fridgetothefire | 033 ☣ a mobius soul only has one side

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033 ☣ a mobius soul only has one side

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[Anya isn't keeping to her room. She takes up a kitchen shift for a few days until Ben is almost scowling as he insists he's recovered. In her own kitchen, she bakes and bakes - not cookies this time, not sweet things. Just fresh bread, lots of it. She wanders through the hallways, thrusting warm, napkin-wrapped loaves of it at anyone she passes. She sits up on deck. The stars there were basically the same. Like her.]

[Private to Lua]

I graduated. Um, a while ago. And I was the one who stole your item. I was just...holding on to things, for a little while.

I'm so sorry.

Thank you. For everything.

[Private to Erik]

When you're. Feeling okay, would you come see me? No rush.

[Private to Cassel]

When I was happy there, it was usually because of you. Maybe that's terrible. But I'm still glad.

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Are you hurt?

Not hurt. I just want to show you something. When you've got time.

Take care of Charles and yourself first. It'll keep.

I'll be by soon.

[Not very soon, but within the day. He let's Charles knows and demands the professor sleep when he leaves, heading for Anya's door to knock.]

[She lets him in. Her bookshelf is back in its proper place, leaving the new door opposite the hallway in plain view.]

It isn't because of - all this. I've had it for a few weeks. I wanted to keep it to myself, for a little while. But it's still here, and. I wanted you to see it first.

[She gestures him toward the other door.]

[He frowns, confused, but the door catches his eyes immediately, and he drifts toward it as she gestures.

He doesn't ask. There is an inkling, a small suspicion, but he reaches out in silence - with his hand, not his mutation - and turns the doorknob, opening the door.]

[It's the hallway of their house house from Bargewell. If he goes downstairs, there are pictures in the living room, from a life both of them only half-remember, Anya in little fifties dresses and Erik in bland government ties, baby pictures featuring the rocking chair on the other side of the room, Anya holding his hand before her first day of school.The kitchen is just a little bit in disarray; she's been using it a lot lately. She drifts after him.]

I didn't ask for it to be this. But it's. Right.

[This is home, as much as anywhere other than the ship itself.]

[He pushes the door open and walks along it, down the stairs. He takes it in with silence, and something builds and tightens in his chest. It's like anger, but it hurts - less, more, he's not certain. It's a good hurt, and he pauses by each picture, drinking them in and letting some of the cobwebs clear. He raised her. He did his best. He brought her books, poetry. He loved his little girl.

He still does.

When he turns to her, he doesn't have to tell her that he's proud. It's on his face. He does hold out an arm, and for once, there's no awkwardness at reaching for a hug. His father hugged him.]

[She hugs him so tight, face mashed against his shoulder with heavy pressure, because the hard solidity of the joint on his lean frame feels like a fixed point, steadying, safe. She chokes, a little.]

It feels like home. Even if it only half-happened. You gave me that.

Thank you so much.

[Pulling her close, he settles his chin on the top of her head, arms wrapping tightly around her. He's not worried about hurting her, or scaring her, those have somehow, at some point, stopped being concerns. He doesn't feel like he has to prove herself to him anymore, doesn't have to win her approval. He already has it.

He kisses the top of her head, and his voice is heavy, thick when it comes.]

I am - so proud of you, Anya.

[No questioning if he has the right to be, this time. She's his daughter, no matter if he didn't see her born. She's his family.]

[She drags in a sharp breath, squeezes her arms a little tighter around him. It doesn't stun her like it did the first time, but it still settles in her ribcage, bright and warm and precious.]

Thanks, Dad.

[Raspy, brief and americanized, like their lives together here, like the house. It's what she called him in that life, mostly. Father sounds formal even in her head, a title for a man on a throne. He's not her father. But he is her dad.]

[Dad. The sound floods through him, creeps through skin and muscle, slides into his heart and pumps out to every inch of his body, mixing with his blood until it's like ichor in his veins. He's her dad.

He ought to tell her he loves her, but his throat has gone tight and is refusing to open. When it does, the urge has already passed: his arms say it, even if his tongue won't form it.]

Where will you go?

[She knows; she knows. One good thing that came out of the disastrous jaunt through each other's heads: she rarely doubts, now.]

I'm staying. For a long while, at least. I need a deal for Wanda, and I want one for me. Most of the people I love are here.

[Home is here.]

All right. [He's relieved and worried: that this is her home is unacceptable, to him. That anyone would want to stay in this place, where the people you love may be tortured, killed, over and over again until their spirits break - he has seen it happen before and though it's with considerably less cruelty, here, he has not enjoyed watching it again.]

I wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye.

Me neither. And I'll be able to come see you, when you go.

[Because she doesn't have any doubts that he will. Not too long now, she suspects.]

[She feels better about it than he does, but Erik's faith in the system isn't particularly strong anymore. He graduated on the other Barge, and that wasn't much to celebrate.]

I'm sure I'll be glad of that, if I ever do.

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033 ☣ a mobius soul only has one side

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