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.
She considers what he's saying, and she can feel something underneath, like sand in a shoe. She looks over at him and reaches over a hand to put it over his on the cup.
"That just means we start somewhere else, then. How about before we get to working on that place for you, we take a few trips in the Enclosure? I can show you my favorite places and just like the coffee, we'll learn what kind of things you like and don't like and adjust from there. Sound good?"
Somehow Saga's hand over his makes him feel small and fractured and reassured, like he's watching someone take bits of an incomplete thing and saying there's a way to put them back together.
He can't think of anything to say that won't have tears interrupt it, so he nods instead.
"Sometimes, we don't," she says gently, because that's hardly an experience unique to people in his situation, "but it's okay that you are. Now, if you don't want me to see it, that's okay too. You can go to the bathroom and sit and wash your face. But it doesn't bother me and I'd rather be there for you."
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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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"That just means we start somewhere else, then. How about before we get to working on that place for you, we take a few trips in the Enclosure? I can show you my favorite places and just like the coffee, we'll learn what kind of things you like and don't like and adjust from there. Sound good?"
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He can't think of anything to say that won't have tears interrupt it, so he nods instead.
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"Can I-" and if she isn't given a 'no', he's going to get a good, firm hug and a squeeze to hold him together a little.
"Let's do that then."
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Mumbled into her shirt: "I don't know why I'm crying."
He's so much better at emotions, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's good at them.
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