so she must think the same thing he does. She's too far away for him to tell anything else.

For how slow they're moving it takes less time than he expected. He opens the door and drops Soran on the edge of the bed, where he lands with a thud and then promptly careens onto his side where he stays, unmoving.

Icarus goes to the bathroom, comes back, and he's still sitting like that. Feet hovering just above the floor, everything waist up twisted awkwardly in an attempt at laying down.

"You staying like that?" he asks. Soran mumbles a bunch of nonsense into the pillow and says nothing else.

He's tired too. Not Soran-level tired, but tired. He still sort of wants to take a shower and wash all the grime off from effectively spending a night in jail but that would require more energy than he thinks he has stored up.

He hovers for a while, until Soran finally goes wiggling around and then gets his feet onto the bed as well, rolling closer to the middle. He didn't even have shoes on when they came looking.

There's a part of him that thinks he should maybe make Soran shower, too, or at least eat something. You know, act like a viable human being for the first time in a while. He also has no desire to listen to him pass out in the shower, and he thinks eating is going to be more trouble than it's worth. They can do all of those things later once he wakes up, however many hours that's going to be. Icarus gets the feeling it's going to be a while.

"When's the last time you slept, really?" he asks, sitting down beside him. Soran turns his face out of the pillow and cracks his eyes open, looking mighty confused about that himself.

"Three days?" he says. "Four? I don't know."

"Awesome," he says flatly. "You can't do that to yourself, you know."

"You can't tell me what to do," he mumbles, and now he actually sounds like a five year old. "I can and I will."

"Be nice," he warns. "This is my bed you're sleeping in."

"Not sleeping." He says it as if to prove a point, but he yawns so widely immediately after that the purpose is defeated almost instantly. He still doesn't even sound right. Some of that is stemming from what happened earlier, and shit like that doesn't just go away. He'll still feel the after-effect of it when he wakes up. He might just feel it for days.

But he's okay, or at least he will be, and Icarus is satisfied with that.

He inches down next to him and drags the lone blanket from the end up of the bed up over them; it's the only one that's not currently being laid on, so it'll have to do. He rolls over to stare at him, watching Soran fiddle with the pillow's edge, eyes still open and staring at nothing yet again. Not to mention that that's the side Icarus has been sleeping on, and now Soran's claimed it. He's not saying a word.

He inches closer, head nearly slipping off of the pillow and onto Icarus'. He takes the opportunity for what it is and curls an arm around him, holding him there. He can't say Icarus is being clingy if he's the one that came over here first.

"Did I apologize earlier?" Soran asks, though he barely hears it. Dare he say it, but it sounds like he's about to fall asleep.

"You did."

"Okay."

It's not perfect, though he doubts they ever will be. He's no stunning optimist, but it won't feel like this all the time. Something has to give eventually.

Something has to change.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," he says. It's so quiet that Icarus almost thinks that he's hearing things, but Soran is still most definitely awake even if he can no longer see his face to tell. It sounds worse than anything else, and it manages to break his heart just a little bit. What world are they living in where Soran sounds like this? Not a good one.

"It's not forever," he murmurs. "It'll be different when you wake up."

It will be, for better or for worse. Icarus can only hope that it's even slightly better, for his sake and most importantly for Soran's. You know what they say about what happens when you hit rock bottom - you can only go up, after that.

Icarus isn't sure it's true. It feels like he's been headed downwards forever now, or at least for the past year. It's long enough.

It's not himself he has to believe it for, though. They have to go up.

There's no other option.

Tarquin Vierra, 16
Applicant #4

Going to bed seems like the logical thing to do when you were up all night.

It's not the logical thing for him.

Sleep is wrong now. It doesn't work the way it used to, the easy way, the comfortable way. It feels like the worst kind of chore. He dreads settling down for the night when before it just seemed like an eager opportunity to start the next day.

He does, though, because he's still trying to cling to the way things used to be. And for once since they've been here he actually manages to settle down within minutes, slipping away like it was no trouble at all. Maybe because of how long he's been awake, or the stress of it all. Being in here is actually a million times better than being trapped in one of those interrogation rooms.

He sleeps soundly, for the first time a while. Really, genuinely sleeps.

But something happens. Something changes.

He hears something. A scratch, a tap. Like the drum of someone's nails against a desk's edge, like a branch against a window-pane, moved by the wind. Nyx hasn't flinched from his position at the end of the bed, undisturbed by whatever it is. It feels off, but not enough to stop him from sitting up. The blankets fall away, and even though the window is closed he feels a sudden chill spread over his shoulders, all the way down his spine.

The tap is repeated, over and over again. Tap tap tap. It grows insistent, louder with every passing second. It feels like it's right inside his skull.

