"I could clean it." He doesn't mind! It's good practice, now that he doesn't need Hunter's help to sweep and so forth. He should get his former warden a thank you present for all the extra work that came in the shape of helping Edwin with basic but physically challenging things.
Plus, John seems to like cleaning, which means it is (generally speaking) a thing they could do together.
"Do you want to?" she asks as she pours a little coffee into the cup. She'll put the thermos of milk, open, next to it and place the sugar next to that.
"Now," she points them out in turn, "you're going to try it like this. This is called drinking it 'black' and it's coffee without anything else. See how you like it and then we'll see if you need any adjustments." She holds up a finger. "Fair warning it might be a little bitter."
"Do I want to?" He repeats the question, clearly confused by it. Of course he doesn't want to, who wants to talk about those kinds of feelings?
Still, he's distracted by the coffee presentation. He takes the mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth of it. The sip however--
There are parts of the drink he can appreciate. Those parts get immediately buried as he squints one eye shut and makes a dramatic face at the bitterness.
Yeah, she was kinda guessing that would happen. First things first, though:
"Yes, do you want to explain? You don't have to. 'No' is a full sentence. So is 'No, thank you' if you want to be polite about it."
She points to the milk.
"First adjustment: let's try a little splash of that, since it should counter some of the bitterness, smooth it out. Once you've mixed it in, try it again."
He very cautiously dribbles milk into the glass, then studies Saga as he stirs it. There is a riddle here he has not cracked. Detective Edwin is on the case "...It's not a complete sentence, though. It might represent a complete idea but it doesn't have a subject and a finite verb, so... it's a fragment."
"Look up 'minor sentences', smart stuff," she says with all the power and majesty of the mother of a kid who likes to have an answer for everything. Guess who's daughter grew up to be a lot like her? This woman. "When a fragment conveys a complete idea without a verb, that fragment can be considered a minor sentence. So yes, it is."
"But..." He frowns, more confused now, and entirely preoccupied by the mishmash of grammatical nonsense that is the English language.
He shakes that off, to focus instead on stirring his tea until the color is even, then he takes another sip. It's better, definitely--but he's not sure he likes it, yet.
"I thought I was supposed to talk about things like that."
The confused face is cute. She has to resist ruffling his hair. She's not sure how long she'll last.
"Some people might want an explanation, but you're not obliged to provide one. Something like that..." she sips her own drink, "it's really the kind of thing where the second someone's not 100% on board, you should stop. And your reasons for stopping don't matter as much as only doing what you're okay with."
She'll make sure to catch his eye.
"If you want to talk about it, we can. But I don't feel that you're obligated to tell me that if you don't feel that we know each other well enough yet or even if you're just not ready to talk about it."
She gives him a smile.
"'No' being a complete sentence is also for me. It means unless you tell me it's something I did, your choice is just about you doing what's right for you. And that's okay."
"It wasn't you," he says quickly. "It really wasn't."
He's not entirely sure how to articulate what it was, the sudden terrifying loneliness of being The Only One of a thing. And John is the same, Edwin knows that John has to deal with it too, but the preemptive guilt at the thought of laying all that on his brother's shoulders in the full knowledge of everything else he carries--no. Not acceptable.
"I guess I... I guess I realized some things I hadn't thought about. Didn't want to think about. And that made it... hard to want to see the garden."
He adds half a packet of sugar, stirring it uh-- more. More and more aggressively, to make sure he's covering both possible interpretations in this context. It means there's a little coffee on the table when he's finished.
He dips it a little too long; it starts to crumble when he lifts it. Edwin catches the crumbly bit with his other hand as it drops, glances sheepishly at Saga, looks at the mush in his palm--
And decides to stick the rest of the unmushed cookie in his mouth and take a sip of coffee when his hand gets freed up. He still has a palm full of mush.
Oh thank fucking god, he would have shredded that napkin to pieces. He drops it in the little bucket, then straightens, expression lighting. It's been a while since he's found something entirely new about himself. He'll have to remember how much of everything he added, so he can add it to his garden.
"The... I wanted to tell you about why I left before, and ask if we could try again."
He hasn't really told her about The Big Thing, the Only One Of Himself thing, except in the broadest of strokes, but he also doesn't know what to say about it yet anyway.
"We can always try again," she says as she peers over at him, "whether you want to talk about it or not. Just in case you thought that was a requirement."
He frowns and presses his hands around his mug. It's a different pattern than he's used to. It usually mess up, talk about it, move forward. Or sometimes mess up and talk about it right there and move forward. But there's usually talking about it in the middle.
"It's not a bad idea," she admits, "but sometimes, you don't know all the facets of what happened until you try again. And sometimes, you can't really explain it until you've sat with it for a while."
She gives him a warm little half smile.
"I trust you to talk to me if you feel like I need to know something. And I wouldn't be doing this with you if I thought you'd put yourself over my safety. But if talk? It should be because you want to. If I have a boundary, I'll let you know."
