veilbreak | (no subject)

CHARACTERS: Maryle Bone & Dom Flores Romero.
WHAT: Maryle has to tell Dom his sister's about to come back from the dead.
WHEN: Friday, February 21, 20 AI. Immediately after the survey party returns from Kamchatka.
WHERE: Maryle's room.
WARNINGS: Family death, malfunctioning brains, people who struggle to talk about emotions

There's not really a good way to do this, but Maryle is going to do her best. She'd intercepted Dom the moment he'd arrived, steered him to her room, slapped up the 'NO.' sticky note on the door that she and Sloane use to keep the other out, and sat him down. Now, seated across from him, she shifts to press her knees against his.

"We still need to talk about your diary entry, but do you want some… emotionally complex news before or after?"

"Maryle, what is going on?" He thinks this is a fair question (and a convenient diversion from the other thing that he'd spent the past 48 hours regretting sending her), given his backpack abandoned on the floor, his charges in Med, and the mountain of reports. He hasn't even had time to take off his field jacket and Maryle's doing something she would rather eat soap than ever consider: discuss "'Emotionally complex news'?"

Maryle makes a face, and then another, neither particularly inspiring as she watches Dom and tries to decide if she should just bite the bullet and tell him. After a long moment, she decides that his romantic troubles can definitely wait — at the very least news about his sister has more immediate repercussions than, presumably, being more into Niko than he had planned.

She takes Dom's face in her hands to secure him looking at her. Every micro-expression will count in this and Dom tracks each one, from trepidation to determination.

"They were concerned about a couple of undercover agents being compromised, so they're extracting them to safety. One of them is Lidia."

When Dom shakes his head as much as he can, he can't help what little frustration rises even if it's kept below surface level. Is this some new bit she worked on while he was trying not to fall through floors in abandoned Soviet buildings? Couldn't he at least shower first? "Elaborate: I'm not familiar with any Lydia." (He wonders if the plural's Lydias or maybe even Lydiae.) "And I know I haven't recruited any."

There's nothing to do but be direct and watch for signs of Dom inevitably shutting himself off. Maryle can't help but frown the slightest bit before pulling in a breath and saying calmly,

"Your sister Lidia."

Time rolls to a stop; something in his chest is too tight and too empty all at once. "How much do you know?"

"I know Nish is going to get her and take her to a stronghold on Sunday. She's safe enough right now that it's not an immediate extraction, so that's good. They're bringing her here eventually. Bishop thinks she won't be on board before the end of the month. I haven't told anyone, obviously, and Nish only knows that she has your last name, not how you're related."

Maryle rattles off all these facts smoothly as she continues to hold Dom's face, her brows drawing in slightly.

"You have to talk to me."

His eyes skirt away, her disappointment registering as a buried fact instead of something that should concern him — at least right now. But nothing his gaze lands on (her pillows– his muddy backpack– the wi– no, the wall where a window should be) brings what she wants to mind and so they're back on hers, level and mild.

"She's alive. That's good news."

"Dom." Maryle's voice is sharp, hoping she can pull him at least slightly out of his head. A thin twist of nervousness is settling into her chest as she watches his eyes flit away and then back. What if she can't help?

"It is good, but it's also a lot. And I asked Bishop to let me tell you because I knew you'd do this, and I'm not going to let you. Talk to me."

And he twitches at her tone when the string that binds them pulls taut enough to snap.

"I don't know," he admits, honest, and wraps his hands around hers to bring all four to their interlocked knees (and yes, to take them off his face; it's started to feel like she wants to hypnotize him). "I reach for how to respond and it's..." Painted over — not ripped away, at least, but obscured in a way where if he's not removing it with absolute care, he doesn't know if he can uncover the sentiments beneath without damage to some crucial piece. "Perhaps 'redacted' is the best way to describe it?"

Their hands lower, and Maryle doesn't fight it because she has Dom there with her, at least for the moment.

