[ She watches her fingers spread with a sort of detached interest, lost in lifts and flickering lights and the humidity of the gardens, everything green and bright. Both of them, in their own right, had been alarming, but she thinks that sometimes she's so beyond the point of fear that none of it can really ever touch her. She's not afraid to get pulled apart, she's not afraid to get gutted. More than anything she's afraid of what it's going to turn her into regardless of how grounded she tries to keep herself.

As for him, Claire doesn't need him to be anything. Experience would dictate that she rather him be nothing, feel nothing, do nothing, let her handle it on her own. Experience might also dictate that asking that is an impossibility. Her fingers flex, the tendons stretched across her palm, underneath his thumb, moving in tandem. ]

I don't know. I've never had anyone ask me what I needed them to be before. People always just were, whether I wanted them to be or not. More careful? [ She admits it carefully and turns her head to look at him, reaches across her shoulders to touch his temple with two fingers and cracks a smile before relaxing back. ] Not angry. On my behalf, at least. [ If Odessa lied then that's her prerogative. ] I'll be fine, and neither of them, none of them, had any idea or control over what they were doing.

[ It warms her in a weird way that he would ask at all. She's so used to her father just charging in, guns blazing, erasing minds and stacking bodies in an effort to be what he assumed she needed, whether it was mobilized armor or a knife from underneath a sleeve. Having the option is a nice change, gives her a little more room to feel more in control of what's happening, encourages her not to shut down entirely. She turns her hand over against his, spreading fingers wide and comparing the length and span between the two sets. ]

How do you stop yourself from becoming completely numb?