Lots to do, busy busy, you know.

“I think I even miss revision.” She agreed.

“He had the robes and called himself Coordinator. When you said… I thought you were going to be the same.” Mana focused on folding her clothes and putting them away, so she had an excuse to avoid her gaze. “I don’t know his name, he tried not to talk to me.” That he might have felt a bit guilty about what he was doing really hadn’t been much of a comfort. “Is it important?”

She wasn’t sure which was more surprising- that there were alien students at the Academy, or one working for the CIA. “Aren’t the mechanics of time travel and things like that a secret in this Universe?” But she’d never been very good at making friends, and it had to be easier with someone who already liked another version of her. “I’d like to meet her.”  

Mana brightened at Ingrid’s acceptance. Narvin’s rambling was a bit odd, but adults were often unaccountably strange. She smiled. “Tutor Braxiatel did always use a lot of words to explain things. They were good explanations, of course, but it didn’t make taking notes any easier.”

Narvin blanched.

Another version of herself couldn’t have done this.  Surely.  She’d done things she wasn’t proud of in her lives, things others would find unethical–but she would never threaten a child who’d committed no crime.  Especially not once she’d become Coordinator, when she couldn’t possibly be acting on somebody else’s orders.

She pulled the communicator back out of her pocket and used it to project a holographic image of the Narvin in the safehouse.  “Him?” she asked, begging internally that the answer would be ‘no’.  “I’m sorry, but it… might be important.  It’ll be easier to protect you and everyone else here if I understand what threats are out there in the multiverse.”

Narvin huffed out a laugh.  “It’s astonishingly strange having these conversations from the opposite direction,” she said.  “The Lady President is a firm supporter of a more open, inclusive Gallifrey.  Coordinator Narvin, on the other hand, is the so-called xenophobe who does, in fact, believe that the secrets of time belong in Gallifreyan hands.”  She held the door open for Mana once she’d finished her packing, then led her back through the corridors, the console room, out into the berthing bay down the hall from Ingrid’s rooms.  “You’d be no end of amused, I hope, to hear your counterpart discourse on the subject of my entire lack of sympathy towards temporal refugees.  All because I happen to believe that Gallifreyan time and resources should be directed first and foremost to our own people.  When every Gallifreyan can attend their relevant Academy, then I’ll start worrying about expanding opportunities for Monans and Sunarii.”

When it came to Ingrid’s private quarters rather than her office, Narvin did, in fact, usually ring before entering.  This time, however, Narvin wanted to get Mana out of view as quickly as possible, and anyway, Ingrid did know they were coming.  Coordinatorial overrides being what they were, the door opened at a touch in response to her genes, and she ushered Mana inside.

“My Lady Cardinal.  May I present–well, you already know.”

So she isn’t surprised. Not in so many words.

(But there was an incident once, with a young Romana, and Narvin in a rage, and Ingrid herself only justified, if not properly in the right. And there is, of course, the little fact of Romana--another, which does not bode well for the surrounding walls, or Narvin’s scramble to locate refugees, and the whole convoluted situation.

No, Ingrid isn’t surprised. She is simply... piqued, a bit. Cautious, perhaps.

Of course, you’d never know from the smile on her face as she stands, posture open, expression easy, hands already spreading in greeting.)

“Romanadvoratrelundar, House Heartshaven. A pleasure--and glad as ever to see you, I hope it goes without saying. A most heartsfelt welcome--and please, do not hesitate to speak and impose for anything you might need.

The fabric snags.

Ingrid isn’t sure what to make of that at first. At first she simply takes the front edge of her robe and tugs it forward, thinking it has caught somehow in the sheets, an inconsequential instant of simple friction–but it does not work. She is tugged. She turns back, and Narvin, like tipping, like gravity, settles at the edge of her bed.

Blinking, Ingrid follows where she is pulled. She tips at the waist like a moon around a planet. Her eyes slip closed, and they kiss. Narvin’s hands twitter on her cheeks like birds, anxious, pulling, wishful things. Ingrid lifts her hand once, to hold Narvin’s hand steady in her hair.

“Godsdamn, indeed,” she murmurs, and wraps her palm loosely around the back of Narvin’s head, cradling her close. “But for all her cruelty, the universe cannot be all terrible. Good things. We need only remember that, I think. That…” She steps softly away, out from between Narvin’s knees, just so she has room enough to rise. Narvin retracts; Ingrid pulls away in kind, though the space between them is still only inches. “…That,” she repeats, “and that our practice isn’t in cruelty. Let’s make our world a better place, now, why don’t we?”

Ingrid is ready to move away. She is. But Narvin tips onto her toes, and whispers to her. And then, like a fluttering lash or an imagined flash of light, she flees, and Ingrid is left watching after her.

Like something… irreplaceable.

(What a concept! It occurs to her, Ingrid Braxiatel, daughter of House Lungbarrow, she has never wanted for such a feeling. What has she always been, but singular, but unique, but important and unconventional, that upon which other things hinge. Replaceable? Never. But to be touched like it? What should that mean, when singular, irreplaceable things–she works with many of them–ought to be touched rarely, if ever? And what does it mean, too, that Narvin–Narvin, pesky, practical, unglamorous and unpopular little Coordinator Narvin, who, Ingrid thinks, must not have felt near so firm in her standing–Narvin thinks it important that she, Ingrid Braxiatel, be touched like she is… special.

And, after all, didn’t she just admit to her mirrors? Did she not just suggest–nay, declare–that to be better, she should change so much of what has made her irreplaceable? And here Narvin stands–trying to hand it back.

It’s so ludicrous an idea–so ill-conceived and yet so well-timed–so peculiar, and yet so, so honest…)

In the privacy of her room, Ingrid covers her mouth with both hands. She… giggles. Like a fresh, naive little ninety-year-old, she giggles behind her hands–closes her eyes as her lifting cheeks pinch her vision.

She breathes in and out, and again, and one last time. Behind her palms, she sculpts her smile back to calm.

She goes to get dressed, and see about some toast.

“Optimist,” Narvin says, one word the most she can manage of affectionate scolding even in reply to the notion that they might make the world a better place.

Narvin sees enough, just, of Ingrid’s surprise as she is fleeing, to know that it is the right kind of surprise. They spoke once (it feels endlessly long ago) about what it means to be a fool for the right reasons, and the slant of Ingrid’s eyebrows suggests that, improbably enough, Narvin has managed that this time. She only just manages to barricade herself safely behind the bathroom door before pressing her back up against that door, crossing her arms over her chest, and resting the heels of her hands over her two pounding hearts. She leans her head back with a gentle thump, and closes her eyes.

