The Shavings Off Your Mind are the Only Rent [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

Picture a house. Actually, picture two houses. They're (almost) identical structures that share an uneasy coexistence, tangled together on a quantum level. One of the houses is Good: bright, cheerful, full of comfortable furniture and a pervasive feeling of safety. The other house is Evil: dingy, dilapidated, and haunted by the dreamers' greatest fears.

The good news - and bad news - is that travel from one house to the other is as simple as passing through a door. All a dreamer has to do is walk through a doorway, any doorway, and they'll find themselves in whichever house they weren't in before they crossed the threshold. Perhaps they'll step out of a beautiful library and find themselves in a threatening hallway - or perhaps they'll flee a menacing kitchen and find themselves in a perfectly safe dining room. That is the nature of the houses' entanglement: every door is a portal between the two.

There are, of course, complications. Dreamers in one house can't perceive the other; if you're in the Good house and looking through a doorway, the space beyond will look as nice and inviting as the space you're in now (until you step through that doorway, of course). Dreamers also can't really perceive one another if they're in the same room, but in different houses, though they might see a flash of movement out of the corner of their eye, or think they heard something.

Perhaps the greatest complications are the houses themselves. They have rather strong personalities, and they aren't very fond of one another. Each house will want to keep you if it can (keep you safe, in the case of the Good house, or keep you for itself, in the case of the Evil one). Dreamers may attempt to cross a hall and find the door that looked open and inviting a moment ago is now barred shut, leaving them trapped in the hall - or have doors suddenly close in their faces before they can end up anywhere unpleasant. Still, there's only so much either house can do, and even a locked door can be jimmied open or busted down.

Escape from the houses is possible, but the formal gardens beyond are similarly entangled, with neatly trimmed lawns and expertly plotted flower beds becoming overgrown tangles of nettles and algae-choked reflecting pools. An archway is as good as a door, as far as the gardens are concerned, and there are plenty of arbors and arches over the paths. Of course, dreamers may find that a sound arbor in the Good garden has collapsed in the Evil one… and heaven help anyone who dares to explore the hedge maze.





[ooc: y'all know the drill. ALL characters are welcome, regardless of whether they're in the game. Characters can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion.

Also, this dream party marks the aforementioned calendar freeze. For the next three weeks, the IG date will sit on July 3rd. Posts dated July 3rd or earlier are allowed and encouraged. The calendar will resume forward motion at a 4:1 ratio on Saturday, July 26th.]

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[bibliophale]

Strange place, this. Two places, more like. One quite a bit nicer than the other. Yet Aziraphale finds it almost impossible to keep to one or the other. Impossible if there is any exploring to be done. They switch back and forth continually. Always contesting one another, establishing kind of warped balance. A little too familiar.

Exploring isn't really his taste, but there's just nothing else to do. Maybe if he finds a library? Or something.

He passes through one lovely empty room, sighs heavily as he goes to open the next door. Another horrible one ahead. Hopefully not too taxing to escape.

He pushes the door open and steps over the threshold.

[rae_of_sun]

It might have started out as a ballroom, but it has since become… infected. Along the left side of the room, beneath the tightly shuttered windows, it could almost pass for normal. The right side of the room, however, is an oily tangle of glistening black pipes and crusted-over levers and dials, a senseless conglomeration designed for aesthetic intimidation and not any kind of actual, industrial purpose. On the floor, gangrenous threads of black and green are creeping out of the mess, encroaching on the young woman shackled to the left-side wall.

The sickly, poisonous threads have already claimed her hands.

Don't look at him, Sunshine thinks desperately. Don't look into his eyes. But it doesn't matter, it's all useless. Bo is in the center of the tangle of pipes, they emanate from his throne like malevolent roots, and he doesn't need to meet her eyes to kill her. All he has to do is say her name, and his voice will prise her apart.

He shouldn't be able to say her name - either of her names. But he's trying. Oh, he's trying, and it won't be long before he gets there.

You must be so tired, he says, and it feels like being flayed alive. She wants to cover her ears, but that wouldn't do any good, and she doesn't want to touch herself with her… with those corrupted hands. They do not belong to her anymore.

Do something! part of her screams, but she is chained to the wall. She cannot… face him. All she can do is wait for it to end. Gods and angels, why can't it just be over.

Such an enterprising little human, Bo muses, as if to himself. And then he tries again: Sssssssssssssssssss… Still only achieving the first letter, but that unholy hiss is still enough to make her throw herself back against the wall in a futile attempt at escape.

