twelve. spam & voice. the sound when we come running. ( backdated post-port. )

[indispensible]

voice } helena ( backdated )

Did you die? Did you kill anyone? [These seem like the two most likely options.]

voice } lydia ( backdated )

You got separated. You should learn self-defense. [This vaguely reproachful, which is a coded way of saying god that sucked, are you okay.]

voice } elsa ( present dated )

[She waits to get in touch with Elsa, who seems as easily overwhelmed as Vin was herself, not very long ago. Still, the desire to check in nags at her, and eventually she gives in.]

I'm worried about you. [It's simultaneously frank, honest, and very forward, but it seems like the right thing to say all the same.]

spam } stark ( backdated )

[She has been texting him incessantly and, of course, he hasn't been responding. She doesn't know why she's surprised. But she knows where to find him, at least. In the bar or in his cabin.]

[The bar's almost empty and he's not in there, so she slips up to his room and opens the door before he can voice an objection. Her look is steely; she knows he's done something or he wouldn't be avoiding her, but she doesn't know what.]

Why are you hiding?

open spam } present dated

[Today Vin is in the art room - or rather, the annex off of the art room that holds the piano. She is sitting at it, but not playing it, because she doesn't know how to. Instead, she is considering it, leafing through the music that she found in its bench, and arranging it in various patterns across the keyboard in an effort to make sense of it.]

[So far she hasn't had any luck, but she seems absorbed in her work. It's like learning a foreign language with no guide whatsoever. She can't help but imagine Sazed would be fascinated.]

Comments

[indispensible]

[Vin looks up at him, slowly and carefully, as though afraid she is going to be struck. She isn't afraid of Ben, of course, not really. It's just that fear is something that's impossible to wash off once it's part of you, and it's been tattooed on the back of Vin's eyelids since she was so small.]

[The question is almost impossible. She wants not only to answer it, but to answer it well, and that means being honest with Ben when she really doesn't know the answer herself. She doesn't want others to know about her, really. She just wants to rest.]

[With a sharp, short sigh, she shrugs, a childish and abbreviated gesture of frustration.]

That all I've ever done is try.

[warisart]

It is obvious.

[This is not dismissive: it's confirmation, because it's true. Ben sees the way she tries, because he recognizes it. He recognizes the small victories of every moment and every day, of sitting here and speaking with him of such things, of admitting that she doesn't know how to play the piano despite its obviousness, of smiling. And maybe some of that is transference because he knows how hard it can be on some days for him.

So he clears his throat, and in an effort to be absolutely honest:] It is obvious to me.

[indispensible]

[A quick smile, one of her rare ones, not impish or false but full of genuine pleasure. So few people get to see her smile like this. Ben deserves it, she thinks.]

You're a very perceptive person, though, Ben. So maybe it's different. For you.

[Elend would see. Elend did see. She thinks Elend would have liked Ben, that they would have been, if not friends, then at least respectful of each other, at least kind to each other, at least . . .]

[She wonders in moments like these if she should have just stayed dead. At least dead she was with him. At least dead she didn't feel so alone, so weak with self-pity, so halved. She loves so much, and there are so few people here she feels safe loving. She misses her home in someone else's heart. She misses--]

[She is crying, she realizes in a distant way, and places her palms over her eyes in an attempt to hide. She wants to go home, but she can't. Not now, maybe not ever.]

[warisart]

[She is crying.

Ben isn't sure what to do with this, of course, though not for the reasons others would be. Of course he was raised with the same expectations - not to cry, not to ever cry - but overall, it isn't one of the reservations he still holds. Not consciously. He doesn't think less of her for that, doesn't feel uncertain because he doesn't ever know what to do with this.

But he doesn't know where it's coming from for her, for certain, and he wouldn't try. What he does understand is the moment her hands raise to cover her face.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't try to intrude on whatever she needs, he will wait or he will go as she bids him, but he does not try to interrupt her with something as mundane as words.

He does, however, reach up to touch her near wrist with just his fingertips. His hand drops away again a moment later but for just a moment, in the way others seem to communicate best, he wants her to know that it's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay.

She doesn't have to hide.]

[indispensible]

[She doesn't jump away from his touch. With someone else she might, but she knows it's only Ben in the room, and Ben is - safe. Marginally safe. Safe enough that she doesn't have to startle and run like a little animal, like a desperate thing.]

[It still feels as though she has to hide. But she understands what the touch means. This is a language that she and he can both speak, even if only for a little while, and one which doesn't make her afraid. She peeks through her fingers at him, so close to her but so distant in some ways, so closed off.]

[Then her fingers curl one after another into fists, revealing more and more of her face with each one that pulls away. She's still crying, she has no plans to stop and doesn't even know if she could if she wanted to.]

[But he's right. She doesn't have to hide. There is no one here who can hurt her, no one here who can make things difficult enough for her that hiding would be advantageous. She's powerful enough that she can feel whatever she wants to feel, wherever and however she'd like to.]