Oh, Narvinektrolona, you are never going to get over this.

Narvin showers as quickly as possible. It’s a pity to rush, because Ingrid’s shower is as luxurious as her bed, but far better than being away from her any longer than necessary. Still, the scents hit Narvin deep. Everything smells of Ingrid, including, before long, Narvin herself, and on this no doubt very eventful day, that is likely to be a distraction Narvin can ill afford.

Narvin re-dons her underthings, then contemplates the clothes under her robes.  She hates being less than scrupulously clean, and considers stealing a set of clothes from Ingrid–until she recalls that Ingrid is a head taller than she is, and therefore her entire wardrobe is impeccably tailored to fit someone with a body type totally unlike Narvin’s.  She resigns herself to the practical necessity of wearing her own clothes, musty or not, but entertains herself in the meantime by imagining a conversation with Ingrid on the subject.  Narvin might ask whether, collapsing on Ingrid’s floor having become a habit, it might be presumptuous of her to keep a set of clothes at Ingrid’s place, and Ingrid could say that she doesn’t object in theory but insists that if these clothes are to live in her wardrobe, she should be the one to select and purchase them, and Narvin would pretend to be affronted but secretly be delighted by the prospect of Ingrid exerting such time and care over her, taking the trouble to linger over each garment, that intense and intoxicating propensity of hers for attention, and Narvin hates being watched in general but loves it when it’s Ingrid, and…

Having dressed, brushed her hair and left Ingrid’s room in the fog of her daydream, Narvin is brought down to earth with a thump when she enters the kitchen.  She really ought to have expected the second occupant already sharing it with Ingrid.

(She can at least say the distraction was not all bad. Another time Narvin has fallen on her floor, true, another instance where they’ve managed to bear a bit more of themselves. It occurs to Ingrid that, even with Narvin’s study little knees and hard little shoulders, some things are simply too heavy to carry. Narvin was right, perhaps--it’s not in them to be heroes. It wasn’t bad the last time Narvin was there on her floor--it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant occasion this time, either.

Ingrid has a great deal to consider, much to reflect on, habits to possibly change and a world to possibly save. She has many, many things to re-think.

Playing hostess, by comparison, is easy, and she slides into the routine of breakfast, and entertaining, and pleasantries with all the ease of a moon making its hundred-thousandth turn around its mother planet.)

She has brewed tea and set cups out, has offered Mana a cup with cream and sugar to taste, and has waited patiently Narvin’s appearance. And when she does hear the Coordinator, she turns, and smiles.

“No, of course not,” Ingrid agrees. “Hoard away, of course–” And here, she lifts a brow. “So long as you make good on that thought regarding breakfast, Narvin. Let one thing among ten thousand account for your continued health, if you please–I do think you and Gallifrey will both fare better for the attention paid.”

(She makes a note, as well, to contrive an occasion where neither of them are quite so busy. Perhaps then, Narvin can wake up easily with her. Ha–easy, Narvin. What a thought! What an impossibility! Ingrid quite likes the idea.)

She actually catches herself starting to smile, and masks it as best she can behind a gentle clearing of her throat.

“Go on, get up, you’re welcome to go on ahead. Wash up, put on another layer if you like. Your robes should be quite dry by now. And…”

Ingrid has already caught Narvin’s hand. It is the easiest thing in the world to tug at her, beg her forward, her thumb turning to nudge the corner of Narvin’s mouth.

“Don’t be so cruel,” Ingrid murmurs. “Time and the universe can be cruel enough on their own, and it is terribly mean to call unfair that one desperately small good thing I have seen coming. The end of my knowing you, and seeing you–I think it would be the end of my goodness. I’m better for knowing you. I think you know that.”

Ingrid’s thumb is still settled softly on Narvin’s skin. She says there another moment more before finally, finally slipping out of bed, and letting her weight catch in her toes.

“Breakfast,” she murmurs, instead, and leans down to kiss the top of Narvin’s head. “I’ll contrive something.”

Narvin intends to reply to the rest, she does, but that thumb on her lips undoes her entirely, never mind the words that follow.  The mighty, sacred power of asking: Ingrid has learnt this weakness in Narvin and how to exploit it, as Narvin knew she would.  Don’t be so cruel, and that touch, and Narvin is putty in Ingrid’s hands–and then Ingrid compounds the blow by a dose of earnest sweetness when Narvin is least prepared to resist it, and then she leaves.

Narvin’s hands catch at Ingrid’s nightgown, those small and grasping hands.  Narvin sits on the edge of the bed and tugs Ingrid back down, pulls her into a kiss with both hands in her hair.  Narvin’s whole being is in her spine just now, all her energy knit into her vertebra, jolting and jittering through her as her wanting threatens to lift her marionette-like into air.  She kisses Ingrid once, twice, and swallows declarations, a dozen love songs threatening to tumble past her tongue, and shudderingly breathes out her wanting against the lips of the most beautiful Time Lady on Gallifrey, who, inexplicably, thinks Narvin is the one good thing.

“Godsdamn the universe,” Narvin whispers, and tucks her face against Ingrid’s neck, and hugs her close, and just manages not to say, Damn everything that isn’t you.

One more rough sigh, and she manages to stand.  “I should have a shower,” she concedes, and wants, badly, to ask Ingrid to join her, and wants even more to ask Ingrid to join her back in that absurdly comfortably bed.  She wants–but better not to think of what she wants too clearly.  Her cheeks are already flushed, she knows, her eyes already swollen black with the ripe roundness of her pupils, and she doesn’t have three microspans to spare, today, and wants to lose a week.  “At least I can be evenhandedly cruel, and also tell myself that I need to be somewhere other than where you are, today,” she says, and manages, somehow, to stop touching Ingrid.  “But I don’t want to be cruel to you.”

Ingrid isn’t sure what to make of that at first. At first she simply takes the front edge of her robe and tugs it forward, thinking it has caught somehow in the sheets, an inconsequential instant of simple friction--but it does no work. She is tugged. She turns back, and Narvin, like tipping, like gravity, settles at the edge of her bed.

Blinking, Ingrid follows where she is pulled. She tips at the waist like a moon around a planet. Her eyes slip closed, and they kiss. Narvin’s hands twitter on her cheeks like birds, anxious, pulling, wishful things. Ingrid lifts her hand once, to hold Narvin’s hand steady in her hair.