[bibliophale]

Oh, dear.

This is a sight more horrible than anything he's seen so far. For a moment Aziraphale can only stand and stare, first at the young woman shackled so cruelly to the wall, poor thing, what is that... horrid stuff creeping up around her? - then at the man - no, the creature who seems to be menacing her. Toying with her maybe, or waiting for an opportunity? A difficult situation to parse. But the important thing is the very clear delineation between what is innocent and what is evil. That is Aziraphale's jam. He knows how to deal with this.

"Excuse me," he says, letting a little bit of righteous fury creep into his ordinarily mild-mannered voice. He takes a step toward the abomination - fleshless, oozing, rather, seeming almost hollowed out, a hellish shell housing nothing but wrongness and malice. Aziraphale feels a quick thread of revulsion, a very old feeling, something he hasn't had in a while. He's facing true monstrosity here, something truly, demonstrably evil, like he hasn't seen in centuries. Moral certainty is a luxury he's missed.

"Stop this at once," he says, his unimpeachable English mannerisms still coming out on top of all his internal angelic fire. He all but shakes his finger at the monster. "I will give you one chance to unhand this woman before I intervene."

Someone a bit more practiced at playing the badass might add and you don't want that, but Aziraphale just places his hands on his hips and frowns diligently.

[rae_of_sun]

The second voice is entirely unexpected, but compared to Bo's, it is a balm. Sunshine turns her head sharply towards the source, gaping at this… nerd? supplies her poor, ravaged mind, a little hysterically. A lot hysterically. But that isn't right. He might look like a nerd, but his shadows, they… glow.

But who is your friend, my dear? She hits the back of the wall again, hard enough to bruise (does it even matter if she bruises, though? She's already dead, it's just a matter of when). So… discourteous of him to interrupt our conversation.

And then he laughs.

When he had laughed in the warehouse, she had blacked out. Not a voluntary reaction. Now, for whatever reason, she can't, and the sound of it nearly drives her out of her mind. She wants to be out of her mind, anywhere but here, anything but this. She might be screaming, it's hard to be certain when all she can hear, when all there is, is that malicious laugh rattling around in her brain.

[bibliophale]

Aziraphale feels it too, that baleful voice, pulsing through his manifested form quite unpleasantly - even for him, how is that poor human withstanding it? She seems nearly at the bitter end of her rope, but she must be singularly strong to have lasted so long, but it's going to destroy her - or at least her dreamself, if that's how this works? - if he doesn't interfere soon. And it's so clear that this villain has no intention of listening to reason. Of course he doesn't. They're all the same, the ones like this.

Fortunately, the thing mortals say about old habits is true. With a gesture buried deep in muscle memory, a light, unassuming flick of the wrist, he drags his sword out of the aether, sets it aflame with a crack and a sudden whiff of ozone. The effort costs him a bit of his hold on his assumed form, and his wings burst forth as well, flaring out, not quite as impressive as they could be, unkempt as they are, but it doesn't much matter at this point. He must be giving off a bit of a glow. He only hopes the woman can cope with a sight like this in her state. At least he's still three-dimensional, any more might be pushing it.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says (Crowley would be so proud, he thinks at the back of his mind), and lunges.

He's not sure what he's anticipating, really - a fight, some sort of dark magic to fend him back, a really tussle, perhaps. But he doesn't get it. The creature seems almost incapable of physically defending itself, and doesn't seem to anticipate Aziraphale's own immense show of force. Which is fair enough. Aziraphale's not really looking for a grandiose struggle. His sword tears right through the demon, ripping its body apart like soft clay. The unfleshy ooze of it melts and sizzles instantly, and he breaks apart, crumbling in liquid pieces to the floor, a noxious black puddle.

Aziraphale jumps back with a casual flap of his wings and stares at the remains for just a moment before turning his attention to the woman. He frees her shackled ankle with a wrathful sweep of his hand and crosses to her at once, the still-crawling poison burning up around him as he passes through it. He vanishes his sword and crouches down before her.

"Give me your hands," he instructs, soft but brisk, wanting to deal with this first and foremost.

[rae_of_sun]

Perhaps it's just as well that Sunshine's half out of her head, because it means she's not entirely there to experience the full force of Aziraphale's transformation. But she's not completely gone, either, and she's not completely stupid. He's not a nerd, he's an angel. An actual, winged angel (not fallen), all flaming sword and righteous fury, and even as the animal part of her that wants to live thinks yes, the rest of her, the tired part, thinks: what a waste.

