[ Her hands may be softer, but they're not without their own marks. Scratches and scrapes, old and new, from sports and from her work with electronics; a shiny spot that was once a burn, almost fully healed and faded; callouses from wires and from firearms, crisscrossed to disguise just what had caused them. Different, but perhaps more similar than either realizes. ]
So do you, [ she replies, gently; it's not a counter, not a parry to his suggestion. ] I'll feel better if you don't go into the ship after that much whiskey.
[ Rebecca would never forgive himself if she let him go and he vanished, or worse -- if he turned up again, insane or dead. ]
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So do you, [ she replies, gently; it's not a counter, not a parry to his suggestion. ] I'll feel better if you don't go into the ship after that much whiskey.
[ Rebecca would never forgive himself if she let him go and he vanished, or worse -- if he turned up again, insane or dead. ]