Outwardly, OA remains more or less impassive, looking down at her own upturned palm. Inwardly, she ebbs and flows; a shifting current of emotions runs inexorably through her. The mere fact of touch brings turmoil: an initial flicker of panic is suppressed into discomfiture, bleeds into an almost dissociative surreality, bleeds into an old hurt. Undercutting it all is an intense relief, fluttering, a little giddy -- almost nauseous. It's the real answer, the one she hadn't put to words: it isn't that she doesn't like being touched. It's that she's been touch-starved for so long that every time she encounters it anew, it's a revelation.

The hooks catch. Sniper's interest blends with her own unshakeable curiosity; their gnawing anxiety finds its place alongside her own, dulled by distance and shock and the steely control OA exerts over herself. Her volatility is something she's never been able to restrain; she feels what she feels. There's no stopping that. She's an expert, though, at redirecting it.

Thence the soft blossom of wonder. This kind of intimacy is terrifying, but miraculous too. It tugs at other lines: the briefest flash of anger, a tickle of gratitude, a warm flush of affection. The low notes of a latent, existential dread thrumming impatiently beneath it all, a constant companion.

Slowly, without breaking contact, OA turns her hand over, fingers curling loosely about Sniper's hand. Her skin is dry, a little rough with wear -- not as heavily-calloused as Sniper's own, but nonetheless the hands of someone who has used them. Gently, she squeezes their hand; a blanket of calm settles over her like snow, that endless emotional flux still whirling just tangibly beneath it.

"At least there's this," she says simply. That affection again; an almost beatific glow of sympathy. "At least we're not alone."