[Her fists meet over her ribcage, resting on her breast, still and tear-stained. Her eyes meet Ben's. She's still crying. She has no plans to stop. But it seems like Ben doesn't have any plans to leave.]

I'm not sorry, [she tells him quietly. She will be as big as she needs to, take up as much space as is necessary. This is her right, now. She is an empress. She is Mistborn. She's so much more than she ever thought she could be.]

[warisart]

[He doesn't. Have any plans to leave, that is. He watches her gather herself, her resolve, and he doesn't feel anything; it's not that he doesn't care. It's that she wanted someone to see her and so this is what he can do for her: he can bear witness to her, to these moments of comparable weakness and understated strength as much as any of the rest. He can see her, and know before she says anything that she is not, indeed, sorry.]

Nor should you be.

[He smiles, but not because his reassurance changes anything, not really, but because he wants to, too. Because he is a unique creature, complex and wonderful, terrible and flawed, the only one of his kind. Because he, too, has the right to feel what he wants to feel, wherever and however he'd like to, and right now that is an uncomplicated, clean kind of pleasure.

He reaches for the sheet music, arranges it unhurriedly back in order, taps it all gently back into one neat, uniform pile, and then he sets it aside with his sketchbook.]

Would you like to try again?

[indispensible]

[She realizes, all of a sudden, watching him shuffle the sheet music, listening to the somehow-solid lilt of his voice, that she wants nothing more than to try again. She would give her life over and over to try again, because, all of a sudden, or not so sudden, so gradually that it crept up on her and she didn't recognize it, she believes she deserves it.]

[She is not only the knife. She deserves more. She wants more. Just for herself, no one else.]

[Turning to Ben on the bench, she nods, crisp and tearstained and determined.]

I want to live again. For more than four years. I want to live for a hundred. I want to feel and see everything. I want green things. I want children. I want to walk unafraid. I want . . .

Ben, have you ever wanted everything all at once?

[warisart]

Yes.

[The answer is easy, comes from a deep, hidden part of him that most people don't have a need for; it is honest and heavy enough that the edges of his otherwise steady voice tremble with it. Yes. Yes, yes, yes, he has wanted everything at once, and nothing.

He swallows the rest of it down, leaves the answer laid bare for her, as easy as flipping back the covers because of all the things he fears now being honest is not among them. It doesn't make it easy, rising up beneath the peace of him like the incoming tide, but he doesn't fear it, not really.

He fears the bedrock that lies beneath that, but no longer the pushing and pulling currents between.]

It consumed me, then. I didn't know how to want everything, or how to stop, or how to move beyond merely wanting. Yes.

Yes I have.

[indispensible]

[She watches him, listens with tin-enhanced ears to the tremble in his voice. One thing about her: she is steady enough even in her flightiest moments to be a rock when people need one. Ben probably doesn't need her, but if she is very still and quiet, she might be able to help, even if just a little bit.]

[Once he's spoken, she nods and lets the silence swim between them for another moment. Then she plays a chord on the piano, contemplatively.]

Then you know it can be scary. It can seem impossible.

It seems impossible now. I'm afraid.

[Not confession. Just a fact.]

[warisart]

[Ben breathes in that stillness, that steadiness, and lets it quiet the subtle nerve of him. He doesn't need it, not now, not like he once did, but he never takes it for granted either.

The chord underlines her voice, the honest truth of the statement. Ben reaches up and lowers three of his fingers onto a complementary chord, slightly more complex than the one she chose, but pleasant to hear.]

I do. And having survived it - finally - I can tell you with confidence that you have the strength to do so, too.

[indispensible]

[She smiles, ever so slightly, at the sound of the chord. It slots into place in her mind, in her memory, in a sensation that feels like a touch to the back of the head, a safe thing, a calming thing. She will never see a piano again and not think of Ben, of the thousands of subtle ways he cares, the ways he isn't used to being cared about.]

[Another chord, now, simple as the first one was, a touch discordant. She looks to him to fix it.]

That only makes me a little less afraid.

When I go home, I'll be dead. I don't want to be dead anymore. This place - it's spoiled me.

[warisart]

It does that.

[Spoils people. Others would scoff to hear either of them say that, of course, but this is what Ben has learned: this place spoils people who are unaccustomed to being spoiled. It works both way, knocks down the prideful and raises up the lost, the weak. The dead.

Ben loves this place like he always knew he would. Some days he still can't believe The Good Place is real, and he is in it. Ben lifts two fingers, places the other one and his two unused fingers down in a new chord, following her up the keyboard at a half step difference.]

I have been told that if I were to go back where I came from - [Not home. Not like most people mean it. Not like Ben has learned to mean it.] - I would not be dead. Even though I died to come here.

No one knows what would happen for certain, of course, because they can't. But they have told me if I want to do so, it should be safe.

I do not want to find out. I never want to find out.