[ Possibly. Maybe. She’s pretty sure it’s been reinforced, but Cosima doesn’t need to know that. Wren heaves down to the edge of a crate. ]
I do not imagine it will come to that.
[ Not that it does much for the probable hours between. Cosima's... fine. Unobjectionable. As Rifters go, one of the useful ones, for all she might protest the designation. But they’ve both work to do, and it’s stifling hot, and something about the tilt of that face keeps dragging her attention away.
Deja vu? No. Just the nettle of something she ought to have thought of by now,
Probably Amsel. She slips off a glove, comes up from some pocket with a battered-looking flask. Takes a second glance over, squints. The gaze lingers far too long, brow still furrowed half a minute later. Can’t place it.
And then, Orlesian: ]
I've lost my fucking mind,
[ What a blessing that would be. She wouldn't have to go to work. ]
[Cosima doesn't speak Orlesian, but the tone at least is easy to pick up.]
Is something up? Besides the door.
[She doesn't really know what to make of that look. She's always been grateful to Wren; she's fairly certain she would not have survived their unwilling trip to the future without the templar's help. On the other hand, it's not as if they've spent much time together since returning. They're both busy people, with duties that seldom overlap this way. And there's... whatever with Herian, which Cosima has dutifully not dug into. Not her business.]
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no subject
[She looks up from the list she's almost finished checking.]
What do you mean? They're not just going to leave us here.
[Surely. She's not alarmed -- yet -- but it's still inconvenient.]
no subject
[ Possibly. Maybe. She’s pretty sure it’s been reinforced, but Cosima doesn’t need to know that. Wren heaves down to the edge of a crate. ]
I do not imagine it will come to that.
[ Not that it does much for the probable hours between. Cosima's... fine. Unobjectionable. As Rifters go, one of the useful ones, for all she might protest the designation. But they’ve both work to do, and it’s stifling hot, and something about the tilt of that face keeps dragging her attention away.
Deja vu? No. Just the nettle of something she ought to have thought of by now,
Probably Amsel. She slips off a glove, comes up from some pocket with a battered-looking flask. Takes a second glance over, squints. The gaze lingers far too long, brow still furrowed half a minute later. Can’t place it.
And then, Orlesian: ]
I've lost my fucking mind,
[ What a blessing that would be. She wouldn't have to go to work. ]
no subject
Is something up? Besides the door.
[She doesn't really know what to make of that look. She's always been grateful to Wren; she's fairly certain she would not have survived their unwilling trip to the future without the templar's help. On the other hand, it's not as if they've spent much time together since returning. They're both busy people, with duties that seldom overlap this way. And there's... whatever with Herian, which Cosima has dutifully not dug into. Not her business.]