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[And he gets a front row seat to that guilt and anxiety, but she doesn't pull her hand back. It seems like a stupid thing to hide after how open they've been with each other. Her hand is still a little difficult to flex, but judging by the relatively simple bandage, it could have been worse.

She wrinkles her nose at the question, crossing her arms awkwardly. Usually, she'd make a joke about those observations, but she's not on her game today.]

Uh... What? Nathan Lowell. The guy who had magic back home like me.

Edited 2020-08-12 10:40 (UTC)

He had magic?

[ Kyna's got a new Magic Friend? Well that's a surprise. Except, it's not like they've ever had a real normal fucking conversation, so when was it gonna come up? Sometime after the severed arm, or maybe before his panic attack on the floor of a public restroom?

But anyway, doesn't matter, that dude's irrelevant right now. He shakes his head like he's physically dismissing the question, his attention immediately fixated on the bandage. ]

How bad is it? You need stitches? More stitches? Jesus Christ, how many fucking stitches did you wind up with during all this?

[Wow, okay. He's really worried. More worried than she expected he'd be. Honestly, she didn't think this was a huge deal—just another little injury in a shitty situation. It's impossible to hide her confusion.

Hesitantly, she uncrosses her arms, offering him her hand in case he wants to... what? Examine it again? She's not sure.]

Yeah, I needed stitches. It kind of hurts when I move, but it's.... you know. It's fine.

[Clearly fine, Ian!]

[ There's a furrow in his brow and a wrinkle in his nose as she holds her hand up, clearly aware that no amount of scrutiny is going to accomplish anything. He still looks a little displeased when he breaks posture, reluctantly moving around her to shove his heavy ass bag of tools out of tripping path. ]

So- what the fuck, with the stabbing thing? Did he take it or did he try and get you back?

[ He sounds 110% calm, as chill as ever. Steady, slow question.

No reason just asking its fine. ]

[Super chill question, except the question itself is totally out of left field to her.]

Get me back? No.

[As in stab her? Jesus, Ian.]

He, uh... He had to use the empathy bond to snap me out of it. And then he wrapped my hand for me.

[And then, a little softer:]

It sucked.

[ Not necessarily stab her, just. You know. Retaliate in literally any fashion aside from verbal. Not that he could really do much physically, dude seems like he could just stare Ian into submission. He'd figure something out, though. Something about brain over brawn. He'd have some ideas.

Glad it's not an issue. ]

Well, good.

[ He murmurs, and then strolls right on into her kitchen like he owns the place. He's just gonna start looking around for glasses, checking cabinets without bothering to ask her which it could be. ]

Hope he knew what he was doing.

[ Better than Ian did. ]

I wanna like that guy, but if he gives you tetanus I'll kill him.

[ Calm as you please, without even looking over at her. Ask him if he's joking, it'll probably be like a percentage instead of an outright. ]

[Kyna trails along behind Ian as she mulls over his response. It's not exactly what she expected, although maybe she should have, after the way he reacted when she was hurt before, even while he was avoiding her.

She doesn't ask if he's joking, because it doesn't seem like he is. Not fully, anyway. Kyna doesn't think he'd actually kill Nathan, but she does think he'd be pissed.

She lets her hip bump into his gently, that sort of casual contact that's become more and more frequent from her since their bathroom conversation.]

Since when are you so protective?

[It's not accusatory or judgemental, just curious.]

Edited 2020-08-13 20:06 (UTC)

[ She bumps, he glances. He's never had a problem with physical affection. That part's easy. He's a hugger, he's tactile — of course he is, he works with his hands, it's like an ingrained personality trait now.

However.

That question. ]

No idea what you're talking about.

[ He declares dismissively. New phone, who this.

He plunks a glass down on her counter, then tugs open her fridge to scope out the options. Is that faux pas? Sorry, man, he makes himself at home wherever he plants his feet.

A beat, and a convenient change of subject. ]

Is that fucking SunnyD?

[ Not all orange things are SunnyD, Ian. ]

[It's probably a faux pas, but Kyna doesn't care. She follows again, grinning.]

It's orange juice, you fucking weirdo.

[Uh-oh, that is definitely fondness in her voice. She loops her arm around his waist, waggling her eyebrows.]

You're totally being protective. It's cute.

[ You have never seen a man go from excited to disappointed so fast and so thoroughly as Ian does when his SunnyD dreams are shot down.

The apocalypse makes you miss the little things.

From his back pocket he tugs out the notebook Nate gave him, scribbles down SunnyD recipe recreation — corn syrup, lemonade mix? orange juice, pineapple?

Her kitchen is going to become the source of experimentation extremely soon. He opts to look at this rather than her, sidling up to him pointing out things that are Definitely Not True. ]

Completely delusional. Wild conspiracy. Not buying it.

Uh huh.

[He's such a fucking liar. It's still strange to see her own anxieties in him, so much more severe and over the top. The realization that it means she can call him out on them is even stranger, and oddly comforting. They're on even footing.

This time, she's going to let him dodge. She's picking her battles.]

You know, I kicked way more ass at home.