There is nothing here for him to save.

At least he destroys Bo for her. She was meant to do that, wasn't she? Decent of him. Well. Angel. Go figure.

She watches the sword as he approaches her, wondering with a sudden jolt of - hope? fear? - if he is going to strike her down, next. He probably should. Bo is inside her, too; she will be… recreated… given time. Her hands, already, are gone, and she is sad when the angel asks for them, and guilty, as if she should have… anticipated this, the asking… and looked after them better.

She holds them up, not to offer, but to show. Somehow, she manages to say, "They're not mine." Then, shoulders slumping under the weight of her shame, "I'm sorry."

[bibliophale]

Aziraphale frowns tightly. She's still very much under the sway of the beast. He can sense no real transformation in her, though - this is a dream, after all. It smacks of truth, a torturous memory perhaps, but even so. It's painful, seeing someone so wounded, and it awakens another old instinct, the deep, devoted love that he still harbors for these fragile, foolish little people. What a profoundly brave woman, to have made it through something like this, and how unfair that she should experience it again, now.

"They are," he insists, and takes them firmly, turning the palms upward. His touch is enough to excise the poisonous influence, fizzling it out of her extremeties and hopefully her mind as well. It's enough, but he's been so showy thus far, he doesn't mind adding a little touch of magnanimous comfort, leaning down to first one hand, then the other, bestowing upon each a gentle, platonic sort of kiss. Just a little brush, nothing more. Something to feel. He tilts his head to look up at her, still holding her hands.

"See?" he says. "All better."

[rae_of_sun]

Oh gods oh no what is he doing. She forgets, when he takes what were once her hands, the ease with which he destroyed Bo, thinking only that her touch is poisonous, that those encroaching tendrils of wrongness will fasten themselves to him in turn, and they will both be lost even though she's the only one of them who… should be.

But that's not what happens. The venomous discoloration fades away, and then he bends over her hands - her hands - and brushes a kiss against each palm, just as Con had, and her vision blurs as her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh," she says, feeling small, and foolish, and completely overwhelmed. An angel just kissed her hands. "Um." A few tears spill down her cheeks. "Th… thank you."

[bibliophale]

"Oh," he echoes, a bit surprised (naively, perhaps) at her reaction. "It's all right, dear."

What does he do at this point? Hug her? Stroke her hair or something? Wipe away her tears? That all seems to be what he ought to do, based on existing media covering the subject of comfort. But he's never been particularly good at this sort of thing. And he is woefully out of practice.

Well, first things first. He really needs to get her out of here. He stands up, keeping hold of both her hands, tugging gently. "Can you stand?"

[rae_of_sun]

It's probably just as well that Aziraphale refrains from anything as intimate as a hug. She already feels like a complete mess - in general, but especially in comparison - and there is nothing he can do that won't be more than she deserves. It would be… easier to bear... if he just maintained a professional distance. Bo's evil nearly broke her; it would be a shame if the angel's kindness finished the job.

Helping her stand falls within that professional purview, right? Sunshine presses her lips together in a firm, sob-repressing line, then slowly gets to her feet. Her whole body aches in protest - how long was she curled up on the floor? - but she manages.

"Okay," she says, a bit unsteadily. This is… doable.

[bibliophale]

"Well done," he says encouragingly, breaking into a rather out-of-place smile. "This way." He keeps hold of one hand and lets the other go, turning to nudge her carefully toward the nearest door. He rests his hand on the handle and gives it a bit of a tug, then a push, but no good - it's locked. Isn't that always how it goes, with these rooms. He sighs heavily.

"Quite finicky, this old house," he says, a bit ridiculously. This probably isn't helpful. He's absolute rubbish at this whole consolation deal, isn't he? Crowley would make such fun.

"Not to worry, dear," he says, and pats her hand before letting that one go as well. He places both palms on the door and gives it a good shove, summoning more than his bodily strength, breaking the lock and forcing the heavy doors open. The next room looks just as wretched as this one, but he knows better by now. "There we are," he says, recovering her hand and pulling her gently across the threshold.

[rae_of_sun]

She sways a little on her feet when the door proves to be locked, vaguely convinced that she should be able to do something about it. Memories of simply putting her palm over a lock and telling it to open are too distant for her to fully grasp. The memory of a jackknife-turned-key is closer, but still ultimately useless. There is no sunlight here.

