"Last one, I think." He scratches the back of his neck, eyes on the file. It's like with the paper that John had, that Arthur tried to push David to read. He doesn't want to see it, someone else's summary of him, his life, any of it. It makes his skin crawl in a way that the empty can't seem to fully consume no matter how hard he pushes it.
He finds, interestingly, that he can't look at her while she reads. Can't look at her, can't sit completely still. 'Fidgeting' for him is really just rubbing his palms together from time to time while he stares at nothing, but it's something to ground him to the moment. Her room, his file, this is fine. This is totally fine.
His name is the first and most important thing she gets... and she loves it. Immediately. She doesn't have a vision or any such nonsense but suddenly, her file is renamed. 'David' was a lie. A necessity.
This is Henry. Henry Valentine. Her inmate is named Henry Valentine.
And when she hears him sliding his hands together, she reaches her own over in between words to give his arm a light squeeze. She'll look up and offer her hand if he wants it.
He looks at the offered hand, wondering when he'll stop being surprised by her little moments of unprompted kindness. Hesitates, then takes it, because it's the polite thing to do. Except he finds that holding her hand settles him a little. More than he'd expected.
David rolls his shoulder a little bit to loosen it, holds Saga's hand, and keeps his eyes on his coffee while he drinks it.
When he takes it, she gives him an encouraging little squeeze. And as she reads, her thumb will lightly rub over the side of his hand.
...it's a damn good thing she's dealt with horrific shit before. That she's read coroner's reports. Gone through files and information detailing terrible abuse. That she has had to calmly and rationally and professionally handle things that no one should be calm or rational or professional about.
And then she gets to what Henry did. How he became David. What happened to Caleb's family. The parents. The kids. The regional manager and the drug dealer and the bullies.
Finally, she gets to his last moments, to how he stood there. How Luke stabbed him. How they left him to die, alone, in the rising mist.
...it's a lot. It's both more and less than Arthur's file and there's no mysteries here. All there is is fact and information and reports. All the questions are answered here.
Except how the fuck those people were ever allowed to do that to another human being on government pay.
She finishes reading the file and she closes the folder and she takes a moment just to breathe. For a moment, she envies her grandfather. She wants a hammer to smash, wants to wield lightning from the skies and show just how upset she is. She wants a guitar that will scream out her frustration across the skies. Maybe she could even do with a typewriter. Something. But no.
All her power is to see. And fuck but has she seen. The context only makes the profiling she did worse. And she can't- can't cry. Because he would try and comfort her and like fuck is she letting him comfort her over what happened to him.
She takes a few moments to breathe and give his hand a squeeze and finally, she is going to turn, out the folder on the coffee table, and put her arm around him in a slow, gentle hug.
Oh, all right. There's a momentary awkwardness when he's not sure where to put his hands but he finally manages to-- not hug her back, really, more like put his arms in a properly formatted position around her.
"Worse than you thought it'd be?" His tone makes the question a joke.
She catches the awkward and it makes her chuckle, just a little. She'll give him one last squeeze before she signs and sits back down next to him.
There's a glance at the file folder before she speaks.
"I won't pretend I didn't get a lot out of that folder. I did. It told me about your life. It told me about your military career. About the Project, what was done to you. How you got out, and where you went after that. It told me about the Petersens, and how... that all went. As well as how you died."
She breathes out.
"I'm sorry you've been alone through... so much of that. I truly am."
"I understand," she says quietly. But she will reach for his hand again, for a slightly different reason.
"I know your name. Your real one. I realize that... that your programming might make it difficult to use for the moment. But I'd like to use it here. When it's just me and you. Any objections?"
He stares at her for several long seconds, an odd tingle at the base of his stomach that he can't identify.
"Oh."
Objections? No. No, he doesn't have any objections. He doesn't think he does. He's just not sure what to do with the idea that he'll hear a name regularly he thought he'd never be able to say again. That no one else would ever know again.
He doesn't feel any impact to his sternum, but it's quite suddenly hard to breathe. He stares at her, defenses flattened. And yet he doesn't feel a thing.
Thank God for that.
"That's--" The word comes out strangled. He clears his throat, frowns, rubs at with his fingertips. "That was a mainstay for the squad to give me shit."