“Godsdamn, indeed,” she murmurs, and wraps her palm loosely around the back of Narvin’s head, cradling her close. “But for all her cruelty, the universe cannot be all terrible. Good things. We need only remember that, I think. That...” She steps softly away, out from between Narvin’s knees, just so she has room enough to rise. Narvin retracts; Ingrid pulls away in kind, though the space between them is still only inches. “...That,” she repeats, “and that our practice isn’t in cruelty. Let’s make our world a better place, now, why don’t we?”

Ingrid is ready to move away. She is. But Narvin tips onto her toes, and whispers to her. And then, like a fluttering lash or an imagined flash of light, she flees, and Ingrid is left watching after her.

Like something... irreplaceable.

(What a concept! It occurs to her, Ingrid Braxiatel, daughter of House Lungbarrow, she has never wanted for such a feeling. What has she always been, but singular, but unique, but important and unconventional, that upon which other things hinge. Replaceable? Never. But to be touched like it? What should that mean, when singular, irreplaceable things--she works with many of them--ought to be touched rarely, if ever? And what does it mean, too, that Narvin--Narvin, pesky, practical, unglamorous and unpopular little Coordinator Narvin, who, Ingrid thinks, must not have felt near so firm in her standing--Narvin thinks it important that she, Ingrid Braxiatel, be touched like she is... special.

And, after all, didn’t she just admit to her mirrors? Did she not just suggest--nay, declare--that to be better, she should change so much of what has made her irreplaceable? And here Narvin stands--trying to hand it back.

It’s so ludicrous an idea--so ill-conceived and yet so well-timed--so peculiar, and yet so, so honest...)

In the privacy of her room, Ingrid covers her mouth with both hands. She... giggles. Like a fresh, naive little ninety-year-old, she giggles behind her hands--closes her eyes as her lifting cheeks pinch her vision.

She breathes in and out, and again, and one last time. Behind her palms, she sculpts her smile back to calm.

Narvin wiggles. She might have shown up in Ingrid’s office soaked and curled up on the floor, but this morning, she wiggles. Clearly, something has made a turn for the better.

(If this is what they have to give one another, Ingrid thinks, then surely… surely, they stand a chance. A chance at least.)

“Ah–but of course. How silly of me, that you should mention being tested by my absence, and then make it about myself. Yes, quite, I take your point–I shall have to be much more modest and much less presumptuous in your assessment of me–given, after all, we have established your frugality of kind opinion.”

Inrgid turns her head, and kisses Narvin’s temple–and for good measure, hums warmly when she is squeezed.

Too soon, Narvin is squirming out from behind her again, and Ingrid resists a sigh. “No other catastrophes that I can think of, on your part. And if I think of one, I shall omit it. But… other things. I don’t have a complete picture, in most cases, and a lot of what I have is… estimations, based off of hints, and extrapolation And–”

Ingrid reaches for Narvin’s hand, captures her fingers, and looks her in the eye.

“…before the rest of that,” she murmurs. “Pandora. About Pandora. It is… I think it could be the start of that… change, in me. But only the start, I think, and if I am… careful, in following…”

…but that isn’t really what she wanted to say, either. She squeezes Narvin’s hand, gently.

“I know,” she says, “that I find my way back to Gallifrey. When I can. When the time is right. …and we may be able to alter… what that is. But I want you to know–Pandora never… it was never meant to be forever. I always, always, knew it would not be the the end of… knowing you. Of seeing you.”

“Kind opinion and related good feelings are not qualities of which I have a surplus,” Narvin points out, “and right now I am hoarding whatever positive emotions I can summon not to feel mightily persecuted by the universe.”  When Ingrid kisses her temple, Narvin turns her head to catch Ingrid’s lips.  “It having occurred to me,” she whispers, “that I only ever wake up in your bed on days when we both have ten thousand things to do.”

Narvin admits that the feeling in the pit of her stomach when Ingrid speaks of Pandora is fear–and not fear of losing Ingrid, but fear of Ingrid changing.  Narvin didn’t… she could let herself be afraid of Irving, last night.  But she is afraid now, of what she saw then, in his eyes.

…If someday she dies at the hands of a Braxiatel, Narvin sighs to think of the other Matrix shades admonishing her that she ought to have noticed the signs.  Narvin doesn’t mind the thought of mortality, but she does hate the notion of ridicule.

But Ingrid goes on, and Narvin has an excuse not to think of the fact that she will have to go see Irving today and come to some kind of peace between them.  Ingrid takes her hand, and promises that she never meant to leave forever.  And Narvin’s hearts are back to fluttering, however she may admonish herself, however inexpressibly stupid she must be.

(She makes a note, as well, to contrive an occasion where neither of them are quite so busy. Perhaps then, Narvin can wake up easily with her. Ha--easy, Narvin. What a thought! What an impossibility! Ingrid quite likes the idea.)

She actually catches herself starting to smile, and masks it as best she can behind a gentle clearing of her throat.

“Go on, get up, you’re welcome to go on ahead. Wash up, put on another layer if you like. Your robes should be quite dry by now. And...”

Ingrid has already caught Narvin’s hand. It is the easiest thing in the world to tug at her, beg her forward, her thumb turning to nudge the corner of Narvin’s mouth.

“Don’t be so cruel,” Ingrid murmurs. “Time and the universe can be cruel enough on their own, and it is terribly mean to call unfair that one desperately small good thing I have seen coming. The end of my knowing you, and seeing you--I think it would be the end of my goodness. I’m better for knowing you. I think you know that.”

Ingrid’s thumb is still settled softly on Narvin’s skin. She says there another moment more before finally, finally slipping out of bed, and letting her weight catch in her toes.

Narvin gives her a look that is actually sorry, and Ingrid lets out a breath that, another day, another time, might have been a laugh, too. “No,” she says, agreeing, good-humored, “no, you’re right-it’s awful, to you. For you. I’m so sorry for it, Narvin, truly I am. I don’t know what I feel about it anymore–only that all the pieces are set in place. Wheels turn. I don’t think I can get out of this one, not… with how far along it’s gone.”

….it raises yet more awful questions about the inevitability of fate–whether things happened because time meant it to, or whether they happened because she made them happen, in secrets and hints whispered between older and younger iterations. And even if it is the latter, it raises the question of whether she can extricate herself from other things she has already set pieces for.

…but then, that gives her an idea. Narvin’s kiss to her hand, her words. I trust you, and thank you for doing the same.

Ingrid’s eyes focus, and settle on Narvin’s.

She opens her mouth and this time, the pause between wanting and speaking is much, much shorter.

“There may be another thing,” she murmurs. “Before Romana. Perhaps. ….I could tell you what I know.” Her lips tighten a moment. “Perhaps that would only be perpetuating my own problem,” she allows, “but if you felt it appropriate.. I could tell you what I know.”

