[ In the light of the fire, Eleven takes a moment to observe him. Her fingers come up to touch the scars on her own throat when she sees the one on his, concern etching into her expression. She wants to ask if he's okay, but...
But she's learning.
Peter, in these moments, talks a lot and doesn't say anything with his words at all.
Bruce, in his grief, stops responding.
Riku... maybe she just won't allow herself the chance to find out.
Perhaps this is just the grown up way of things. There's a hole in her chest the size and shape of close friendships, of being tightly interwoven with the people she cares about, and perhaps part of growing up is letting that hole sit instead of trying to fill it again. Perhaps grown ups don't get to be happy and close and unconditional like that.
So Eleven swallows and nods. ]
I have to... recharge.
[ Part of her wants to tell him, then. Friends don't lie, right. She wants to tell him: 'I looked for you, when you were gone, and I didn't know if you were safe and okay. I went to the place in which I died, in which my mind was torn to pretty ribbons and of which I'm oh so very scared, but I needed to know if you were alright. And I saw you, for a moment, and then the void faced dog found me, and it wanted to make me fall forever. I was fine, until I wasn't. Last week, it came back, and it hollowed me out, and now there's nothing in my mind where that spark used to be, and I just want to sleep until it's back, because I'm useless.'
But she doesn't have all the words to say that, and she remembers all too well what Bruce said. That Riku has a hole in his chest, and he worries so much about other people that he forgets to look at it, and so because he doesn't look at it, it might just swallow him.
So... friends don't lie. But she can't tell him, and that sits somewhere low in her gut and weighs her down. She feels like she's sinking. ]
I... found this. When the spirits... stole from us. I didn't know, at first, and then... things happened. I wanted to give it back. I did.
[ And she holds out her hand and unfurls her fingers, and there on her narrow palm sits the little charm he lost to the spirit's theft.
Eleven can't give much, because she realizes in this place all the ways in which she is lacking. Too much of a child to help the grownups, not enough of a person to empathise enough, powerless against all the things that matter, too scared of the dark, too simple, too small in all the ways that count.
But she can give this back, and perhaps that's better.
She wants to tell him how she held onto it because it was a link to him in case he disappeared again, to find him in the dark. She wants to tell him that she would do it, too, the moment her powers return, use this to find him, and other things to find other people, because the risk doesn't matter.
She can't tell him, words caught in her throat, too heavy a burden on her narrow shoulders and her underdeveloped heart, because he will worry about her, or blame himself, or both. So friends don't lie. But perhaps they are not her friends, none of them, at least not in the way she understands friends, not in the way she selfishly needs friends, and perhaps that is alright.
Friends don't lie.
But grown ups do. They lie and they keep secrets.
Her innocence has long been carved out of her, and only recently has she shored it up with the help of everyone from home. Her meager defenses, however, crumble in the face of the slow erosion of all things good and pure and innocent by darkness.
She says none of these things, and just holds out the charm to Riku with an apologetic wince for having kept it from him so long. ]
no subject
But she's learning.
Peter, in these moments, talks a lot and doesn't say anything with his words at all.
Bruce, in his grief, stops responding.
Riku... maybe she just won't allow herself the chance to find out.
Perhaps this is just the grown up way of things. There's a hole in her chest the size and shape of close friendships, of being tightly interwoven with the people she cares about, and perhaps part of growing up is letting that hole sit instead of trying to fill it again. Perhaps grown ups don't get to be happy and close and unconditional like that.
So Eleven swallows and nods. ]
I have to... recharge.
[ Part of her wants to tell him, then. Friends don't lie, right. She wants to tell him: 'I looked for you, when you were gone, and I didn't know if you were safe and okay. I went to the place in which I died, in which my mind was torn to pretty ribbons and of which I'm oh so very scared, but I needed to know if you were alright. And I saw you, for a moment, and then the void faced dog found me, and it wanted to make me fall forever. I was fine, until I wasn't. Last week, it came back, and it hollowed me out, and now there's nothing in my mind where that spark used to be, and I just want to sleep until it's back, because I'm useless.'
But she doesn't have all the words to say that, and she remembers all too well what Bruce said. That Riku has a hole in his chest, and he worries so much about other people that he forgets to look at it, and so because he doesn't look at it, it might just swallow him.
So... friends don't lie. But she can't tell him, and that sits somewhere low in her gut and weighs her down. She feels like she's sinking. ]
I... found this. When the spirits... stole from us. I didn't know, at first, and then... things happened. I wanted to give it back. I did.
[ And she holds out her hand and unfurls her fingers, and there on her narrow palm sits the little charm he lost to the spirit's theft.
Eleven can't give much, because she realizes in this place all the ways in which she is lacking. Too much of a child to help the grownups, not enough of a person to empathise enough, powerless against all the things that matter, too scared of the dark, too simple, too small in all the ways that count.
But she can give this back, and perhaps that's better.
She wants to tell him how she held onto it because it was a link to him in case he disappeared again, to find him in the dark. She wants to tell him that she would do it, too, the moment her powers return, use this to find him, and other things to find other people, because the risk doesn't matter.
She can't tell him, words caught in her throat, too heavy a burden on her narrow shoulders and her underdeveloped heart, because he will worry about her, or blame himself, or both. So friends don't lie. But perhaps they are not her friends, none of them, at least not in the way she understands friends, not in the way she selfishly needs friends, and perhaps that is alright.
Friends don't lie.
But grown ups do. They lie and they keep secrets.
Her innocence has long been carved out of her, and only recently has she shored it up with the help of everyone from home. Her meager defenses, however, crumble in the face of the slow erosion of all things good and pure and innocent by darkness.
She says none of these things, and just holds out the charm to Riku with an apologetic wince for having kept it from him so long. ]