He directs a smile toward the floor, forcing himself to breathe through the odd pressure on his lungs. "What's the difference between a mom joke and a dad joke, anyway?"
"I don't really have questions. I have ideas. I have feelings-"
She looks at him and make sure she has his eyes.
"I need to say something, but mostly I need to know you heard this from me, okay? It's important. And you don't have to respond. You can, but you don't have to. I don't expect it."
She's going to take both of his hands then, curl her fingers lightly around them, and once she's sure-
"What was done to you was terrible and unfair and inhumane. You signed up to serve your country, but your country took that service in a direction it never should have allowed. You were preyed upon at your weakest point, when you should have had people looking out for you and offering help, and what they did to you and the others-" she swallows, "I should say that I want those people prosecuted and imprisoned for what they did, but if I'm honest, I completely understand why you burned that place down and killed everyone there, for... one reason or another."
Those who deserved it are one thing. Those who were put out of their misery... she understands but a part of her wishes that she could save them. Hell, depending on how things go and how long she's here, maybe she will. Or maybe D-Henry will.
"There's a lot more I want to say. But I also know now isn't the time, and I- I need to prove some things to you before it will feel right to say them. What I will say is that I think I know what you need to graduate. And that while I think it will take some time and some work, I know you can do it. And I'll be here for you every step of the way, including the ugly ones, okay?"
The simple answer is 'okay.' She even supplied the word as part of her question, but for reasons unknown, he can't say a goddamned thing when she's finished speaking. He doesn't pull his hands away from hers, doesn't look away from those dark, serious eyes. And yet every time he starts to speak--to say what, he doesn't know--it's like the air gets squished out of his lungs before he can make a sound.
Finally, quietly, clearing his throat first, he says, "They let me. The- the subjects that were left, they let me do it. The ones I could get to. I hope the fire got the others, but I can't be sure."
She watches him, sees the false starts, and when he finally does get the words out, she squeezes his hands and nods.
"It did. You're the only one left. The file was specific." A breath out. "They're at peace. You don't have to worry about them. They can't be hurt anymore."
He's tense. He's always tense, on the alert, ready to respond to environmental threats.
But when Saga says that, something fundamental in him unravels and lets him relax, just a little, little bit. Enough for his shoulders to drop an inch with his exhale.
He nods, once, watching her a bit like a dog waiting to be struck when it goes for an offered meal.
Maybe the file didn't actually cover everything. At least not in detail. Didn't mention how he almost killed Caleb's sister, just that he almost did. Didn't mention the waitress or the diner.
This just seems so... strange, wrong, somehow improper. He's none of them, the people who were incidental damage to his escape. He can't reasonably expect sympathy from anyone, and he's comfortable with that.
This, this gentleness is somehow very uncomfortable.
"How, uh, detailed was that file? As to my history?"
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"That works for me."
She picks up the folder and it's clear she's still hesitant. But she's going to open it, glance over at David, and then start reading.
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This is Henry. Henry Valentine. Her inmate is named Henry Valentine.
And when she hears him sliding his hands together, she reaches her own over in between words to give his arm a light squeeze. She'll look up and offer her hand if he wants it.
She knows this is hard. She wants to help.
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David rolls his shoulder a little bit to loosen it, holds Saga's hand, and keeps his eyes on his coffee while he drinks it.
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...it's a damn good thing she's dealt with horrific shit before. That she's read coroner's reports. Gone through files and information detailing terrible abuse. That she has had to calmly and rationally and professionally handle things that no one should be calm or rational or professional about.
And then she gets to what Henry did. How he became David. What happened to Caleb's family. The parents. The kids. The regional manager and the drug dealer and the bullies.
Finally, she gets to his last moments, to how he stood there. How Luke stabbed him. How they left him to die, alone, in the rising mist.
...it's a lot. It's both more and less than Arthur's file and there's no mysteries here. All there is is fact and information and reports. All the questions are answered here.
Except how the fuck those people were ever allowed to do that to another human being on government pay.
She finishes reading the file and she closes the folder and she takes a moment just to breathe. For a moment, she envies her grandfather. She wants a hammer to smash, wants to wield lightning from the skies and show just how upset she is. She wants a guitar that will scream out her frustration across the skies. Maybe she could even do with a typewriter. Something. But no.