The look he's giving her goes from curious to plaintive as she talks. For a couple of seconds when Saga finishes, he teeters on the edge of whether or not to say anything. Then--
"I don't know what my mind place should be. I don't know what it could be. I don't remember anything about what I was before, my brother does, and he doesn't..." Edwin looks down at the coffee. "He doesn't want me to have to remember. The thing that we were was ageless and awful and bored, it didn't think anything of humans or any other creature that didn't serve it. That it didn't have a use for."
Edwin fusses with his cup. "I only know the barge and a tiny tiny piece of earth and the Dark World. I don't know anything. How can I make a place for myself like yours when I don't know anything?"
He's half-way around to the thing he's actually trying to say.
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Plus, John seems to like cleaning, which means it is (generally speaking) a thing they could do together.
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"I'll think about it. But for now, let's try some coffee and cookies, huh?"
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"I- I thought I should- should explain, why I..."
Why he cut their work in her mind place short and fled almost immediately. Edwin shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
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"Now," she points them out in turn, "you're going to try it like this. This is called drinking it 'black' and it's coffee without anything else. See how you like it and then we'll see if you need any adjustments." She holds up a finger. "Fair warning it might be a little bitter."
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Still, he's distracted by the coffee presentation. He takes the mug in both hands, enjoying the warmth of it. The sip however--
There are parts of the drink he can appreciate. Those parts get immediately buried as he squints one eye shut and makes a dramatic face at the bitterness.
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"Yes, do you want to explain? You don't have to. 'No' is a full sentence. So is 'No, thank you' if you want to be polite about it."
She points to the milk.
"First adjustment: let's try a little splash of that, since it should counter some of the bitterness, smooth it out. Once you've mixed it in, try it again."
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Detective Edwin is on the case"...It's not a complete sentence, though. It might represent a complete idea but it doesn't have a subject and a finite verb, so... it's a fragment."no subject
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He shakes that off, to focus instead on stirring his tea until the color is even, then he takes another sip. It's better, definitely--but he's not sure he likes it, yet.
"I thought I was supposed to talk about things like that."
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"Some people might want an explanation, but you're not obliged to provide one. Something like that..." she sips her own drink, "it's really the kind of thing where the second someone's not 100% on board, you should stop. And your reasons for stopping don't matter as much as only doing what you're okay with."
She'll make sure to catch his eye.
"If you want to talk about it, we can. But I don't feel that you're obligated to tell me that if you don't feel that we know each other well enough yet or even if you're just not ready to talk about it."
She gives him a smile.
"'No' being a complete sentence is also for me. It means unless you tell me it's something I did, your choice is just about you doing what's right for you. And that's okay."
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He's not entirely sure how to articulate what it was, the sudden terrifying loneliness of being The Only One of a thing. And John is the same, Edwin knows that John has to deal with it too, but the preemptive guilt at the thought of laying all that on his brother's shoulders in the full knowledge of everything else he carries--no. Not acceptable.
"I guess I... I guess I realized some things I hadn't thought about. Didn't want to think about. And that made it... hard to want to see the garden."
Which oops is still an explanation of sorts.
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"Work like that can do that," she says gently. "It's why you go slow, and why you lean towards caution when it comes to whether we keep going or not."
She tips her chin towards the coffee.
"Try just a little sugar now. You'll need to stir a little more this time to make sure it incorporates."
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"You can try dunking one of the cookies in it to see if you like how that tastes too. It works better with cookies that aren't fruit flavored."
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He dips it a little too long; it starts to crumble when he lifts it. Edwin catches the crumbly bit with his other hand as it drops, glances sheepishly at Saga, looks at the mush in his palm--
And decides to stick the rest of the unmushed cookie in his mouth and take a sip of coffee when his hand gets freed up. He still has a palm full of mush.
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"I think I like it now. The uh, the coffee I mean."
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"Good. And now we know how you like coffee."
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"I guess we do."
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"So. Just bringing by the cookies or did something bring you by?"
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He hasn't really told her about The Big Thing, the Only One Of Himself thing, except in the broadest of strokes, but he also doesn't know what to say about it yet anyway.
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"Isn't it?"
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"It's not a bad idea," she admits, "but sometimes, you don't know all the facets of what happened until you try again. And sometimes, you can't really explain it until you've sat with it for a while."
She gives him a warm little half smile.
"I trust you to talk to me if you feel like I need to know something. And I wouldn't be doing this with you if I thought you'd put yourself over my safety. But if talk? It should be because you want to. If I have a boundary, I'll let you know."
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"I don't know what my mind place should be. I don't know what it could be. I don't remember anything about what I was before, my brother does, and he doesn't..." Edwin looks down at the coffee. "He doesn't want me to have to remember. The thing that we were was ageless and awful and bored, it didn't think anything of humans or any other creature that didn't serve it. That it didn't have a use for."
Edwin fusses with his cup. "I only know the barge and a tiny tiny piece of earth and the Dark World. I don't know anything. How can I make a place for myself like yours when I don't know anything?"
He's half-way around to the thing he's actually trying to say.
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