It takes a certain amount of doing to get behind Ingrid.  The process is inelegant and wriggly, but there are a great number of pillows that can be relocated to clear a path, and Narvin is very small and extremely determined.  She slides her arms around Ingrid’s waist, and rests her legs to either side of Ingrid’s legs, and presses her cheek against Ingrid’s shoulder blade, and generally clings just as thoroughly as possible, sandwiched between Ingrid and the headboard.

“What makes you think,” she says, and nuzzles the knob of bone at the base of Ingrid’s neck, “that I won’t be delighted to be rid of you, Cardinal?”  She kisses that same spot, and sighs against Ingrid’s skin, and squeezes her.  “Really, some Time Ladies just cannot take a hint.”

Narvin’s eyes widen slightly at that offer.  “Yes?” she says, the question borne of incredulity rather than the remotest inclination to refuse.  “Yes, of c…”

(If this is what they have to give one another, Ingrid thinks, then surely... surely, they stand a chance. A chance at least.)

“Ah--but of course. How silly of me, that you should mention being tested by my absence, and then make it about myself. Yes, quite, I take your point--I shall have to be much more modest and much less presumptuous in your assessment of me--given, after all, we have established your frugality of kind opinion.”

Inrgid turns her head, and kisses Narvin’s temple--and for good measure, hums warmly when she is squeezed.

Too soon, Narvin is squirming out from behind her again, and Ingrid resists a sigh. “No other catastrophes that I can think of, on your part. And if I think of one, I shall omit it. But... other things. I don’t have a complete picture, in most cases, and a lot of what I have is... estimations, based off of hints, and extrapolation And--”

Ingrid reaches for Narvin’s hand, captures her fingers, and looks her in the eye.

“...before the rest of that,” she murmurs. “Pandora. About Pandora. It is... I think it could be the start of that... change, in me. But only the start, I think, and if I am... careful, in following...”

...but that isn’t really what she wanted to say, either. She squeezes Narvin’s hand, gently.

Ingrid takes a moment to breathe.

It is strange, to be held. Stranger still, not to fight it when Narvin makes a assertion such as that. (She dare not call it a promise, though knowing Narvin, it could be little but. The thing about the both of them: they are women of their word.)

At long last, Ingrid says, “There are things I cannot change, I think. I think Pandora… and my role in it–will happen. I think there is no other way, and too much is already set in motion. …but I also think you are right. I think we must tell Romana, and tell the High Council. Nothing our other selves have tried has worked. …and clearly, nothing I have tried has worked, either. Not… in how I’ve gone about things.”

She hesitates for a moment.

“So,” she murmurs at last. “Where do we start, exactly?”

Narvin’s eyes squeeze shut.  Her stomach sours in an instant.

“Of course it would be that,” she says.  “Of course the one thing that cannot change would be that one.”  A strangled little laugh escapes her.  “My life would be too good, otherwise.”  She repents that instantly.  “And yours,” she says, opening her eyes again to give Ingrid an apologetic look.  “You’re the one who’ll be giving up the most.”

Privately, though, Narvin does think that if the universe were testing her, this  would be the way.  The parallel is far too perfect.  One Narvin fell in love with his  Lady President (Narvin cannot deny that must have been why, not now, not knowing what she knows), and the world burned for it.  This is Narvin’s chance to do better.  She has to do better.  Throwing herself in the Oubliette of Eternity would be easy, and wrong.  Letting Ingrid go… making the other choice… that will be hard, and it will be right, and Narvin will know at least, whatever else happens, that she has this one good deed to her name.

“All right,” she whispers.  “If it’s what you think.  What you… feel you need to do.  I…”  It’s an extraordinarily difficult sentence.  “…I trust you.”

She squeezes Ingrid’s hand, then, feeling that isn’t enough, lifts it, and kisses her knuckles.  “And thank you for trusting me.”

....it raises yet more awful questions about the inevitability of fate--whether things happened because time meant it to, or whether they happened because she made them happen, in secrets and hints whispered between older and younger iterations. And even if it is the latter, it raises the question of whether she can extricate herself from other things she has already set pieces for.

...but then, that gives her an idea. Narvin’s kiss to her hand, her words. I trust you, and thank you for doing the same.

Ingrid’s eyes focus, and settle on Narvin’s.

She opens her mouth and this time, the pause between wanting and speaking is much, much shorter.

Mirrors. Ingrid lets that word, and its echo, dominate the silence that follows. She opens her mouth to speak, and something fails. Her lips close gain as she gathers herself. Gods and Pythia, but it is so odd, for her to struggle with words.

“What you told me, yesterday,” she manages at last, throat tense enough that her voice is almost more a croak than a murmur. “What you showed me. Narvin, I have spoken to mirrors for… so long. I’ve seen the woman who is more Ingrid than Braxiatel. I would say, you should see the way she looks. The set of her eyes. The tone of her voice.” Her mouth strays open; her lips move, not working, but something horrible in-between.

This secret she must keep from herself. She must; nothing can truly be kept from a future self, but she is clever, and has hints of the future enough to build, and scheme, and out-maneuver the competition. She has to hope it will be enough, if she is careful. Enough to plan. Enough to try.

Almost choking on it, she admits, “I don’t want to become that woman.”

Ingrid afraid should make Narvin afraid, too.  It doesn’t.  It makes her determined.

She doesn’t dream of interjecting, but when Ingrid is done, Narvin rests her hand on the back of Ingrid’s neck and touches their foreheads together.  “Good,” she says, and then that touch isn’t enough anymore.  She slides around to hold Ingrid properly, hugging her tight, resting her chin on Ingrid’s shoulder.

“Then I won’t let you,” Narvin says, and turns to press her nose to Ingrid’s cheek.  “And you know I am fearfully stubborn.”

It is strange, to be held. Stranger still, not to fight it when Narvin makes a assertion such as that. (She dare not call it a promise, though knowing Narvin, it could be little but. The thing about the both of them: they are women of their word.)

At long last, Ingrid says, “There are things I cannot change, I think. I think Pandora... and my role in it--will happen. I think there is no other way, and too much is already set in motion. ...but I also think you are right. I think we must tell Romana, and tell the High Council. Nothing our other selves have tried has worked. ...and clearly, nothing I have tried has worked, either. Not... in how I’ve gone about things.”

She hesitates for a moment.