[ Well, for what it's worth even he knows he sounds about as convincing as the second George Bush at a MENSA convention. He's not even trying to sell it in the slightest.

He's just blowin' right on by.

The second sentence brings him pause, and he looks over from his notebook. ]

What does that have to do with SunnyD?

[ Because this is what he's chosen to move onto. Fifteen year old poverty staples never fade. ]

[She makes a face, letting her arm drop from his waist and shifting her weight uncomfortably.]

Nothing. Just...

[Wow, look at that. She is suddenly fascinated by the contents of her own refrigerator.]

I probably wouldn't have gotten my arm torn up. Or screwed up my hand.

[Back home, she was dangerous. Here, she can barely protect herself. Somehow, it seems important that Ian know she's usually better than this.]

[ And the understanding filters in right then, joking-distracted countenance fading out to be replaced with something empathetic.

He shuts her fridge. Stuffs his notebook back into his pocket. ]

You realize how much ass you kick here, though, right?

[ With an absolute earnestness that suggests it isn't just a platitude. ]

I mean-- holy shit, you phased through a bat the size of a fucking volkswagen and you electrocuted it unconscious.

[ Volkswagen is a little bit of an overstatement, maybe, but still. ]

You could literally run straight through somebody, their powers wouldn't even fucking touch you, no guns, no bullets, just you ghosting on through them lighting them up with like two hundred volts.

[It's the earnestness that gets her more than what he's actually saying. For all the "follow your dreams" talk she's gotten whenever this comes up, it's that tone in his voice that sends a sudden rush of affection through her. She laughs, surprise and gratitude mingling in the sound.]

Probably more than that.

[She says it in a sort of shit-eating way. Back home, she would have known exactly how powerful those shocks she was creating were, and she would have been able to control them near perfectly. Maybe that's why here, everything she can do feels like so much less, like some sort of pathetic mimicry of real power.

Hearing Ian talk about it, though... It's easier to picture from a less biased perspective. It does sound pretty badass.]

You can totally keep complimenting me if you want.

Edited 2020-08-15 16:23 (UTC)

[ The absolutely dead-eyed face Ian pulls cannot be put into words. He wraps his hand around the glass and points it at her accusingly. ]

How dare you.

[ Only the deepest of offenses. ]

Correcting my science without even having any god damn SunnyD.

[ He abandons her to yank her fridge open again for that pathetic orange juice. ]

I'm movin' out.

Okay, bye.

[She says, like an asshole. What she desperately wants to say, and is far too afraid to, is that she's so, so happy they're still talking. That she's not sure how she would have gotten through the last week without him, and that having him stay here is almost... steadying. Grounding.

Even if he complains about the fucking thermostat every chance he gets.

Just the thought of telling him makes that old panic swell up again though, and she keeps her mouth shut.]

I don't think SunnyD exists anymore.

[ Equally like an asshole, he completely ignores her willingness to let him bounce and pretends he never said it in the first place. All while helping himself to her juice, are you sure you're stoked to have this dude around? ]

Yet.

[ He corrects with great intention. ]

I'm about to bring on the revival, and when I'm a billionaire you can come live on my couch.

Wait, you'd make me live on your couch if you were a billionaire? You wouldn't shower me with gifts?

[She actually sounds a little offended.]

How the hell are you gonna revive it?

First of all, it's gonna be the most comfortable goddamn couch you ever saw.

[ He's offended you're offended, how dare you look down upon his hypothetical expensive couch. ]

And I'll buy you so many couches you won't even know what to do with them all. But that's after I reverse engineer the recipe. So. Get ready to drink a shitload of juice this week.

Oh my God.

[This sounds like an absolute nightmare.]

Who are you, Martha Stewart?

Martha Stewart was an absolute bad ass.

[ Didn't you ever hear about her prison stint and her dope ass relationship with Snoop? Also, that bitch could make a casserole and a wreath that would blow your entire damn mind. ]

So yes, it would be an honor.

[She lets out a loud, dramatic sigh.]

Okay, fine. But only if I can help.

Deal.

[ And that's how Kyna winds up spending every evening she's not working helping Ian experiment with the right combination of grape fruit juice and high fructose corn syrup and a shitload of other citrus juices.

For what it's worth, they're all good. It's incredibly hard to go wrong when you slap together any combination of fruit juice. It's just that Ian keeps insisting they're not right yet, and so the project lives on.

As it turns out, batch 4 goes really well with Tequila.

(So did the previous 3, what a coincidence.)

It also goes really well with some of the music on Ian's playlist, which is on his MP3 player, which he woke up with. Almost excited enough to offset the end of the world outside (except that he'd carried it through his own apocalypse, he's trying not to see that as an omen).

Which is how they end up with one ear phone on each, listening to shuffle and drinking. ]

Hey, so... Did I tell you that your magic best friend showed up the other day?

[It's a totally dumb project, and Kyna spends half of their time working on it teasing him—are you sure we don't need fucking unicorn blood, Ian?—but it's a good distraction. By the time they've settled down for the night, she's got a warm, comfortable buzz going, and she's sitting beside him with her head on his shoulder. She's laid off teasing him about his music. For now, anyway.]

My what?

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