There's a shadow at the window, and he scrambles up to his feet, nearly tripping over both of them. Something slams against it with a bang; he jumps, but Nyx stays still.

It's a hand, he realizes. A hand, palm flat against the glass, nails digging in just enough. Tap tap tap.

And then there's a face, too, from out of nowhere. Like it materialized from thin air. The dread settles over him as he recognizes it like a blanket would but this feels too heavy. It's going to drag him down. He knows her. He saw her. He ran from her.

Run along now, little mouse.

It's her all over again. Her face looks brighter. Younger, too. Without the shadows of the mines flickering at its edge she looks more like a real person. He found her after, too, in the rubble of it all. Half the skin of her face was burnt off from the proximity of the explosion. She doesn't look like that now.

She's clinging to stay up with both hands, one wrapped around the outside sill. A part of him, in any other circumstance, would be rushing to help her.

And then she starts screaming.

Tarquin nearly falls backwards. He expects the window to shatter, but it doesn't. Finally awoken, Nyx goes from a peaceful slumber to on all fours within a span of two seconds, ears flattened to the back of his head. On and on it goes but nothing wavers, not the sound or her hands either. She's holding on for dear life but doesn't look as if she's struggling at all.

She said she wouldn't be so kind the next time she saw him, but that was when she had died.

Now she was back, though. Now he was going to pay for it. He has to shove her off before she comes in here to kill him.

He wakes up before he even touches the window's edge.

He nearly rolls off the bed, for starters. He grabs the edge of it and then the bedside table with both hands, forcing himself back up before he can hit the deck. Nyx meows plaintively from the end of the bed as if sad to be disturbed, rolling over himself to face away from Tarquin's nonsense.

Is that what this is? Nonsense?

He looks to the window, but nothing's there.

Tarquin finally allows himself to fall towards the floor but uses the table to rise back up. Half the blankets are tangled around his legs and he kicks them all away, frantically. For one long, panicked moment he nearly jumps back onto the bed for fear that something is about to reach out from beneath the bed and grab him. Finally he's free, though he can't make himself let go of the table. There's nothing there. Was there ever anything there?

It's just him, and the cat who probably can't understand what he's doing right now.

It wasn't even a dream. He'd never call that a dream.

No, that was a full-blown nightmare.

He creeps closer to the window even though every instinct is telling him to run for it while he still can. Flee deeper into the mines when he has time to do so. He reaches a hand out, trembling, to flick the window's latch open. There's no noise - there's not even a single shadow. He flings it open one-handed and then back-pedals halfway across the room, staring as if something is about to come rushing through.

Only the wind does. It's cool, but not enough to make him shiver.

There was nothing real about it.

He finally allows himself closer again and this time he grabs onto the curtain as an anchor, something to tether him to this place so he can't run. There's no reason to. Nothing's there, and he knows it, but it still takes a long minute to work up the nerve to look out, ducking underneath the glass to stick his head all the way out, and then his shoulders.

There's nothing fucking there, and something's most definitely wrong with him.

He looks in every direction, and then up and down. There's no one waiting to drop down from above, no body splattered all over the pavement below. No, he already killed her. He saw to that a while ago, and she's not coming back for him now.

Tarquin lets go of the curtain to grab the sill with both hands, leaning out as far as he can possibly go. If tossing a leg over wouldn't send him plummeting to his death he would do so, but it's not worth it.

If only he could convince his brain of that. He is safe, as safe as he can be anyway. There's nothing wrong.

"Tarquin?"

He nearly falls out of the window.

He jolts, rams himself into the side of the frame, and then someone's grabbing onto him. He gets dragged back in before he can even begin to process what's happened, and he finally hits the floor on his knees as whoever it is lets go. He slumps to the side, up against the wall, and reaches back for the sill almost subconsciously, like he has to keep looking.

Ria's standing above him, eyes very wide.

He's definitely not going to be looking again anytime soon.

She hasn't said anything beyond his name. How did he not even hear her come in? Clearly Nyx did. The cat gets up with a happy little chirp and then jumps down to wind around her ankles before he abandons them both and then hops onto the sill. Ria reaches forward and slams the window shut, narrowly missing his fingers and Nyx's furry little head.

She looks a lot of things. Alarmed, nervous, worried.

Scared.

Oh.

"I wasn't," he starts, but his voice is shaking so terribly even two words are difficult to get out. "I wasn't doing anything. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, what was I doing—"

"What were you doing?" she asks, fear bleeding into her tone. He doesn't even know. He had a nightmare, but everyone has those. He knew it wasn't real, so why'd he have to climb halfway out the window to check? Because he was scared? That's not a good enough reason to accidentally slip out and break his neck when he falls the several dozen feet to the ground.

That's what Ria saw when she came in. And that's what she thought...

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I wasn't doing anything," he insists. "I wasn't, okay, I swear."