Oh, but Narvin’s laughter, even if it happens without a proper sound, is beyond wonderful. She nudges her–Ingrid dips her head, and smiles, and nudges her in reply, until it is like a nuzzle. “I know,” she murmurs. “I know you are, I know. You are full of flaws, my darling–and once I thought any other floor would be better, and give you less agony, but I am glad it is my floor you find yourself upon, I am glad for your lack of patience and I am glad for your frugality of kind opinion. I am glad it is you, Narvin, I…”

She trails off. Narvin takes her hand. Narvin speaks–Narvin almost stutters, she stresses. She asks. She is so, so much better at asking, than Braxiatel is, herself. Ingrid never thought she would admire that.

Narvin nuzzles her skin and Ingrid lets her eyes slip closed. Her throat pinches, painfully, with secrets that would rather stay kept.

Even when she whispers, her voice has presence. This, then, is not a whisper. This is a voice, strange, and uncharacteristically small.

“Narvin,” she says, in that strange, small voice that is so, so not like herself. “Narvin, look around. Look on my walls. What don’t you see on them? What is missing?”

Ingrid calls her ‘my darling,’ and Narvin’s hearts suffer a mortifying and all-too-physical constriction.  Narvin actually lifts her hand to press over her own chest, but realizes with scarcely a moment to spare how appalling that would be.  That hand is left with nothing to do, and makes a few helpless circles without her permission before tucking its knuckles under and pressing itself against her collarbone, which is the least worst solution she can hope for under the circumstances.  She tilts her chin down to trap it, just to be sure.

If Ingrid spoke that question in any other voice, Narvin would tease and brag.  She knows the answer to this one; she, too, has had dealings with other Braxes than this one, and anyway, she’s the Coordinator of the CIA.  Since incident at the Inquiry, she has done her homework on Ingrid’s illegal trysts.

If Ingrid spoke that question in any other voice, Narvin would tease and brag, but she speaks it in this one, this peculiar small thing that actually frightens Narvin for being so unlike herself.  This is important, and Narvin does what she does, when a thing is important: her eyes narrow to a point, and she watches.

Ingrid lets that word, and its echo, dominate the silence that follows. She opens her mouth to speak, and something fails. Her lips close gain as she gathers herself. Gods and Pythia, but it is so odd, for her to struggle with words.

“What you told me, yesterday,” she manages at last, throat tense enough that her voice is almost more a croak than a murmur. “What you showed me. Narvin, I have spoken to mirrors for... so long. I’ve seen the woman who is more Ingrid than Braxiatel. I would say, you should see the way she looks. The set of her eyes. The tone of her voice.” Her mouth strays open; her lips move, not working, but something horrible in-between.

This secret she must keep from herself. She must; nothing can truly be kept from a future self, but she is clever, and has hints of the future enough to build, and scheme, and out-maneuver the competition. She has to hope it will be enough, if she is careful. Enough to plan. Enough to try.

Ingrid forces herself to be quiet, all this time. She wants to say, but you could be–because of course, she knows these things. She could be. She will be. If all goes… according to plan.

According to plan, many, many things will happen. According to plan, adventures are had, worlds are seen, things are lost and hope is burning bright… much is lost. War comes. They find a way. Maybe. Braxiatel becomes Ingrid and her eyes will change.

Burning and murder in the bargain–

Narvin pulls her into a kiss.

(There have been hints and whispers and instructions and instructions and to-do lists and knowledge and paths to follow and never, ever, guarantees. Of course, the future never can be. Time is fragile and one is careful, fragments must be safe, illegal but safe, purportedly–and oh, but the promises, and the things she has done.

But being a hero is selfish and nothing has worked for the others, and the futures are never certain and the eyes are not the same.)

Ingrid breathes when the kiss breaks, and she thinks, for a good long moment.

“You are exceptional,” she whispers. “I’ve known that for a long, long time. I just did not think it would be for exactly this moment.

“I do not know if you are right,” she admits. “But I think that is quite a lot better than knowing that you are wrong. Given… ha–what I know. What I… hear, and suspect. I do not know if you are right. I don’t know.”

Narvin’s breath catches in a soundless laugh.  “You are so…” she says, and nudges her forehead against Ingrid’s temple in what might perhaps best be called a loving headbutt.  “I am me.  I am a person, Ingrid.  I complain too much and am too sarcastic and spend too much time on your floor, and I have no patience for anybody’s idiocy and I’m short and charmless and ungenerous in my judgments of character.  Let me be as abundantly flawed as I so undeniably am.”

She trails off. Narvin takes her hand. Narvin speaks--Narvin almost stutters, she stresses. She asks. She is so, so much better at asking, than Braxiatel is, herself. Ingrid never thought she would admire that.

Narvin nuzzles her skin and Ingrid lets her eyes slip closed. Her throat pinches, painfully, with secrets that would rather stay kept.

Even when she whispers, her voice has presence. This, then, is not a whisper. This is a voice, strange, and uncharacteristically small.

“Narvin,” Ingrid murmurs, following her to sitting. Her nightgown is askew on her shoulders, and she reaches across herself to fix it,. Not unthinkingly. She remembers Narvin’s hands in her hair, mussing it. She remembers Narvin, begging her to be touchable, somehow. The dress is askew of its own doing; the fixing, unsubtle, purposeful, is made to be seen.

It is Ingrid’s turn to hesitate. And then she kisses Narvin’s cheek, bends her head, presses her forehead where the kiss preceded it. It is a slight lean, but at least it is her, this time, asking for something like support. Or forgiveness, perhaps.

In the silence that follows, she takes the time to think carefully through the statement, the reasons, and the lead-up.

She had been told she would be the destroyer of her world, and the single harbinger of war. They have known for too long that war was coming, and have taken it upon themselves to halt it. So had the refugees. So had one, and another, and another…

“You think,” she says, slowly, trying to understand, “that the reason all the others have failed–the reason we too might fail–is because we take it all upon ourselves.”

Narvin sees.  She feels.  She is grateful.  She stays close.

“Yes,” she says, an emphatic sigh of a word, nudging her nose against Ingrid’s.  She closes her eyes, and nuzzles their foreheads together.  “I’m not a hero, Ingrid,” she says, simply.  “I’ve wanted to be, this little while, for… for you.  But I’m not.  And that doesn’t… it doesn’t make me bad.  I have to just…”

She opens her eyes, and slides her hand on top of Ingrid’s, and tangles their fingers together.  “I think there are other ways,” she says.  “Quieter ways.  Slower, maybe, but better.  Everything with Romana is such a rush, and… I know you admire that about her, that passion, I understand what there is to admire in it, I swear I do, it seems that every Narvin gets seduced into that way of thinking sooner or later, for someone or other, and I don’t… I don’t think passion is bad, I don’t, at all, but so much of this urgency is artificial.  You believe in long games, Brax, you’re even more patient than I am, you know how to go slow, you know why it’s worth it.  These problems and threats that we’re facing, that Gallifrey’s facing–they’re real, and they’re important, I’m not denying that for a nanospan.  But the solutions aren’t dramatic.  They aren’t one person having one brilliant idea in one white-hot moment and everything falling into place.  They’re trying, and failing, and trying something else, and tweaking, and talking about it, and working, working hard  and for a long time, and it isn’t glamorous, but it’s right.