All her power is to see. And fuck but has she seen. The context only makes the profiling she did worse. And she can't- can't cry. Because he would try and comfort her and like fuck is she letting him comfort her over what happened to him.
She takes a few moments to breathe and give his hand a squeeze and finally, she is going to turn, out the folder on the coffee table, and put her arm around him in a slow, gentle hug.
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"Worse than you thought it'd be?" His tone makes the question a joke.
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There's a glance at the file folder before she speaks.
"I won't pretend I didn't get a lot out of that folder. I did. It told me about your life. It told me about your military career. About the Project, what was done to you. How you got out, and where you went after that. It told me about the Petersens, and how... that all went. As well as how you died."
She breathes out.
"I'm sorry you've been alone through... so much of that. I truly am."
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And then he didn't have Caleb any more, and then loneliness itself largely blinked out of existence, so it wasn't relevant.
"And I don't remember most of how it felt before and after."
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"I know your name. Your real one. I realize that... that your programming might make it difficult to use for the moment. But I'd like to use it here. When it's just me and you. Any objections?"
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"Oh."
Objections? No. No, he doesn't have any objections. He doesn't think he does. He's just not sure what to do with the idea that he'll hear a name regularly he thought he'd never be able to say again. That no one else would ever know again.
"Uh, okay. Sure. I mean, no objections."
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"Well, then, it's nice to meet you, Henry Valentine. I promise not to make jokes about you being a heartbreaker. Scouts honor."
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Thank God for that.
"That's--" The word comes out strangled. He clears his throat, frowns, rubs at with his fingertips. "That was a mainstay for the squad to give me shit."
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Good. You should react to that. You should feel that too, but I know you're not ready for that yet.
"I wouldn't give you shit. But I'm notoriously bad about mom jokes." She turns a wry smile on him. "Maybe when you're ready for my material."
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Cough.
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There it is. The terrible wordplay has clicked. He wrinkles his nose and groans quietly.
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After a moment, he says, "So, uh, questions?"
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"I don't really have questions. I have ideas. I have feelings-"
She looks at him and make sure she has his eyes.
"I need to say something, but mostly I need to know you heard this from me, okay? It's important. And you don't have to respond. You can, but you don't have to. I don't expect it."
She's going to take both of his hands then, curl her fingers lightly around them, and once she's sure-
"What was done to you was terrible and unfair and inhumane. You signed up to serve your country, but your country took that service in a direction it never should have allowed. You were preyed upon at your weakest point, when you should have had people looking out for you and offering help, and what they did to you and the others-" she swallows, "I should say that I want those people prosecuted and imprisoned for what they did, but if I'm honest, I completely understand why you burned that place down and killed everyone there, for... one reason or another."
Those who deserved it are one thing. Those who were put out of their misery... she understands but a part of her wishes that she could save them. Hell, depending on how things go and how long she's here, maybe she will. Or maybe D-Henry will.
"There's a lot more I want to say. But I also know now isn't the time, and I- I need to prove some things to you before it will feel right to say them. What I will say is that I think I know what you need to graduate. And that while I think it will take some time and some work, I know you can do it. And I'll be here for you every step of the way, including the ugly ones, okay?"
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Finally, quietly, clearing his throat first, he says, "They let me. The- the subjects that were left, they let me do it. The ones I could get to. I hope the fire got the others, but I can't be sure."
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"It did. You're the only one left. The file was specific." A breath out. "They're at peace. You don't have to worry about them. They can't be hurt anymore."
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But when Saga says that, something fundamental in him unravels and lets him relax, just a little, little bit. Enough for his shoulders to drop an inch with his exhale.
"That's... good to know."
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"If you have any other questions like that..." A breath out. "If it's in the file, I'll tell you. If it's not, I'll see what I can find out for you."
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Maybe the file didn't actually cover everything. At least not in detail. Didn't mention how he almost killed Caleb's sister, just that he almost did. Didn't mention the waitress or the diner.
This just seems so... strange, wrong, somehow improper. He's none of them, the people who were incidental damage to his escape. He can't reasonably expect sympathy from anyone, and he's comfortable with that.
This, this gentleness is somehow very uncomfortable.
"How, uh, detailed was that file? As to my history?"
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