let me know the truth.

           “You’ve no trust in me.”

     He might sound hurt, but isn’t at all. He wouldn’t trust anything she says either. Especially not if he had to rely on google translate to make out what she said. Nope.

         “Ghosts? I dunno. Believe in somethin’, I guess. Not ghosts, necessarily. Least not how ‘mericans understand it.”

     Said as if his pass didn’t read American as nationality, and as if he didn’t feel that much more than the heritage of his mother. There’s a few things she did give to her kids, though.

           “My mom — grandma even worse — believe in a lot o’ things. We’ve a shitton of folklore an’ beliefs an’ all that, guess somethin’ washed off on me.”

     “Um-- I have every reason not trust you.” Duh. Except that, you know, he was the only person she would go breaking and entering with.

     He sounds pretentious as fuck when he goes on about not how Americans understand it, but she can at least agree on the beliefs bit. Her belief system danced around the lines of science because of her upbringing, although that didn’t keep her from believing in the supernatural. She, of all people, knew that it did exist.

    It’s the sound of her voice that makes him spur around, just before the wheels in his head click as to what he said (nobody addressed him with his name in a while, it’s a very odd feeling) and even more to connect the voice itself to anything.

    You know her. I know. I know. You know her well. She’s important. I know.

    Still, memories are a hassle these days and not all are his own and not all of his own are still there, so he stares at her for a solid ten seconds in silence, eyes wide like an animal caught in the headlights in the dead of night, and what else really is he? What else has he become than a trapped animal that wants to run but can’t?

          " — Sophia?“

    It’s a question that runs over his lips after what seems like an eternity, and he wouldn’t even know who he asked. Himself. Her. Both, probably, for all little that he does know. It’s so easy to get lost when everything around you is dark smoke and all you ever hear is impossibly loud screeching, drowning out all your thoughts. He can tune them out sometimes, but most of the times he can’t. Mostly because he has nothing to concentrate on, so this — this helps.

    Focus on her. Think. Think. You’ve not always been like this. You’re different. You’re someone else. Focus. Think.

     She doesn’t know whether to go up to him or not. She doesn’t know whether she wants to hold him or punch him. She doesn’t know whether he meant to leave or not, but she’s sure he didn’t. Of all things, Miles Upshur has never been a coward. Neither of them have been.

     And that is what settles her mental dispute. Sophia walks up to him and pulls him in her arms. She can’t just let him go from here. She doesn’t cry-- she’s not about to cry in the middle of a cheap motel parking lot-- but she does hold him for what feels like eternity.

     “I thought you were dead.” Sophia’s trying to push out that deer-in-headlights look he’s given her. She wants to sweep it under a rug for now. She wants to have two seconds where she’s unaware of whatever could have gotten him here. All of these problems can’t be held off for long, though, and she makes it clear with:

     She’s never seen him like this. He’s an asshat at work, but not the kind of asshat where Sophia would wish for something like this to happen to him. (Scratch that-- Sophia near never wishes for bad things to happen to people. She especially wouldn’t wish for something bad to happen to people who were just nuisances.)

     Sophia isn’t concerned about his antics at work now, though. The dummy’s apologizing for bugging her, as if he cares at any other point in time. She won’t hear any of his apologies. By now, she’s decided to drop the idea of sleep just to make sure he’s going to be okay.