“I believe we can do this.  I believe we can fix our walls, and I believe we can stop the Daleks.  But when I say ‘we’, I don’t mean you and I by ourselves, or  you and I and Romana and Leela, or the four of us and the refugees, or your ridiculous heroic little sister.  I mean all of us.  Our species, and… and your Academy recruits, and maybe the rest of the temporal powers, I don’t know, I just… It doesn’t help anybody, pretending like any of us is invaluable and irreplaceable.  We can do good work, we’re so lucky, we’re in a position to do so much–but the most important thing we can do is organize.  Use that power to bring in as many other minds as possible. 

“Being heroes is selfish.  And right now our world is on the brink, and it’s not a selfishness we can afford.  Not this time.”

According to plan, many, many things will happen. According to plan, adventures are had, worlds are seen, things are lost and hope is burning bright... much is lost. War comes. They find a way. Maybe. Braxiatel becomes Ingrid and her eyes will change.

Burning and murder in the bargain--

Narvin pulls her into a kiss.

(There have been hints and whispers and instructions and instructions and to-do lists and knowledge and paths to follow and never, ever, guarantees. Of course, the future never can be. Time is fragile and one is careful, fragments must be safe, illegal but safe, purportedly--and oh, but the promises, and the things she has done.

But being a hero is selfish and nothing has worked for the others, and the futures are never certain and the eyes are not the same.)

Ingrid breathes when the kiss breaks, and she thinks, for a good long moment.

“You are exceptional,” she whispers. “I’ve known that for a long, long time. I just did not think it would be for exactly this moment.

coordinatrix:

Narvin shifts, sighs, slides into Ingrid’s embrace. 

In a moment, she will think about serious things.  In one moment.  For now, she is waking up half-dressed in Ingrid’s bed, and she wasted that chance last time, and isn’t going to again.  She drapes her arms over Ingrid’s shoulders, brushes her nose against Ingrid’s–but, sensitive still after Irving’s words last night, needing to be sure, she whispers, “Can I kiss you?” against Ingrid’s lips.

She is hesitating.

Not that Narvin has never hesitated before. They have hesitated often enough with one another, bit back truths aplenty. It is not that Narvin is hesitating–it is that their hesitations say as much as their words.

And so, Ingrid, too, is careful. She breathes softly out, slides their noses softly together. “If you like,” she whispers in reply. And then, suspecting–given the previous night–that Narvin fears herself more than Ingrid in this particular instant, she adds, “Please, if you like.”

That ‘please’ is trying to be kind, Narvin knows, but Ingrid’s first instinct, that repeated ‘if you like,’ is an accidental cut. 

Solicitous Braxiatels, and the needy little Coordinator who blunders in with her impossible demands.  Obliging Braxiatels, made of water, entirely yielding and therefore impossible to hold.   Gracious Braxiatels, never asking for what they want no matter how obvious it may be, prizing the plausible deniability that gives.

Narvin doesn’t mean that.  She’s just heartsore, that’s all, and indebted, the way she always seems to be in this bed.  Ingrid is trying to be kind.

Remember me kindly, Narvin remembers.  She did promise.

Still.  The idea that this morning could be some kind of idyll, even for a moment, was a kind of idiocy Narvin does not usually indulge.  She kisses Ingrid’s cheek, briefly but not abruptly, because Ingrid is trying to be kind.  Ingrid doesn’t deserve petulance.  She hasn’t deserved any of this.

Narvin sits up, flattening the fingers of one hand against the sheets.

It is Ingrid’s turn to hesitate. And then she kisses Narvin’s cheek, bends her head, presses her forehead where the kiss preceded it. It is a slight lean, but at least it is her, this time, asking for something like support. Or forgiveness, perhaps.

In the silence that follows, she takes the time to think carefully through the statement, the reasons, and the lead-up.

She had been told she would be the destroyer of her world, and the single harbinger of war. They have known for too long that war was coming, and have taken it upon themselves to halt it. So had the refugees. So had one, and another, and another...

Wynter cleared her throat as she lingered in the doorway of Ingrid’s office. “Cardinal,” she began, her spine perfectly straight, and her arms crossed behind her back, “do you have a free half-span?” 

Ingrid almost misses Narvin waking up. Her breathing does not much change, her movements do not take a turn for the quicker or more conscientious. It is only that a single breath is deeper–and it might have been a sleepy breath–but Narvin turns inside her arm. She tilts her chin up to her shoulder. Her lips move.

They are both of them awake–Narvin, now, and Ingrid, for most of the night. She has had a great deal to think about, and a mind busy does not soon rest. What they say about the wicked is not entirely untrue, and extends a bit further than the express itself lets on.

“All right?” Ingrid murmurs, spreading her hand low on Narvin’s back.

Narvin shifts, sighs, slides into Ingrid’s embrace. 

Not that Narvin has never hesitated before. They have hesitated often enough with one another, bit back truths aplenty. It is not that Narvin is hesitating--it is that their hesitations say as much as their words.

Ingrid counts to one hundred, after Narvin curls, settles, and stills. She counts to one hundred, and then to one hundred after that, and one hundred for a third time, too. She watches the steady rise and fall of Narvin’s breathing, the peculiar smoothness of her face as weariness, defensiveness, caution and suspicion and consideration all–simply seep out of her features and slide off of her like water over a leaf.

…speaking of which.

Five microspans is time enough, she thinks, to get to work. So she does. It’s delicate work, sliding up the robe, maneuvering Narvin through the sleeves and collar, shifting her gently. Eventually, she gets that Coordinator robe off, and dismays slightly to find that everything below that is likewise more than slightly damp.

It’s far from ideal, but… Ingrid begins to strip her of that, too.

