#(event 004.)

the soft creak of the floorboards has her head snapping up, an instinct sharpened by the cold of the arctic, knife-grips tensing. ​it feels too much like a dream, girl ready to be jolted awake and staring into the eyes of what should be dead, screaming out against corpses of friends begging to be joined. 

a deep breath, a struggle to remember how to be a thing unsharpened; conscious effort to not let this damned ice and cold take any more than it already has from her. she smiles the way she thinks she used to at the new guest by the door, shoulders relaxing. 

“sorry about that, i  —  i was startled. i promise i am not usually so... like this.” a light laugh, curling stray strands around ears, a nervous habit. “actually, perhaps you could help me? i am not quite familiar with the, ah  —  placement of some things.” 

there is a familiarity to how once-bright eyes are now dull things, how he is more skeleton than boy, more ghost than being. when he looks at this wisp they have recovered from the depths of the arctic, snow thinks he sees some remnant of himself in bastien. 

some loose-toothed thing, not quite fitting in the mouth they live in. meant to be spit out by the maws of this world, meant to be a wish turned nothing. 

“you are haunted, just like me.” he says, shadows twining themselves with his voice, turns it silken. “perhaps in different ways, but haunted all the same.” 

he knows the other is not asleep and snow needs a place to land when it falls, chooses the cheekbone crested by the moon, turning to the actor and resting his eyes on his lips. 

“by a person, or by a place? i know you have much to say to the dead, and i am the closest thing to it on this ship.” 

he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, but he’s certain that half the council would argue that it’s his natural state regardless - to which he would respond that he does, in fact, know what he’s doing, thank you very much - but this time he supposes he’ll admit defeat. 

is it a cake? pie? cookies? could it be fancy enough to be an eclair? macaroons? 

fuck all. he adds another spoonful of sugar because why not. he supposes it wouldn’t kill anyone anyways. 

“you know, i think i’m starting to think i’m picking up on your powers.” he says absentmindedly, stirring the batter after cracking a few eggs into the mix. “pout any longer and i think i might be able to feel your frustration as my own.” 

there’s that half-smile, quirked and more jagged than friendly. it’s the best he can do. 

“don’t think too hard on the clone situation - you’re one of the last few with a working brain in all this and honestly, you’re not missing out. though at least i suppose yours would be less of an asshole than mine, but still.” he tries to bite back a scowl at the thought of his double, leaves him wary instead. 

Lenore slips out of Malachi’s car like a ghost, a nod of the head, some understanding, a way of saying we know more than we ever thought now. She leaves with one person in mind, knowing without a doubt her room must have been searched, too: Emmeline. 

She hasn’t seen the girl’s face yet, what they must’ve done to her drawings, to everything—Lenore doesn’t want to think about what they did to her room, and is almost certain it must be the same. 

The door to her room is passed without a thought. She keeps going, passing familiar rooms all a mess until she reaches Emmeline’s. Knuckles rap a familiar pattern: four knocks, then one, then two. She doesn’t wait for a response before sliding the door open, standing there among the mess of ripped drawings and things she wouldn’t even know where to start with. Her breath catches in her throat, now airtight. 

No one wants to ask what’s in the jar Raafe has balanced neatly on the palm of one hand. This thing is going to go all night, which won’t leave for much time to go out and fill the hole in their stomach with live food, so they may as well make use of the jars lining the inside of their refrigerator. 

The steady rocking of the train goes almost entirely unnoticed by them. Instead, they treat it if it is only a minor inconvenience. 

Whistling quietly, Raafe plucks a piece of meat from the jar and dangles it lazily into their mouth. It’s in this same moment that the door leading to the Lounge Car slides open, revealing a familiar face Rafa (for once) feels no urge to purposely antagonize. They grin, teeth gleaming white, and gesture to the empty seat in front of them.

“you are much too silent. it worries me.” direct, simple; girl has wasted no time in learning how the other responds best, adapts to something he can be comfortable with. tricky, at first, but nyima likes to think she perhaps has gotten the hang of it. 

the other likes to think himself sharp-edged but we are humans, not weapons, no matter how much we deal in them. she is no knife and he is no gun, though there are moments where dark eyes glint like metal against a dry sun and she thinks he needs a reminder more than he needs a reason to pull the trigger. 

“you have not yet spoken your mind on being saved, and i know your mind is not the silent type. you are smarter than that.” she looks out into the horizon to see what he sees before turning over to him, hair blowing in the wind. “will you share with me what you’re thinking? or will it be easier over a drink?” 

“eloise, have you eaten yet? please, sit. rest. you have done enough for today  —  we are safe, and that is more than yesterday. come, come   —  there is nothing that cannot wait until after a meal.” she pulls at wrists gently, tugging the other girl down to sit next to her. exhaustion is beginning to drape itself over her bones, heartbeat finally slowing down since they were first spotted by the promethean, but they are both hummingbird things unable to stop in their own ways.

she tuts when she wraps her hands around eloise’s wrists, overexaggerated and shaking her head at the other girl. “ça, alors! what is this? why, i’m holding a skeleton in my hands! quel malheur, i need to hand in my resignation now  —  one look at you and all the hotels and restaurants in paris will blacklist me. how can i call myself a cook?” 

 a familiar smile, draping blankets over the girl’s shoulders. 

“what bothers you so? your thoughts are so loud and yet, they say nothing to me.”