She knows he's being honest — she's always been bubbling over and he's always been lidded, controlled. Like together they make a single, functioning human. Most of the time she feels like it's a good balance, but sometimes, like now, it leaves her unsure of how to proceed.

"You were undercover for too long," she says almost idly. (He knows better than to point out his time undercover isn't solely to blame.)

"I just don't want you, like, forcing it down. Especially if you can sort some of it out before she gets here."

"I understand the lengths to which Bishop requires Undercover agents to go," Dom tries, not robotic but not impassioned either. "I know I'm relieved that one of my sisters is..." Alive? Well, so is Aura, but unVeiled? Part of this top-secret anti-alien resistance squad that, by virtue of joining, had seen him cut off the rest of their family? "... about to become accessible."

"Are you also happy? Nervous?" Though she's never had a sibling, Maryle can imagine those feelings churning inside her. They actually are a little, even though this isn't about her at all. Fuck, she really has no idea what she's doing and the usually sympathetic man across from her only offers a shrug as if to say Probably?

She pulls in a breath and twists their hands so that she's holding his instead. "...it's been a long time since you've seen her."

This one's easy because he turns the number over in his mind whenever he's decided to indulge (punish) himself with what-ifs. His hands stay steady in hers. She gently squeezes them, trying to keep him as present as possible.

"Twenty-one years, although we'd call each other on occasion while she was Veiled." If she'd even been Veiled at the time? If she was ever Veiled? — These could be revelations but for now they're nothing but footnotes. "Travelling across continents became less feasible to justify when there weren't meant to be negative motivators like guilt or loneliness, so I opted to follow my remaining sisters' lives from afar."

Twenty-one years. Difficult to conceptualize in some ways, given the general insanity of their lives, but she thinks back. She was still a teenager. Maryle frowns very slightly and nods.

"Makes sense." Personally, she doesn't think she could have survived this. "Wouldn't be surprised if a lot of the feelings come tumbling out later, or when you finally see her. She'll look different. You look different."

There's a lot Dom could say about this but it brings to mind something that, suddenly, is much more pressing: the inch-thick layer of grime seeping into every pore of his body. "Perhaps because it's been three days since I saw running water?"

Ah, now, this draws up a small smile from Maryle. She really hadn't given him time to do literally anything but come to her room, and even though this is a diversion, she'll let it happen. Dom has said some things and acknowledged some feelings. Sort of. It's probably better than it would have been if Bishop had told him.

"I'm still mad about the beard." She's not, actually.

She'll keep him there as long as she can, hours wasted trying to eke out some sign of genuine emotional response he knows he won't be capable of for a while. (And honestly, the thought of disappointing her more than he already has is the closest his brain gets to connecting those wires. There's a little grind of unease somewhere but it's too far for him to pick at and dissect.) "Then perhaps we agree that I remove it from the premises and myself along with it?"

The smile stays, slight and affectionate, despite his desire to leave. Maryle would absolutely try to keep him here forever if she could, but she's bumped up against the extent of her meager abilities. Torturing him with her fumbling is a lot more tempting when she hasn't just given him earth-shattering news.

"...will you talk to me, when you feel like you can? I know this is pretty rich coming from me, but… disgustingly, I worry."

Something else pushes against that pinprick of guilt, something warmer and better and more welcome, but it's not enough. "I'll chase you through the halls and shout every emotion I've felt for the past three weeks until you sit down with me."

"That's the worst thing you've ever said to me."

Still holding his hands, Maryle leans forward to kiss Dom's forehead, regardless of how gross it is. When she sits back she's still searching his face for something, anything, that she should be addressing, even though she knows he's an expert at hiding it. Her search is fruitless, but she's at least tried, which is more than she'd normally do, and she finally releases him. There's a twist in her stomach, but she's trying to be reasonable.

"I'll let you go because you're making my room nasty, but you really had better make me regret telling you to talk to me about your feelings."

The fact that Dom's bulky and tacti-chic cargo pants don't stick to the plastic chair when he stands up is a blessing. "Until you use phrases like 'I'll barf all over you' and 'Never talk to me again, Chirp," he promises.