vecna | reverie inbox.

[And here he was going to say she looked better than compared to their last meeting—even if that is a low bar to clear, even if it is true—but Henry decides against it. He sees how worn she looks, instead. Like sleep’s escaped her.

Did something happen? Or is she still pulling herself back together after the elevator game? Henry can’t know, but he wonders if it has anything to do with why she’s called him out here today.]

Here we are.

[Brow lifting. All right. Obviously, he’ll have to take the lead.]

I’m glad you’re still willing to meet with me, at least. What’s this about?

Can't woman desire to spend time with her friend?

[ her gaze slants aside when she asks this; it's clear that she does not feel equipped for the conversation she asked for—or, at least, she isn't certain how to begin it. ]

...I did not like how we left things, before.

["Friend." He nearly didn't expect that word out of her so easily—it never came easily before—and it speaks volumes that she utilizes it in the wake of their last conversation. He had asked if things changed between them then. He wonders that’s the answer.]

We weren’t ourselves. Not after that game.

[Or, at least, Henry had let the mask slip. It’s glued on… better, today.]

...You still look tired from it.

[ no, she thinks. he was exactly himself. ]

There was bloodbath and Basilisk's ranks have thinned. Of course I am tired. I am always, always tired.

[The bloodbath, he knew about. Basilisk's ranks, though.]

You've lost someone on your team?

[ angles her gaze away, arms crossed. shrugs.

she shouldn't have said that. ]

I am just... tired.

[Whether or not she should have, she's said it, and it's revealing. Says something for why she's so tired.]

Talk to me, Sprezzatura. That's why you called me out here, wasn't it?

[ yes. shut up.

tail swishing behind her, she blinks a few times, almost bleary. unsurprising.

then her lips draw into a frown. ]

I—I have something. For you.

[Henry looks as surprised as he feels. She has something for him?]

...You do?

Not if you are going to make shocked face like, "how could she ever be so generous"!

[He scoffs, bemused.]

Maybe you'll recall our last conversation, Sprezzatura. I wasn't even sure you wanted to talk to me again. But now you're requesting to meet with me, calling me "friend", and saying you have something for me.

I'm not complaining. But I am surprised.

And I am not idiot! I do not have five-minute memory! I remember. I remember you being cataclysmic in your anger, and being flooded with that feeling that from one touch, and you telling me we are so, so alike. Hm? And I did not abandon you then...

[ maybe she should have.

but they're too alike. ]

[But they're too alike.]

And you're not going to abandon me now.

[Despite everything. How strange, this prison continuing to prove him so very wrong about a lot of things, but he cannot bring himself to feel so resentful about it today.]

You did say you wouldn't leave me to my fate if we ever returned home. Maybe I just shouldn't have doubted you.

No one should ever doubt me. I am incredibly intelligent woman.

[ with the wisdom of a banana. ]

[(citation needed)]

I won't make that mistake again.

[ girl we already know she's stupid

but her expression falls from long-suffering to just... somber. vaguely uncertain. one hand has slipped into the inner pocket of her coat, and she fiddles with something inside, unseen. the silk fabric soft beneath her paper-worn fingertips, the fine threads of embroidery forming a little bump at one corner... ]

Hold out your hand.

[She's trying her best, okay.

His eyes follow her movement, then trail back up to her expression. This must still be a difficult thing to do, he thinks. If what she's about to give him is a gift, then it is the equivalent of an olive branch, just a slightly awkward one.

Still... he holds out his hand. He's curious.]

[ all at once, as though she's had to manually override her own inertia, she brings her own hand out of her pocket and presses a folded handkerchief into his upturned palm. on it, there is an embroidered black widow spider—her abdomen carefully built up and up so its curve rises above the fabric, her delicate legs poised. she has attempted to mimic the look of a web with fine silver threads that flicker in the light.

the fabric is red.

stiffly, ] I am realizing some things recently.

[He isn’t sure what it is at first, not until he slowly unfolds the cloth and realizes that it’s a handkerchief. Red — to hide the blood that’s always eking from his nostril. Clever.

But of course he appreciates the embroidery in the corner the most: a black widow spider, delicately interwoven, legs long and the red hourglass on its abdomen bright. Henry loses all pretense of his polite smile, then; instead, his expression shifts into an almost childlike appreciation, turning it over in his hand. Earnest fondness, so rare for him.

He almost doesn’t register her remark. He should— thank her for this. But first:]

And… what’s that? The things you’re realizing.

[ waiting with bated breath—please like it, please say thank you, please mend the rift that she swears she can feel sometimes between them. like the tiniest tear in a seam. ]

Everything here is going to end, one day, and I cannot stand myself to have our last words be ones spat in anger. It will eat me from inside out. I'm lonely, Henry.

[The gratitude's coming. She needn't worry about that. But first-- lonely. That strikes a chord in him, like needles pricking in his chest, but Henry still is not able to turn his own awareness in that direction. He can't, just not quite yet; but perhaps he doesn't have to. She already knows that they share many similarities, and that is one of them.

His lips thin slightly as he folds the handkerchief back up with careful, careful delicacy.]

I know, Sprezzatura. [He knows from the strings. He knows from before that, in the cafeteria, the realization of how much they share.] But wipe this worry from your mind. [He steps closer, if she does not shy away.] I'm not upset with you. If you can forgive me, I can do the same.

[ closer, she smells a little bit of wine. and her cheeks are flushed—barely.

when confessed murderer Henry Creel steps closer, she stays exactly where she is. there's no recoil this time, either because she has processed the situation in full, or enough for her to accept it, or because her reaction time simply isn't there right now. this isn't the sort of thing anyone external can tell.

so what if he's killed? wouldn't she, if she had the chance? oh, without question... without question. and that's not a truth that she can easily share with Arthur, Herlock, Miss Tsuruno, Wilbur, Ace... the truth is an ugly one, and most days it is without remorse, and rarely any desire to seek a better way. she knows better ways exist and she doesn't want to use them. that's the point. that's the entire fucking point. so if she is the worst possible version of herself, where does that leave her?

who does that leave her to confide in?

helplessly, ] ...It's silk.

[ the handkerchief. ]

[He does scent it. And he does see that darkened flush around her cheeks. She's been drinking.

Not just tired, then. Not as much as she wishes to dismiss it, so easily; and if he were less kind, he would pry into her mind and wrench free the real reasons, bring them to light, so he needn't keep guessing.

But he doesn't. The way she's looking at him, it's almost as though she wants his approval — something that is easily given today.]

It’s wonderful. I’ve never owned anything quite like it. …Thank you.

[ ;O; ]

[ her throat tightens—it would be visible, if not for the high collar—and she clenches her jaw (this is visible) to ward it. one hand comes up to rake gloves fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face. ]

Good. It is unique, after all. No one else has ever had one like it.

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