(It is an almost medical act, methodical, careful, trying as ever not to jostle her. Whatever nakedness there is to see, Ingrid pays no mind of it–not the nakedness itself, really, though  among Gallifreyans such a sight should cause averted eyes and affronted sensibilities. That isn’t really the reason Ingrid doesn’t pay it much mind. It’s only that there is Narvin’s modesty, and that she sees in this whole act the goosebumps along her arms. That detail, more than anything, stays with her)

Whatever undergarments besides, Ingrid does not examine them too closely, except to know that Narvin is not, in fact, naked in her bed. That might be a little much for either of them to deal with, frankly–now or in the morning. They’ve enough already to contend with, without making a series of firsts out of a rather unfortunate night.

Ingrid has a loose silk robe with ties down the front. It is easy, to wrap Narvin it it, and tie it over her chest and belly. Easier still, after that, to pull one of her softest and warmest plush blankets overtop her. She places another cover, a quilt this time, over her feet. Just to be safe.

….Ingrid takes a little time, that way, after that. Just to watch Narvin slumber, just to think of the last time they would up like this. Just to… think.

Ingrid doesn’t really want to think about the things that Narvin has just shown her, but there are some responsibilities you cannot put off, and some it is imperative to attend to. There are some incidents that simply… demand to be taken into consideration.

Threatened to burn the world, and murder Narvin along in the bargain.

It is funny, talking to oneself. The assumption is, of course, that the future speaks to the past, in an endeavor to make things what they must be. It is not half so intuitive to look forward and itch for a change. The future should be the one to dictate, or so the theory might go.

But there is a reason, too, that Ingrid resists the name. Braxiatel refers to a comfortable past and a more-or-less contented present. Ingrid, to her, has always belonged a little bit more to a future moment, and an older pair of eyes. She has not always liked looking at those eyes. It is hard to see herself in them, sometimes. There are things she wants and things that she fights for and compromises she refuses to make. She cannot always see those in her mirror, either.

Threatened to burn the world, and take Narvin along with it.

(This emotion, Ingrid does know. Revulsion. It’s not that she’s ever claimed to be a good woman, and not even that she’d ever hoped, really, to become one. But hope works in funny ways, and she did once ask to be remembered fondly. She is hoping, surely, for something.)

Ingrid scrubs her face with a hand, and takes a long, deep breath. “Oh, to blazes with it,” she murmurs.

She goes to her closet. She removes her Cardinal trappings, her suit underneath, her undergarments, her hair from its pins.She dresses herself in a soft linen gown made for sleep, and she comes to her bed, with the Coordinator resting peacefully in it. She crawls onto her mattress. She settles behind the sleeping Coordinator of the CIA.

She wraps an arm around Narvinektrolona, closes her eyes, and focuses for the next rather long while on the rise and fall of Narvin’s chest.

On the one hand, Narvin is exhausted to her bones.  On the other, her species doesn’t need much sleep as a rule, and however eternal last night may have felt, it was not in fact terribly late when her TARDIS deposited her at Ingrid’s. Her body splits the difference.  Narvin sleeps soundly, dreamlessly, far more deeply than usual–but she wakes between first and second sunrises, to a room bathed in a faint orange glow.

Narvin blinks, and breathes.

She does not immediately pitch headlong into anxiety.  That much is an excellent sign.  She wakes, if not serene, then blank, in a better way than not.

Ingrid’s arm is around her.  Narvin watches the window and finds herself occupying one of those rare and perfect spaces where she can know but not think, accept but not analyze.  Last night happened.  This morning is here.

After a long time, she turns her head, and kisses Ingrid’s shoulder.

They are both of them awake--Narvin, now, and Ingrid, for most of the night. She has had a great deal to think about, and a mind busy does not soon rest. What they say about the wicked is not entirely untrue, and extends a bit further than the express itself lets on.

Ingrid, ever-present, does comprehend the strangeness of this moment. Her life is a series of planned events and delightful improvisations–but some things are matters of pride, and she’d trust she’d know about them. Kneeling, for certain, is one. She has known for a long, long while that Narvin would be important, for her life, for the future, for… many things, indeed. She’d thought she’d know, if she would kneel for her. She’s had it in her mind to kneel for so few, as even a possibility, or a necessity.

And yet, here they are.

(She does not even lift herself, when Narvin curls. She slides, from her knees to her thigh, from her thigh to her hip, catching herself on a hand so she is sitting, eye-level still with Narvin’s face. Narvin is far from coherent, but Ingrid nods anyway, and hangs on the words, and tries to understand, at least. “You do,” Ingrid murmurs, as Narvin wraps up their hands, together. “I think you do, already.”

Somewhere in there, Narvin’s eyes slip closed. Ingrid frowns, but does not fight it. She’ll work on slipping that sopping robe off in just a little while, she’ll fetch another blanket, she’ll…

…Narvin keeps speaking and Ingrid is, frankly, not sure what she feels. It might be dread, but then, it might also be touched. It might well be both, or neither.

Feelings were always very good to acknowledge, and then put away, afterward. Analyze later. Loath as she is to confess there is a thing at which she less than excels, she has not always been very good at knowing herself completely, in a moment. Often–not always.

“Well,” she whispers, “I suppose I must be you, too. And a few others, perhaps. I think it helps us know who we are and what we must do, if we know ourselves among others. I suppose that makes us rather special, doesn’t it? Mutually shaping, and mutually shaped.”

Ingrid pulls herself up the side of the bed a touch, so that she can kiss between Narvin’s brows. “Sleep,” she murmurs.

Narvin hears enough to recognize that Ingrid has understood her.  Of everything, that understanding is what sends gratitude lancing through her like a blade.  “Yes,” she whispers–as much of language as she can manage, but all, in truth, she really needs to say.

...speaking of which.

Five microspans is time enough, she thinks, to get to work. So she does. It’s delicate work, sliding up the robe, maneuvering Narvin through the sleeves and collar, shifting her gently. Eventually, she gets that Coordinator robe off, and dismays slightly to find that everything below that is likewise more than slightly damp.

It’s far from ideal, but... Ingrid begins to strip her of that, too.

(It is an almost medical act, methodical, careful, trying as ever not to jostle her. Whatever nakedness there is to see, Ingrid pays no mind of it--not the nakedness itself, really, though  among Gallifreyans such a sight should cause averted eyes and affronted sensibilities. That isn’t really the reason Ingrid doesn’t pay it much mind. It’s only that there is Narvin’s modesty, and that she sees in this whole act the goosebumps along her arms. That detail, more than anything, stays with her)

Whatever undergarments besides, Ingrid does not examine them too closely, except to know that Narvin is not, in fact, naked in her bed. That might be a little much for either of them to deal with, frankly--now or in the morning. They’ve enough already to contend with, without making a series of firsts out of a rather unfortunate night.

