handelaar | not here.

[Oh, fuck, at this point he knows what that blinking means because he's seen it on her before. It's. Really, really difficult not to reach up to grab her hand, or turn in to kiss it, or pull her close but he can't decide if that'll make her feel worse or better, and he doesn't want to ask because that means acknowledging it.]

Mm, yeah.

[And then she kissed him and he never got around to explaining. His eyes go down to her mouth, there's a hard swallow, his eyes go back up to meet hers.]

Always been too greedy, though.

[Things, people, money, whatever he can get. It's her third warning and part of him doesn't even want to give her that, but it's easy to ignore when she's right here looking like she's about to cry on him.]

[She sees his eyes drop to her mouth, sees that swallow, and wets her lips without thinking. It would be easy just to lean in, close that distance between them and kiss him. He'd let her, she's sure. Maybe they could even get back to what she'd thought this was going to be after she got back, and she could justify that to herself. Dress it up as giving him comfort in a difficult time. Maybe, just maybe, she could live with herself if he came out of this and it turned out that wasn't what he'd wanted at all.

And maybe if she did all of that she'd be a worse person than he ever was, mask or none.]

Like this? Has it been like this before?

Not with - things.

[Or at least never to the point where he physically couldn't let something go. People though, it used to be even worse. Or maybe it's just because they were countries and it was possible to have them be yours and was possible to cling and claw and fight to keep them. But he's not exactly sure how to explain it in a way that. Well. Doesn't make him look awful, but that's kind of the point he's trying to make, huh. Even so he picks the example that doesn't involve a colony, though it's the most cringeworthy one.]

I, uh. Took nine years to acknowledge that Bel wasn't - that she broke away.

[Yeahhhh. Still leaning into her hand, but definitely not meeting her eyes anymore.]

[She. Doesn't know how to take that. It sounds scary as hell, but nine years is pretty close on half her life. Is it different for nations? Does that amount of time seem shorter when there's so much more? So for a long beat she just watches him, keeps her hand soft against his face.]

I can't pretend I know what that means. I don't get a lot of that stuff, I just don't have anything to compare it to. But I do for you. And I know that things only changed between us after the masks arrived.

[A pause, there, and a tense little inhale because this exactly what she's been trying to avoid having to say.]

I'm not scared you won't let me go. I'm scared you'll get better and wonder why the hell you let me in in the first place.

Ah -

[He's not sure how to explain it but then there's a lot more to be confused about anyway, and for a moment he meets her eyes and lets it flicker there, doesn't get why she's worried about him letting her go when he's attempted to say over and over that he really sucks at that. And that doesn't even make sense, the more he thinks about it. Yeah, things changed - he started avoiding her - so if he got better wouldn't he. Not... avoid her.

Goddamn. There's a huff of pure frustration but figuring out how to word all of that is hard, and doing it well might just be impossible. So all he does is send her a fiercely serious look and grab her hand to keep it where it is.]

I won't.

[Won't wonder about it, yeah, but for all he knows he might never get better either and that's something she - should know, and that's not telling her what to do, is it.]

[He still doesn't get it. She can tell just by looking at his face and it occurs to her that she ought to ask when he first put the mask on, point out that he can't really trust anything he did after, but then he goes and clasps one huge hand over hers. Looks at her like that, speaks like that and in that moment she wants nothing more than to believe him. And that's what Christmas is about, isn't it? Believing because you want to, no matter what the evidence says.

He got a bike. She should get something too, even if it's not for keeps. So she blinks hard again and when she leans in it's a tentative and stuttering sort of motion, but it happens. Pushes her way closer through every reason she can think of not to until her lips brush against his.]

[That's enough to get his hand off the bike, easy, because he doesn't want to tear her hand away from his face but he does want to touch hers as she kisses him. Or maybe it's him kissing her, because just that one brush is enough to have his eyes fluttering closed as he suddenly leans forward and his hand moves to grip her chin, keep her there - ]

Shit -

[Only to open his eyes and snatch that hand back to himself even as he keeps close enough to nose at her, worried over how controlling that got and that quickly.]

Are ya, uh.

[Okay, but that sounds stupid.]

[The sound she makes isn't quite a whimper. Just a pained little catch in her throat when he jerks his hand away, and it ought to be because she feels guilty for forcing that reaction out of him, but it's not. She can't make herself pull away so she lowers her face instead, drops her eyes.]