Then he calls the house 'finicky' - finicky - and she blinks at him incredulously. It registers, belatedly, that his wings are on the bedraggled side, and… is he wearing a bowtie? She's in absolutely no state to disparage him, but somewhere deep in her mind are the first stirrings of a thought that might become: angel or not, this guy is carthaginian ridiculous.

He pats her hand, then releases it, and she gazes down at it, just… double-checking that it's still hers, still all right. She's still looking down at it when the angel reclaims it, and then she lets herself be pulled into another room that, frankly, looks no better than the one they're in now (though it can't hurt to leave Bo's wreckage behind - that, at least, will be an improvement).

Sunlight.

As soon as she crosses the threshold, she is engulfed in bright, warm sunshine. They're in some kind of sunroom, or greenhouse, or something; she barely looks at it before shutting her eyes and turning her face up into the glow. That is… so much better. She lets go of the angel's hand so she can pile her hair on top of her head, exposing her neck to the light as well, and the pieces of herself she'd lost in the other room start to slot back into place, one by one. She just stands there for a full minute, soaking it in and breathing deeply, before opening her eyes and looking at the angel again.

"… Hi," she says uncertainly. She drops her hands, letting her hair fall back down to her shoulders. Gods, how do you make conversation with an angel? "Um. Thank you… again."

[bibliophale]

Oh, that is so much better. And a change comes over her immediately as well; the moment she's standing in the sun, the stress and pain and lingering fear seem to just melt away, and she's stretching and bathing in it like it's a shower, so much so that it almost seems indecent to watch, and he turns away sheepishly, pushing his glasses up his nose.

He blinks up at her when she addresses him and smiles brightly. "Hello," he says, and, Heaven help him, blushes and waves a dismissive hand when she offers thanks. Tsk, tsk, Aziraphale. Pride hidden behind sheepish modesty is still very much pride. "Think nothing of it. Least I could do. Glad to see you've come through it all right."

He peers at her for a moment. There is something odd about this one. A certified witch, maybe? "Quite impressive, really." He adjusts his glasses and leans back. "Sorry, we didn't exactly have a moment for introductions what with all... that. Aziraphale. Angel, as you might have noticed."

[rae_of_sun]

Is he honestly blushing? Her lips quirk into a faint, incredulous smile at his sudden bashfulness. What kind of angel is this guy? Now that they're in decent lighting and she's no longer scared half out of her mind, there's really no getting around the fact that he looks more like a stereotypical chemistry professor than a heaven-sent righter of wrongs, wings notwithstanding.

Privately, too, she thinks 'all right' might be too generous a verdict, but before she can dwell on it for long, his needless reiteration of his angel status startles an actual laugh out of her. As if the wings and the flaming sword and the glowing shadows weren't evidence enough; thank all the listening gods he clarified things.

… Maybe she shouldn't be laughing at him, though. He did just save her sanity a few minutes ago. "Sorry," she says humbly. "I'm Sunshine." She feels like she should add some equivalent job description, so after a moment's consideration, she says, "Baker." 'Magic handler' would sound too ostentatious (not compared to frigging angel, of course, but considering that she didn't actually do anything back there besides refrain - barely - from going completely nuts).

[bibliophale]

Speaking of wings - with a little shiver of self-consciousness, he draws them back in, rolling his shoulders slightly. Meanwhile, she's - laughing, maybe hysterically? Or... at him?

His expression drops into a little moue for a moment, wondering what in the world is so funny, when she pulls herself back together. Perhaps just hysterics, then. Her name is enough to make him smile again.

"Sunshine," he says, and takes her hand again. "Something tells me that's very appropriate." Baker actually sounds rather exciting to him, but he refrains from comment for the moment. "Are you all right? I mean... that was rather... medieval, really."

[rae_of_sun]

Bedraggled as they are, she's a little sad to see the wings go. He does look a lot more unassuming, now, aside from his shadows, which are still glowing, giving the impression that he's being lit from all sides. She can't - won't - read them. It would feel unspeakably rude to even try. His expression is still pretty telling, though, and she has to bite back a sort of horrified smile at the thought that she might have hurt the almighty sword-wielding angel's feelings.

She sobers as he takes her hand again. Are all angels this... tactile? She's not complaining (yeah, right, like never mind that he saved her from a master vampire and got her out of that godsawful kali nightmare of a room, she just can't get over the fact that he's being sort of handsy), it's just… she still isn't sure she should be the, uh… object… of such… consideration. When he asks if she's really okay, it's her turn to blush.