"Okay," she says softly. "I believe you."

Does she really? He can't tell. He can never quite tell with her.

She reaches a hand out - he's not sure what the hell he was going to do with it, because this is Ria of all people, but he latches onto it before she can get any further. She doesn't necessarily look the most thrilled about it, but his read on her has never been good. Like he said, this is her. She's almost impossible, but not in a bad way.

She doesn't wrench away, or tell him to let go. He doesn't.

She was probably going to pat him on the shoulder, or something, or at best put a hand on his knee like a normal person. Now she's stuck on the floor with him sitting there even more pathetically, crouched underneath the window like a raving lunatic, and she doesn't have a choice about leaving. Nyx is still sitting up there even though she's closed it, and his tail is occasionally whisking softly over the top of Tarquin's head. It feels somewhat comforting.

He really can't sleep anymore, though. He can't do it. There's nothing that can happen from here on out that will make him, not when the prospect of closing his eyes is the worst one he can think of right now.

He's scared, or maybe beyond that. It's a feeling he's never felt before.

He was telling the truth about what he was doing, but the alternative isn't far off. He could've fallen. He could've broken his neck. He could've died.

He didn't. But maybe he could.

And he has a feeling, a terrible one, that the day for it isn't as far off as he initially believed.

Isperia Martorell, 16
Applicant #17

Tarquin's eyes slip into something like resignation, a tired version of it. She watches it happen.

"Hey," she says. He blinks at her a few times. Swallows.

She doesn't want to know what that was. Not any of it.

He hadn't answered when she had knocked those few times. Any other time and she wouldn't have even considering coming in here if he was asleep, but she couldn't bear the thought of tracking down the doctor alone. She hadn't wanted to wake anyone else up, either. Only him.

And then her heart had fallen straight through her stomach and out onto the floor. She was surprised the carpet wasn't stained.

She does believe him, mostly. She hadn't at first but the longer he sits curled up on the floor the more she does, for some odd reason she can't put her finger on. He just doesn't seem like the type to lie, not even about something so terrible. He's not doing well, per say, but none of them really are. After what happened tonight she wouldn't even blame him.

It's not happening, though. It's okay.

"Do you want to come somewhere with me?" she asks. There's the bit of life she was expecting, as she gives him something new to focus on.

"Where?"

"I wanna track down the doctor."

"I thought you said it was okay?" He lets go, bringing back all the feeling into her good hand, to poke gently at the skin below her wrist. It's aching a bit, but there's nothing that's overly painful. It hurts to move, but everything is still working as far as she can tell, so it must not be broken. Better safe than sorry, though. She'd rather not have it be screwed up for life because she was too cowardly to seek help.

Tarquin was the only one who knew outside of Soran, and that was only because the latter had witnessed it. Clearly the guard who had done it had said nothing to no one. By the time she had gotten out the initial pain had faded, and even then she had kept it tucked close to her side to avoid further damage.

She hadn't even wanted anyone to notice, but he had. And she had told him it was okay.

Apparently she's a better liar than him.

"I think it is," she responds. "It's not too bad, really. I just want to make sure."

He nods, and it's decided. She's not sure she'd want to leave him alone in here anyway, not after what just happened, and she doesn't think he'd want that either. She helps him up to his feet and they both leave the room with Nyx meandering along at their heels, although a few minutes later she turns and he's gone, just like that. It's a little bit lighter in here now, past dawn, but there are still hardly any signs of life. She thinks she knows where she's going, anyway, downstairs and then below ground. She's come down here once before, wandering aimlessly, and even saw him once from a distance before he came to properly deal with her later on.

It's that same door she saw him outside of that she heads to now, knocking a few times. Tarquin stays behind her the whole while, silent and hunched over. There's no other way to put it, because he just looks awful. She doesn't look the pinnacle of perfect right now either, but there's something different about him.

The door opens. She's met with a sight not entirely unlike the one from a few days ago, but different all the same. Dr. Arranmore, for one, looks like he's gotten a full night's sleep unlike the rest of them.

Good for him.

"Oh, Isperia, hello," he says. He must not have been awake for very long. "What can I do for you?"

The heebie-jeebies she gets from him is coming from her general distrust of everyone, she's realized. He's done nothing to her except try to help. Even if he is somehow connected deeply to the Presidency, his role is to be a doctor. That's the only one he's fulfilling.

"I don't think it's broken," she starts, holding out her wrist. "Sprained, maybe? I can't tell."

She winds up sitting in one chair of many, a room before the one he must be staying in. Tarquin ends up perched against the table right behind her, anxiously leaning over her shoulder as if something serious is going on. Dr. Arranmore drags a chair in front of her to take a better look, carefully taking her wrist into both hands and turning it this way and that.