Wish you hadn't stopped. Messed up, I know. Sorry.

[She swallows hard, nudges at his face with hers. Figures she owes him an explanation, even if it sucks.]

See, this is why I've been avoiding you. When I'm alone I'm so sure I can be an adult about this and just talk to you and try to help, and then when I see you I just want everything to be like it was. I wanna - sit on your floor and play with Lodewijk and listen to you go off on a tear about whoever's being a dumbass today. Want you to glare at me when I start laughing about it. I wanna know that if I decide to be a smartass and try and kiss my way out of it you're kissing me back because you want to, not because you're so messed up you can't not.

[Well now that she says that he wishes he hadn't stopped, either, but there's no way for him to tell if it happened because he was taken off guard, and for that matter if that was the worst of it. And if they'd kept going - he'd kept going - and it kept building, and then he found that he couldn't stop? Better to be cautious about it. But he doesn't think it's messed up of her to want it and gives his head a tiny shake, no, don't be sorry about it.

And pulls back enough to watch when she keeps going, even if she won't look at him, watches the way her eyelids move and tries to guess at what's happening behind them.
Hates that make her look is a thought that won't go away just as much as he hates that she won't on her own.
Almost does reach out to jerk her chin up and make her look at him but all he does is curl his fingers in against hers and huffs, spits out two different thoughts at once.]

Don't - that's stupid. [Immediately he gives his head a shake and starts over.] Not that you wanna do that stuff, I mean. Just. Uh. That ya think I don't...

[By the end he sounds a little lost and a lot put out. How is that not obvious. He thought it was obvious. Hell, he'd been kissing her for months and months before the masks came around and then some.]

[Stupid, he says, and before he elaborates that actually gets half a laugh out of her. Jerk. But he continues and she wants so badly to lean in to him, put her head on his shoulder. Shakes her head instead, drags her free hand through her hair and finally meets his eyes.]

Yes doesn't count for much if you can't say no. And hell, it's not like you're ever in your room for me to come and annoy you there these days anyway.

[Okay, Mason, man up. She squeezes his hand, keeps looking him in the eyes because if she doesn't know that he'll see it in her face it'll be too easy to chicken out, say something else instead.]

That night I got back was... I mean, it wasn't something I'd really thought about 'cause I didn't think you'd be interested, but as soon as it happened I knew I wanted it. And then you didn't want to be around me at all and it just felt so bad. I really don't wanna do that again.

[Goddamnit he'd never say no, mask or not, most of the time doesn't even say no if he doesn't give a damn about the person and his expression is edging toward a genuinely upset sort of irritation until she looks at him. It doesn't leave, but it doesn't get worse as she goes on and a slight curiosity filters in, just tiny twitches of his mouth and narrowing of his eyes. He kind of tilts his head and kind of ducks it, both movements a little too slight for them to be bashful - more like he's literally trying to see what she's saying with a better angle.

After a moment he realizes he's half-staring at her while he sorts through his thoughts and focuses, slightly, one thumb rubbing over her hand like it'll reassure her while he chooses where to start with that.]

I - [Huff.] Didn't wanna be around anyone. Kinda. Only wanted to...

[He trails off and shrugs with the shoulder not attached to the hand gripping her. Only wanted to be around the people his mask showed him.]

Got real damn paranoid about everyone - [Not else, because that lumps her in with the everyone else and that's not true and he already told her that. And also because they weren't real, and she is] - here.

[A beat where he tries to explain, but showing is always easier and the next moment has him pulling out his tiny bottle of pills. Though he doesn't let go of the bottle. Just holds it up.]

[Her eyes flick from his face to the bottle and back, a little oh of recognition curling up from her throat as it clicks into place. The stroking of his thumb is a comfort but her hand's been on his face for what feels like a very long time so she lowers it, slowly, keeping hold of his hand as she does.]

Arm's getting tired.

[Not because she doesn't want to be touching him, and she hopes that comes across. Rests her hand on her knee with his on top of it and traces little fingertip circles over his knuckles with her other hand.]

Guess that explains going from one extreme to the other like that. And I'm glad. It's good you got help.

[A pause, then, because even with the minor stuff she sometimes worries he'll mistake concern for pity and have a tantrum, but she's not so worried she won't ask.]

Are you seeing someone?

