Cya and Carew, Carew’s POV – what happens when Cya starts feeling things she’s been repressing.
He could have gone to his crew.
They were here, now. Cya had Found them and offered them a ticket to Cloverleaf via her teleporter, and, much to Carew’s relief and occasional confusion, they’d all agreed.
(He’d spent six months wondering why they hadn’t come to find him when he graduated, only to find out that they had, just the day after he’d left, and nobody they’d asked had known that Cya had taken him.)
But he didn’t want them to get the wrong impression and, besides, this was the second time, and he was sort of hoping someone would do something, so when Cya started throwing things – pebbles, rocks, stones – at the wall, he’d slipped out the back door and run to Leo’s house again.
Leo had gotten a strange look on his face and left. Carew had settled in to teach Jeska some more card games and anything else that could keep his mind off of my Keeper is throwing shit at the walls.
She was in therapy. She was supposed to be getting better. She seemed to be getting… more emotive. He thought that was supposed to be better. Most days it was better.
She came back a couple hours later, walking in with Leo. Her face was red; she’d been crying. Of course she’d been crying. But she looked like she was over the bad part.
“Hey.” She sat down next to him and held out a hand.
He took it without thinking, then wondered if it was a good idea. What if he’d done something wrong?
She never hurt him (except in the good way), even when he messed up, which did happen on occasion. But sometimes she could be scary anyway.
“I’m sorry. I’m getting used to having emotions again – I did a really good job of making them go away for a really long time – and, uh. I’m feeling things I’d forgotten about. But that doesn’t mean I should make you suffer for it.”
A really long time. Carew looked at her cautiously. She was older than the end of the world.
“So, uh,” he hazarded a guess, “things from Addergoole?”
“Things from Addergoole,” she admitted. “Want to come home so I can make it up to you?”
“Wait, it’s a choice?” He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, but she didn’t look offended.
“Tonight, it’s a choice.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “It’s not like I don’t know I messed up.”
“No,” he shook his head, then hurried to finish the sentence. “You didn’t mess up, boss. But I won’t mind some making up, anyway.”
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