"Yes," she says after a considering pause. "He was an… old enemy." She gives his hand a little squeeze - why the hell not - and adds, "It's much better in here. The sunlight is… helpful."

[bibliophale]

He's taken her hand mostly for the purpose of guiding her over to one of the room's armchairs, all but setting her there to sit. This comforting thing isn't so hard! He could get the hang of this!

"I see, I see," he says, nodding thoughtfully at her story. Not much of a story, but, well, can't expect her to come out with it all at once. "Here, have a seat."

He leaves her to drag the other armchair a little closer, setting a small endtable in between them. He supposes the house - this being the nice house - won't mind a bit of furniture rearrangement, in the interest of bonding.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks genially. "Tea? Wine?"

There are a great many other things he could offer - endless possibilities, really - but those are the only viable options to his mind.

[rae_of_sun]

She's really not sure what to make of this sudden burst of awkward hospitality. If he was anyone else, she might object, but seeing as he's an actual freaking angel, she settles into a state of bemused complacency, allowing him to lead her to an armchair and settle her down, half-expecting to be offered a blanket and a hot water bottle (and then maybe he'll tuck her in and read her a soothing bedtime story or something).

When he offers tea, though, she brightens visibly. Okay, due credit to his awkwardly hospitable side. "Tea would be amazing."

[bibliophale]

He grins and miracles a lovely tea pot right into existence, filled with precisely steeped Darjeeling, the nice and proper sort, hovering studiously just below boiling. Along with this a pair of matching cups and saucers, and a little plate of chocolate biscuits, just for good measure. All this he arranges neatly on the table before lifting the pot.

"Shall I be mother?" he says rhetorically, and pours her a cup, hands it over, then makes one for himself. He sets the pot back down, to maintain its own heat and keep itself replenished for as long as they feel like it.

This done, he settles back into his own chair and crosses his legs rather primly. "Perhaps a book?" he offers. "I always love a good book with my tea."

[rae_of_sun]

It's not unusual for her dreams to take a sharp turn for the surreal (what in the carthaginian hell is 'shall I be mother' supposed to mean, anyway? for a horrifying nanosecond she's worried he's just going to morph into Sadie Seddon right in front of her and the real nightmare will begin), but baffling phrases aside, she's still starting to reel a bit at the sudden turn things have taken for the domestic. She reaches for the ludicrously ornate teacup and suppresses a rising bubble of hysterical laughter at how flash it is. What is even happening anymore?

"Um. No, thank you," she says, her voice unsteady once again, though now it isn't tears she's on the verge of. She can't imagine focusing on a book right now, not even one of her standard comfort novels, but that isn't really why she's refusing. She just can't handle the gear shift from 'facing down your greatest foe' to 'have some tea and read a goddamn book.'

Clearing her throat in a resolute attempt to not crack up (in more ways than one), she tries for something close enough to the truth to appease him, but not so honest that she'll offend him. "I have an affinity for sunlight. If I've been through something… difficult, or upsetting… it's most helpful to just," she gestures to the arched, glass ceiling above them with her teacup-free hand, "soak. And I can get a bit, uh… single-minded about it," she adds with a trace of an apology.

[bibliophale]

Well, she seems absolutely delighted! Well done Aziraphale, pat yourself on the back. Even though she doesn't want a book. That's okay. He can have his own, and she can make conversation. Nice compromise.

"Mmhm, mmhm," he says, nodding enthusisatically, fingers steepled before him. "It's something... a little supernatural, isn't it?" He's sort of assuming, based on her 'old enemy' being an unearthly monster - unless that was all an incredible metaphor. "And I wouldn't worry about single-mindedness, if it's replenishing you. Replenishment is vital, even in dreams." With that he pops a book into existence, an old favorite - the beloved Wicked Bible (if only it were the real thing) - sets it on his knee and begins to read casually. He picks up his tea, holding it ever so daintily by its little handle, and says, "Go on, if you wish, I've read it before."

[rae_of_sun]

She sort of doesn't wish, to be honest, and for a minute or so she just sips her (admittedly delicious) tea and enjoys the sunlight. And, okay, she might also be examining Aziraphale from over the edge of her cup. Now that he's reined in his wings and put the sword away, leaving his shadows as the only screamingly non-human thing about him, some of her awe is starting to fade a little, and some of his condescension is starting to feel less like precisely what she deserves for being a useless knuckle-dragging human and more like… can angels be dickish? She half-expects him to sense that thought and get right down to smiting her, but he doesn't.