[There's a little nod of acceptance when she says that and doesn't pull her hand away from his, though even if she tried to he'd, well, try to let it happen. He still watches as she trails her fingers over his hand, nods along again, trying to figure out how it must've been from the other side of the wreck. Probably something like whiplash except three times over, and once again there's that guilty shameful feeling that claws at his chest and sinks his shoulders.]

Seeing someone.

[Listlessly repeated but then he actually hears it and flicks his eyes up to meet hers, question in it. Seeing someone? Though regardless of what she means - seeing people from the mask, getting help, in an alliance or dating or whatever - the answer is no. So he shakes his head.]

[Frown. That's not good, and part of her wants to ask which asshole in medbay decided it was enough to throw pills at him and leave it at that - doctors, she fucking hates them - but that's really not the point. Moving her hand over his seems a safe enough kind of contact for now, so she just... keeps doing it as she talks.]

Hn. I know there must have been some pretty big advances, but back in my day - [and yes, she's aware of how silly that sounds, which is exactly whey she says it with such a tone of self-mockery] - they were all about how it wasn't enough just to take the medication, you had to work through it too. Therapy and shit.

[Not that it's always shit. It's probably a lot more helpful if you don't have to lie.]

[It's not like he'd remember anyway, and in fact he was probably supposed to check in and... didn't. (Dumbass.) Hey, they work, so why bother when there's way too much work to do down here to waste time with it. The combination of contact and the way the phrase and the way she phrases it clash is enough to get a small, amused huff out of him.

Of course then she drops the word "therapy" and the response is predictably knee-jerk.]

No way.

[There's no heat in it and no clenching of his hand or anything, because it's Heder and was couched in fact, but he couldn't look more like a grumpy stubborn old man right now.]

[Oh, Ned, sorry about the laughter but that's what happens, because that reaction's basically what she expected.]

I know. And I'm not gonna lie to you, it sucks, but they always told me that pills fix the symptoms, not the cause. Which I'm sure you're thinking is good enough, but think about where we are. What if something happens in medbay and you can't get more? You really wanna relapse and have withdrawals on top of it?

[By the end of that she's gone from joking right through to earnest, lacing her fingers through his, fingers on the other hand curled around his wrist. Pleading in her posture - please, please listen to me.]

[Strangely enough, her laughter doesn't do anything but relax him somewhat - he's expecting it to be followed up with a joke or sarcasm or snark, the topic to be brushed upon and moved right over or at the very least danced around for a while. So as it slides into something real and earnest his expression comes along for the ride. A vaguely, barely expectant and amused look and then onward to carefully blank but not suspicious. And then to where he's removing himself from the problem and looking at it factually, eyes half glazed over and one side of his jaw tight in thought.

For all of the facts present the conclusion ends up being: as many ways as he tries to circle it, find the loophole, can come up with enough counterarguments to shut her down - she's right. But more than the fact that she's right is the fact that she's right, and damn it all, he cares about the second part just as much.

After nearly a minute of spacing out he looks up at her.]

No.

[He doesn't want to relapse and get withdrawals, no. Of course that's not agreement with anything other than the fact that, yes, relapsing would suck. And what she's saying makes sense - hell, she's totally right. He wants to listen, even, would love nothing better to go to therapy except for the part where he wouldn't and of course can't lie to her about the lengths he'd go to Not Go.]

Be willin' risk it, though.

[He does not want to blab everything to a stranger even more than he despises any sort of risk.]

[That's a really, really long almost-minute. From where she's sitting, at least. And when he says no there's a flutter, a little bubble of hope that he bursts almost immediately.]

Oh.

[She's not going to leave it at that, no way, but something about the way he says it tells her she's already lost this fight. Which means that she's always going to be one missed dose from having him treat her like she's going to turn on him at any second, that she's probably never going to be able to touch him suddenly and just for the pleasure of touching him without risking an odd, if not openly hostile reaction. She uncurls her hand from around his wrist, tucks her hair behind her ear as she looks away and her fingers threaded through his go loose. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet.]

Have you ever tried it? It's not - they don't try and make you talk about stuff you don't want to. And it's -

[a hitch in her voice, there - just a tiny one, and he better be okay with her not looking at him because if she looks at him she really is going to cry]

it might be the difference between getting by and getting better.

No. Don't like talking.

