"I'm not sure if you noticed, but modern times have you winning the bet."
Although Ray was behind the stand and Rio was lounging on one of the customer's stools, he could hear her sigh from there.
"Be specific, we've got lots," she telepathically responded.
"The one about which is worse between tobacco and alcohol," Ray said nonchalantly. "Tobacco isn't processed as well in any living body, human or otherwise. My vice is losing, it seems."
"Your vice is still poison," Ray said. His laugh carried through telepathically. "Perhaps additional studies will show up in the future to flip the narrative."
After he was done cleaning the bowl of an earlier customer, he looked out to the street--watching people stream by in both directions. He wondered if she still enjoyed people-watching as much as he does.
It'd be overstimulating, otherwise, he thought to himself. It was the reason why he stirred the metaphorical pot, to begin with.
"This form doesn't take well to smoking, unsurprisingly," Ray pouted, stirring the literal pot of tomorrow's broth."This tongue isn't a fan of getting dry. I suppose the smell doesn't agree with me, either."
"At least it still smells better than the cigarettes in Johto and Kanto. Everyone kept arguing over which one tasted better. Both of them sucked."
"Neither of them hold a candle to Unovan leaf, even today," Ray smiled. He took his small victory in having her speak more than a couple of words or a grunt and left it at that.
He turned his attention to the sounds of a city that was transitioning from work to leisure. It faded into background noise as he deepened his thoughts about her.
The two have come to appreciate comfortable silence during moments like this in the centuries they've worked together, but Rio had been anything but comfortable--not ever since she started to hang around the shop-
"Stop worrying about me. I'm fine," Rio said, cutting through his thoughts. "You've gotten sloppy at your emotional control. I can practically smell it from here."
"Like tobacco smoke?" Ray asked, attempting to keep it light hearted.
"I'm not weak," Rio glowered, batting his attempt away. Ray frowned. Her body was rising and falling faster as her breath hitched.
"I know you're not weak," Ray's tone grew serious, "I'm worried that you're injured-"
"It's only been three weeks since I was torn apart on Mount Mortar--of course I'm fucking injured!"
The two of them stopped breathing. It came out way more aggressive than either of them expected. One of the downsides of telepathic communication is that it removes an important filter: the mouth...
... except, her outburst wasn't telepathic. She said it out loud. She snarled, even, judging by how a confused Liepard passerby walked faster.
"Sorry," she muttered, barely audible.
"No you're not," Ray said. He didn't want her to be. He made sure his tone wasn't accusatory, but it made Rio flinch, anyway.
He wasn't quite attuned to other peoples' emotions like a Latias, but even he felt a spike of fear and trepidation coming from her after he said that. Her body stiffened, like she intentionally sprang an Urasuring trap--only it didn't clamp down on her like she expected.
Ray knew that she was hoping for a rise out of him. She was looking for the standard routine of one of them chastising the other, leading to a verbal spat that would have left one or both of them annoyed. The discomfort would be familiar to her, just as much as comfortable silence was to him.
But he didn't want to challenge her or push her buttons, not like this--especially since he didn't know what kind of final battle she fought without his help. For the world, that battle was 35 years ago. For Ray, it's been five years. For Rio, it hasn't even been a month.
She was the type of person who looked fondly at close calls and beating back impossible odds. Whenever she chose a form that showed her more of her honest self, she would remember to show her battle scars and wear them like medals. Whatever happened to her was worse than he thought.
Ray inferred all of this within the span of a seconds. He read her like an open book and he can tell that she hated it. The one person she expected to tell her to 'get it together' wasn't doing that. Instead, he was worried. It meant that her mental state was in a worse place than she realized. It meant that the wound was deeper than she thought and the bleeding hasn't stopped.
"I'm going to go for a walk."
"Would you like me to join you?"
Despite her shoving a wall unceremoniously into his face, her honesty was a breath of fresh air. It was a clearly set boundary. It was better than the feigned interest of passerbys he caught the eyes of. She at least respected him enough to give him the truth.
She dropped down. Her paw pads barely made a sound as they touched concrete. He looked away, keeping an eye on her from his peripheral vision. She looked to see if he'd follow.
Ray pretended not to notice.
She came back ten minutes later. She plopped back down onto the seat, rested her chin atop her paw pads, and bathed in comfortable silence.