Ingrid has a loose silk robe with ties down the front. It is easy, to wrap Narvin it it, and tie it over her chest and belly. Easier still, after that, to pull one of her softest and warmest plush blankets overtop her. She places another cover, a quilt this time, over her feet. Just to be safe.

....Ingrid takes a little time, that way, after that. Just to watch Narvin slumber, just to think of the last time they would up like this. Just to... think.

Ingrid doesn’t really want to think about the things that Narvin has just shown her, but there are some responsibilities you cannot put off, and some it is imperative to attend to. There are some incidents that simply... demand to be taken into consideration.

Threatened to burn the world, and murder Narvin along in the bargain.

It is funny, talking to oneself. The assumption is, of course, that the future speaks to the past, in an endeavor to make things what they must be. It is not half so intuitive to look forward and itch for a change. The future should be the one to dictate, or so the theory might go.

But there is a reason, too, that Ingrid resists the name. Braxiatel refers to a comfortable past and a more-or-less contented present. Ingrid, to her, has always belonged a little bit more to a future moment, and an older pair of eyes. She has not always liked looking at those eyes. It is hard to see herself in them, sometimes. There are things she wants and things that she fights for and compromises she refuses to make. She cannot always see those in her mirror, either.

Threatened to burn the world, and take Narvin along with it.

(This emotion, Ingrid does know. Revulsion. It’s not that she’s ever claimed to be a good woman, and not even that she’d ever hoped, really, to become one. But hope works in funny ways, and she did once ask to be remembered fondly. She is hoping, surely, for something.)

Ingrid scrubs her face with a hand, and takes a long, deep breath. “Oh, to blazes with it,” she murmurs.

She goes to her closet. She removes her Cardinal trappings, her suit underneath, her undergarments, her hair from its pins.She dresses herself in a soft linen gown made for sleep, and she comes to her bed, with the Coordinator resting peacefully in it. She crawls onto her mattress. She settles behind the sleeping Coordinator of the CIA.

Ingrid wasn’t even moving away. She’s not inclined to leave, frankly–she’d rather stay a while, linger a bit, watch Narvin’s breathing even out and watch her muscles slowly unwind. Don’t go, Narvin says–and she needn’t even ask, but Ingrid kisses Narvin’s forehead for asking, and brushes, too, the periphery of her mind–not a touch, per se, but a gesture nonetheless. Comfort, affirmation, decisive solidity–a yes without hesitation or question, gladly given.

Keeping Narvin’s hand on her sleeve as she goes, Ingrid slips out from their tangle, and down to the floor to kneel, never ceasing to touch Narvin, to sever this peculiar not-connection they have. She never, in a way, stops holding her, either. She merely goes to the floor so that she can let Narvin’s hand slide up her arm, to her elbow, dragging up the sleeve into a crumble of fabric, as Ingrid lets her hands slide down Narvin’s knees, and start to unlace her boots.

“I know,” Ingrid murmurs. “I know you didn’t. I do not believe this is a wound you made, Narvin. I know it, it can’t be. I know… I know the eyes. That hurt has been festering for a long, long time, and it wasn’t a wound that you cut into him.”

One boot, wriggled off her foot. Ingrid kisses her knee, and presses her brow there for a moment.

“I know you,” Ingrid murmurs, starting work on the second boot. “I know how much determination sits inside your frame. And I know–I know–some of our best efforts cannot turn things the way we want them. But that does not mean it isn’t worth the trying–it does not mean your efforts were for not–and it doesn’t mean that good doesn’t still come, of having cared. Of having tried.”

Second boot, loosened sufficiently to fall to the floor. Ingrid kisses, now, that knee.

“I have a list of high-achieving students on my chair, at present. A few names most High Houses wouldn’t recognize. I was trying to plan a speech for the coming week.”

Now, Ingrid looks up. She reaches for Narvin (oh, so cautiously) with just a fingertip to her chin. That’s something, isn’t it? speaks the mind, while her tongue says, “I know. I know, you didn’t mean for him hurt, still, Narvin. I know.”

It is clever of Ingrid, beyond clever, to say it not one time but over and over again.

Narvin cannot hear it the first time.  She cannot believe.  But Ingrid says it again and again, those two words ‘I know,’ and by the last time, it can reach Narvin at last.  By the last time she can shudder, all the tension coming out of her, and give a little sobbing breath in relief.

Someday Narvin will laugh about this, Ingrid Braxiatel kissing her knees. Someday the irony will hit her, that on any other day those kisses would unleash a thousand fantasies, and instead they find Narvin numb almost past feeling. Then again, Narvin would have no patience for this in another context, and Ingrid would not offer.  Narvin, on another day, will be the one to kneel, and Ingrid the one to accept that devotion.  That is how matters should stand between them.

“I want to give you,” Narvin says, and realizes that sentence needs an object at the end of it, and can’t decide that it matters.  To say that she curls up on her side implies far more control and intentionality than she feels herself to possess, but then again, she certainly doesn’t collapse; it’s just that lying down happens to her.  "Ingrid,“ she says, and that’s important.  Narvin knows she will have something to say, later, about the Academy, that it’s another gift Ingrid is trying to present to her, but she isn’t coherent enough to address that right  now.  She catches Ingrid’s hand, knits their fingers together. 

There is something she needs to say.  It isn’t ‘I am yours;’ that isn’t enough, or right, or what she means.  But it’s almost like that.

And yet, here they are.

(She does not even lift herself, when Narvin curls. She slides, from her knees to her thigh, from her thigh to her hip, catching herself on a hand so she is sitting, eye-level still with Narvin’s face. Narvin is far from coherent, but Ingrid nods anyway, and hangs on the words, and tries to understand, at least. “You do,” Ingrid murmurs, as Narvin wraps up their hands, together. “I think you do, already.”

Somewhere in there, Narvin’s eyes slip closed. Ingrid frowns, but does not fight it. She’ll work on slipping that sopping robe off in just a little while, she’ll fetch another blanket, she’ll...

...Narvin keeps speaking and Ingrid is, frankly, not sure what she feels. It might be dread, but then, it might also be touched. It might well be both, or neither.

Feelings were always very good to acknowledge, and then put away, afterward. Analyze later. Loathe as she is to confess there is a thing  at which she less than excels, she has not always been very good at knowing herself completely, in a moment. Often--not always.

“Well,” she whispers, “I suppose I must be you, too. And a few others, perhaps. I think it helps us know who we are and what we must do, if we know ourselves among others. I suppose that makes us rather special, doesn’t it? Mutually shaping, and mutually shaped.”