Well, hell, maybe anything's possible.

"I'm a magic handler," she says at length. "So yes, you could say it's supernatural." There, that's his question answered.

[bibliophale]

"Mm," he says, unsurprised by the revelation, but glad she felt like admitting it. Interesting way to phrase it. Not witch. Different universe and all. Maybe they haven't got witches.

He closes the book partway, holding his place with his hand, and looks back up at her. "You're very strong to have resisted something like that. And presumably you got through it without my help before. Without this dream making things extra difficult on you. Quite rude of it, really. But that's quite a talent."

Not much else to say about it, he supposes. Odd little burst of sincerity. Feeling pleased with himself for it, he turns back to his Bible.

"Do you know about the Infamous Bibles?" he asks conversationally. "This one is the Wicked Bible. Printer omitted the not in Thou shalt not commit adultery." He grins at the hilarity of it. "So now it says Thou shalt commit adultery." Hilarious.

[rae_of_sun]

Some distant part of her recognizes that that little speech was meant to be complimentary, a sort of 'good for you for retaining your sanity, well done.' But he's wrong. Angels, it seems, are capable of landing really, tragically far from the carthaginian mark. And despite the bright sun and hot tea (hot as if Mary had poured it), Sunshine feels a cold ball of fury uncoiling in her gut. She doesn't even hear his prattling about Bibles over the ringing in her ears.

"You know what," she says, her tone surprisingly, deceptively civil as she pushes herself upright in her chair, "you have no idea what I went through when I faced that - that thing down in reality. You think I was strong?" Then, sharp with indignation, "You think I resisted? I was half - more than halfway out of my mind the entire time; I wouldn't have been able to get within ten yards of him if I hadn't had help, if he hadn't... compelled me."

She's glaring at him, now, and part of her is appalled with herself for glaring at an angel, but the larger part of her is too angry to care what he is. "The only reason I was able to destroy him is because I was certain it was the last thing I would ever do, because the idea of surviving it all was ludicrous, and I thought…" she falters, the horror of the memory beginning to overtake her a little. She has never spoken of this so bluntly before. Not even with Con. "I thought it would be worth it, if I could just… take him with me." The image of Con being swarmed by Bo's elite flashes through her mind, and she shrinks in on herself. The teacup rattles against its saucer as she sets it down, and she folds her arms tight against her stomach. "I almost died. I… meant to. I was not… strong."

[cw: dealing laterally with survivor's guilt]

[bibliophale]

At her sudden, sharp interjection, Aziraphale looks up, stunned and slack-jawed, and nearly lets the book slip from his knee. He doesn't move, nor alter his expression, for the duration of her rant, even as the bite leaves her and she withdraws once again. His initial reaction is sheer surprise; this is not the way he'd thought things were going at all. How thoroughly he'd misunderstood, or perhaps - willfully ignored? Offering her light conversation and biscuits - like she'd seen a scary movie. And there it is, secondarily, but much more staggering: an intense pang of guilt. Guilt. Because of a human. Because a human has put him - him! - in his place.

It's something he's particularly glad the Authorities aren't privy to.

What a terribly rank idiot he's been.

When she stops, he sits for a moment in silence, then carefully sets his Bible (letting his held place slip away) on the endtable, along with his teacup.

"I see," he says, and adjusts his glasses for lack of action. This not being enough, he takes them from his face and cleans them half-heartedly with the cuff of his shirt, before just folding them and leaving them in his lap. "You're... you're quite right. I don't have any idea what you went through." He sounds almost surprised by his own words, and even moreso at his next ones: "I'm sorry."

He lets there sit a weighty pause, wondering if this is enough, glancing curiously at her.

"But you're wrong, too," he feels the need to point out. "You have strength. I can see that just as I see your affinity, as you call it. It takes strength - incomparable strength - to be willing to sacrifice yourself for such evil. And to accept help. And to survive." He looks at her, quite seriously now. "Survival by any means is not weakness, Sunshine. It is the directive of life."

And, he doesn't add, unfairly difficult to achieve. Sometimes it galls him, how hard things have been made for these poor creatures.

He leans a little closer and offers her a rather genuine smile. "Which is to say nothing of the strength it probably took you to say all that just now."