They don't feel just fine. They feel raw, flayed open except in the brain and not the skin. Like coming out of the Chair, except memories are still there. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but it's a little better than the hollow nothing from the day before and before the crying jag.

Soldat can't see her from this angle, but they can hear her heartbeat, feel her body heat through their clothes. It's good enough. She's safe.

She wants them to talk about it. Words are hard, though, and while some come to mind, they don't come to mouth. He is silent a long minute, before resorting to the tablet still tucked inside their coat. (Probably ought to take that off, too, hmm. At least the rifle stayed downstairs, thankfully.) They type, then show her: Wanted to have you do the hair thing but I shouldn't have it. I'm sitting here with you being you and I'm too busy being a sad mess to appreciate it.