Doctors in Three weren't the most gentle things. She only got the flu once when she was living there, but they had been downright nasty about it. All over the flu.

He's nicer, she thinks. She hopes.

"You're right, I don't think it is broken," he agrees. "Not with the range of motion you have. There's swelling and some slight bruising, but the pain isn't too bad?"

"It just aches a little."

"Alright. Well, I don't have a brace on hand but I can wrap it and give you something easy for the pain. After that just try to keep it as immobile as possible. If the swelling gets any more noticeable, or the pain, you can ice it for some period of time. But if the pain worsens come back to me, and we'll see what else we can do. For now though I don't believe x-rays are necessary; you may have some microscopic tears, but nothing serious."

It all sounds very professional, and thorough enough. More than she knew, definitely. Like she said - biology wasn't really her thing. She hardly knows when something's wrong with her and when something isn't. The difference isn't even obvious anymore.

The pull of the compression bandage around her wrist, when Dr. Arranmore finally gets there, actually feels a little comforting. It's easy watching him do it, a repeated motion. He knows what he's doing.

Tarquin had been watching, she knew, but she glances at him then and he's off in space again. It feels like he's there more often than his feet are on the ground.

"Um," she sounds, nearly wincing at how awkward it comes out. "What you said, about something to help me sleep, could I still do that?"

"Of course. If you'd like to."

She doesn't. She's not sleeping perfectly, but at least she is in some respect. Tarquin's snapped back to attention, now, and when she peeks over her shoulder he's staring at her. Dr. Arranmore looks up, fingers stilling around her wrist, and glances between the two of them several times before she sees the click in his brain. Tarquin's the first to drop his gaze back to the floor, and Dr. Arranmore quickly finishes up the rest of his job.

And no one says anything.

She's not going to force him; it's not her thing to force. And maybe it won't help, she doesn't know. It's not like she's the doctor here. But maybe it's worth it in the long run if it can't get any worse than it already is.

Something needs to be done. If not this, then something else.

Dr. Arranmore pushes a clip through the rest of the bandages, holding them together. "If you'd like to talk to me privately, Tarquin, we can do that."

Ria goes abnormally still and focuses too much attention to depositing her own wrist safely back into her lap while Tarquin fidgets behind her. She wants to look at him, but who knows what that'll do. Everything feels too risky.

"Okay?" Tarquin says. "Okay, yeah."

"Only if you want."

"Yeah," he repeats. "Yeah, we can."

Okay, that's her cue to go. She rockets up so fast she nearly hits one or both of them as she navigates out. Tarquin catches her by the elbow before she can complete her exit, stopping her just in front of the door. It doesn't feel as weighty as it did earlier.

"Are you going to sleep?" he asks.

"I was planning on it."

"Okay," he says. "Okay, that's fine."

He lets go. It takes a moment, she notices, and his hand slides away almost as if in defeat. That's his entire posture, really. Dr. Arranmore is watching too, trying and failing to be subtle about it. It's probably good that a doctor's looking at him, or at least attempting to converse with him. There's only so much she can do, but maybe he can actually get somewhere.

"I'll leave my door open, if you want to—"

"Okay," he interrupts. "Okay."

Broken record, it sounds like. Okay is a safe word. Easy to say.

Not entirely terrible.

Ria vacates with an unnecessary amount of speed and closes the door behind her for good measure, fleeing back upstairs to her room. She really was planning on going to bed for however long it takes to make her feel like a relatively normal person again, but this time she leaves her door unlocked. She wasn't inclined to do that before, but it's different now.

It takes her longer than she expected, so maybe the conversation isn't all terrible. She lies awake for a while under the blankets, facing the door. She's almost properly asleep when it finally cracks open and Tarquin slips inside. He's a blur in the darkness, but she still sees him pause, considering where to go, before he curls up into himself in the chair far off in the corner of the room. It's the same one he didn't sleep in the first night they were here, too.

Sometimes she still feels as sick as she did that night, as drained and cried out.

But not right now.

"Are you gonna try something?" she asks quietly. He puts his head on his knees, but doesn't look her way. She can't really see him much anyway.

"He's going to pick you up something in an hour. And something for me too, I guess."

"That's good."

He nods. She can't tell if he looks convinced or not. She's too tired to wonder too, unfortunately for them both. She feels bad going to sleep but there's really no other choice with how heavy she is. How heavy she feels.

"Night," she murmurs.

He tilts his head towards hers, and she closes her eyes. "Morning."

She smiles, just before she falls asleep. It's been a long time since that happened.

We're... sort of moving into the last act now? I know having a last act at all with this many chaps is frankly horseshit, but we're getting there!

Here's to hoping that everyone had a Merry Christmas and even happier holidays. If not I hope better things are to come. I'll see you all in 2020.

Until next time.