[There's a but, though, and he presses his lips into a tight line while he decides whether to say it or not. Doesn't like talking in general, hates talking about the things he'd surely have to talk about in fucking therapy, but he also doesn't like the way she pulls back and in, away from him. He has to hold himself back from clinging too hard in response or pulling her in, because that's the first step of a vicious cycle that is way too familiar (in the short term might freak her out, too, and she shouldn't have to worry about this when there's so much else to worry over).

And he's already thought it - this is something that happens over and over so it's obviously him - so it's either try to fix it or shut himself out from everyone. So he lets out a long, slow sigh, moves his head like he's going to scrub at his face but his hand doesn't budge. Yeah, getting better would be. Good.]

...what if I try it, once.

[It's not really the answer he's waiting on so much as her response to the question.]

[She tips her face back towards him, inclining her head even if she still can't quite look at him. Tightens her fingers almost imperceptibly against his even as her other hand picks nervously at the fabric of her jeans.]

S'all I can ask for. That you try.

[Really try, she thinks, because she's having mental images of him with his arms folded, tapping a foot and staring down whoever draws the short straw. Then again, she's got no room to criticize there, and she actually gives a rueful little laugh.]

You couldn't do worse than I did my first time, anyway. But it'd -

[And she does force herself to look at him then, trying to keep her expression steady instead of needy, almost desperate.]

It'd mean a lot to me if you did.

[Better. She comes back and even if he registers the picking, somewhere, it's overridden with the satisfaction that she liked that answer. There's a minuscule motion of his chin sideways and he suddenly wants to hear her talk about her first time, but she continues and he files it away and spends a long moment looking back. Trying it, then. It's a deal. He nods once, sharp, resists the urge to shake her hand in his because he thinks she'll get huffy over that. His wrist turns like he's about to, regardless, so he starts speaking as a distraction.]

How was your -

[Wait. His mouth twitches down as the sudden question of who her first therapist was comes to mind again (and he wonders if it was Dr. Crane), but then it makes him wonder the question he really should've thought of in the first place.]

Who the hell is the therapist - [New thought.] Uh. There's a therapist here, right.

[He's looking at her like "we better not have just had that entire conversation for no damn reason".]

[She's actually about to tell him about her first time - fresh out of Silent Hill, full of fear and hurt and anger and refusing to talk to anyone because when she tried they'd put her on anti-psychotics and how disastrously it had ended, but then he asks something else entirely and she can't help but laugh - a little sadly - at the fact that he apparently thinks she'd put him through that degree of wheedling for nothing.]

Jenna. It's Jenna. There might be others, I don't know. I saw Dr. Crane for a while, but...

[but he got weird, and then that Blake guy knew about him and none of it was good]

he's gone. But it means the ship doesn't have a one-psychologist limit, I guess.

Huh.

[Said more so that she knows he heard her, because even he realizes he's doing that thing where he sinks a little too far into a spiral of thoughts and isn't paying enough attention to everything happening in the real world or whatever. But once he's done sifting through it - and back to rubbing his thumb over her knuckles without realizing, just a slow stable back-and-forth - he's got a plan and the look she gets is pretty damn businesslike.]

And ya like her.

[As a therapist, he means, because he's making the assumption that Heather is now seeing Jenna.]

[Unfortunately that assumption passes her right by. She's too interested in the way the gentle movement of his thumb over her knuckles contrasts with the look on his face to pick up on that implication.]

I like her a lot. She was the first person here I felt like I could trust. Can trust. She'd never repeat anything you said to her, I'm sure of it. Or judge you, anything like that.

[And yeah, somewhere there's a little spark of recognition that says "hey, Heather, you might be overselling this a little", but it's drowned out by the hope that he might see it through and get back to his old self.]

[That very last thing gets her a flick of his eyes up to the ceiling and a mockery of a chastising rap of his thumb atop one of her knuckles.]

Ain't worried about her judgin' me.

[Please. There are precious few people whose approval he cares about, and as soon as his eyes come back down to meet hers he nearly says that, too. And then he realizes it might be kind of obvious anyway, tilts his head and shrugs with that shoulder in an odd little sideways nod of concession. Worried about Heather judging him? Yes. Other than shrugging that admittance he's not sure how to say it - or rather, he is, but she wouldn't understand it and at the thought he turns his head to settle his gaze on the bike.]

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