that nastiness was her fatherâs.  where something sweet went bitter in the back of angelâs throat and this man ââ this  stranger come up from the wreckage of a nightmare ââ looked..  small.  he looked  fragile.  more breakable than her body.  more malleable than the loaders that speckled the dark hollows of her makeshift refuge, ready and eager to obey a shifting whim.  and for that⊠ for that, it was easy to swallow back.  blink away a spiteful want.  where greedy fingers had thought to wrench apart the patches of cybernetics that pieced him whole.  make easy work out of his hidden prize.  one sheâd dream about, later.  how easily she could crack it like a walnut.  get to the meat of what demons laid inside.
but he didnât have to come.  rhys didnât have to be there⊠ he didnât have to warn her in such a backwards way that a phantom still floated in the ethos.  a ghost wearing her fatherâs rotten mug.  whatâd torn him apart once and, she imagined, what sat behind his exhaustion, now, too.  a fine line between passive indecision and a fear palpable enough to see.  to needle.  to pick if she wanted.  make him squirm like jackâd have liked.
but⊠for the crinkle they shared over their noses and that small patch of freckles, unseen beneath her collar that smeared a similar galaxy as she remembered speckling his, once ââ the similarities between them stopped there.
â okay⊠ okay, â  two nods and the third came while she crouched.  smuggled away the very minor advantages that his continued crumple had allotted her for the sake of eye contact that didnât feel or look imposing.  equals adjacent, angelâs smile was small, but apologetic.   â thank you for coming, rhys. â  for doing what no one else had had the nerve or will to do.  digging up jackâs secrets had that effect on people and, as far as most had ever been concerned, that the 4N631 satellite remained in orbit was consolation enough.
â you came a long way for someone who wasnât asked to⊠â  for someone who didnât have to.  for someone whoââ
it wasnât her business anymore than it was her place to find that passive contact.  the brushed fingers over his shoulder⊠a careful squeeze while that smile spread.   â i.. donât have much experiences with visitors, but i could get you something to drink.. if you wanted it ?  no weird siren strings attached.  promise. â
He didnât take in much after her acquiescence. All the blood in his body had gone into this confrontation, leaving him drained and dizzy in the aftermath. Jack wouldâve made fun of that too; could never stand to miss a shot at his stupid, sensitive body.
âItâs okay,â he said, barely hearing her. He hadnât brushed off her hand, nor had he encouraged it with an accommodating tilt or the like; at the very least, though, its weight had reminded him to stay present. Setting his jaw, he started to get to his feet.
She wasnât like Jack--not at all--not even when sheâd been angry, though the sudden shift from horrifying to hospitable was as stark as Jackâs had been. Rhys didnât know that he wanted to think about what she was like. All of this was more magic than science, well out of his depth... even if, he supposed, all science had looked like magic before people understood it.
âI--hey--no offense, like--you kinda just..." He made a wiggly motion with his fingers, ending with an awkward splay. â...my whole... situation. I need a second, okay?â
He took it--actually, he took two or three--and finally smiled, even if his knees still felt like jelly. If things with Jack had worked out, that wouldâve made her his... something else he didnât understand, or want to. Something that would have obligated him to at least try and make a connection out of two ends so frayed.
âOkay. Do you have any orange juice?â He clarified: âThe kind with no pulp. If you donât, itâs fine.â
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