She's not going to lie to him. And there's no way to soften that truth; she'd heard about the breaches and read about them beforehand and nothing had prepared her. The best preparation she could give him was honesty.
"I think that's the rhythm." She's only gone through the one, after all. "And you'll remember the life that you were living during the breach the strongest for the first three or so days. Then the memories will fade."
She considers whether she should say something, whether it'll be as helpful, but it isn't as if she'd learned the technique knowing what she was.
She still doesn't know what she is.
"I employ a mental technique, kind of... a sort of meditation, I guess, that helps me to deal with the alternative memories a little easier. I found it pretty effective after the last one, if you're interested in learning." Then, because she's already well aware he's not much for asking for help. "Or I can suggest a book or two on teaching it to yourself."
Asking for help doesn't come naturally to him, but the dread of what's coming lies on Charlie heavily, on top of the cold threat he's already living with. He's doing things he wouldn't usually do. Saga's here at all because he did something he wouldn't usually do. It takes self-control not to agree before she's even finished offering.
He nods, to give himself time to breathe. "Hey, whatever you got, hit me, I'll give it a try," he says, managing to sound as if you won't get a chance to do much of anything before isn't bouncing around his head like a violent screensaver.
The earbuds in his hand are vibrating softly in time with an ecstatic drum beat; the music is still playing, felt rather than heard. He closes his hand around them to control the tremors.
"I ain't looking forward to it, if I gotta be totally honest." He finds refuge in a wry tone.
"For me," she admits quietly, "it was like... picking up a book, reading it, and being entirely engrossed. It's not that you can't put down the book. It's that you're so... into it you don't realize you're in a book. And when the breach is over, you put the book down. You remember everything that happens, and it was a... really good book, so you're still feeling some of what you felt while you read it, but if you don't make an effort to keep it, it fades away as just another book that you read."
She turns a hand.
"Part of what I did once I got back was pointedly close that book and put it on a shelf. It helped."
He wishes he hadn't asked. He wishes she hadn't described it. Forgetting's nice until you realise what's happening. I can't do this again--
He transfers the earbuds from one hand to the other, slowly, for the sake of the movement. Pays attention to the irregular vibrations. Pays attention to the way the soft round ear-pieces move easily under his finger and thumb.
He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't. That's just like how it was. Lost in the fiction, sometimes jarred out of it when the King pushed too hard with his questions, other times fighting it subconsciously, inventing reasons within the dream that he couldn't or shouldn't talk. A really good book. Jesus fuck. His shelf is already full. There are already piles on the floor around his shelf. He can't do this again.
"All right." That's all she gets while he fights to keep his breathing smooth.
He holds it in, although it hurts like a heart attack. He breathes slowly through it and makes sure to hold the earbuds gently, carefully, so as not to break them. But he hasn't hidden everything, and he feels like he's barely hidden anything at all. What the hell must Saga think of him for being so unable to handle himself, that's his question.
"I'm sorry?"
She spoke. He knows she spoke, he knows he heard her, and yet it bounced right off him while he was preoccupied.
She's going to reach out again, gently, carefully, to the arm that isn't holding the earbud. And she's going to cup her hand around it without holding.
"Sorry. Sometimes I mumble."
And they both know what she's doing, but she's still doing it. She'll do it as long as he needs her to do it.
"I asked if you have some time now. And if you'd like me to teach you the beginning of the mind palace technique that I use to keep my thoughts straight and help me to process difficult information."
He looks at the hand touching him, making contact between his point in space and hers. And he looks a little lost and confused for a moment, because he knows what she's doing but he doesn't know why. Why go out of her way to be patient, to show him her technique, to bring him protective music?
He doesn't know why him. But he does know that sometimes people, good people, go out of their way. The kind of people who make any of this shit seem worth it. And he exhales, and his shoulders relax, just a little. The breach isn't any less frightening, but she's going out of her way.
"You're a doll," he mutters. It means thank you.
"I got time, yeah, I got time. I got a coffee pot too, if you're stopping-- if, if it'll take a while."
"I am, actually," she says with a teasing little smile, still keeping her hand lightly against him, "I'll have to show it to you. It's got a cape and everything, really cute."
She's got the nursery rhyme dolls in her cabin, after all; she'd had them on her when she came. She's spent more time than she'd like staring at the Father doll and considering what it might mean.
"As for the technique, yeah, it'll take a bit." She grins. "So maybe you should get a pot going for both of us, huh?"
"No kidding." That's cute. Somehow, if you asked him to guess one fact about Saga, he wouldn't have gone for 'has a doll of herself with a little cape'. "Yeah, show me sometime."
He mirrors her grin, answers "You got it." He heads off to the pot, where he stops the music with -- the square? right, with the square button -- and then busies himself with a coffee canister and a scoop. The pot's a modern one, came with the kitchenette, and he likes this future innovation much better than he does the little typing screen. The kitchenette's open to the rest of the living space, so it's easy to carry on the conversation.
"Uh... go ahead and take a load off, sister. Make yourself at home. You smoke?"
He doesn't have a lot of visitors at all, here or before, and hasn't had a female guest in longer, but he can at least attempt to host her thoughtfully.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, partially amused and partially frustrated because it feels cruel to take away a creature comfort.
"Modern medicine has noticed that it's not that great for you," she admits, "so a lot of people, when they get older, choose to try and quit smoking. I never tried it myself, but my partner did."
Oh buddy, you do not want to see the inside of this guy's lungs.
"Huh. No kidding."
That's... a strange and unexpected piece of trivia, and goes against probably every doctor's testimonial he's heard. Then again, doctors were into radium water too, and look where that's ended up. Huh!
"Black, one sugar, tiny pinch of salt," she says easily enough, and she'll hold up her hands before he can get wide eyes at her.
"Happened by accident the first time, but you'll be surprised if you try it."
She shakes her head.
"I've got my vices, sure. Some of them have gotten a little less appealing lately," because when you see a trailer full of liquor bottles where you apparently drank your life away, the idea of touching booze is less than pleasant, "but so far, nothing's ruined 'ice cream, tv, and sweatpants' and I hope it stays that way."
Charlie finds the salt. Pinches a tiny bit into her coffee. Makes a pantomime of looking suspiciously at the shaker, and at Saga.
Pinches a tiny bit into his coffee too, with an "alright, let's see."
Ice cream he knows, TV he has gathered is a whole thing in the future, but, uh- "Sweatpants?" he asks, with the faint entertained grin of someone who doesn't know that word but does find it evocative.
He hands over the coffee, but doesn't sit right away; there's a nervous energy in how he's standing that he isn't entirely managing to hide, like he's trying not to start pacing about. He holds his own mug between both hands, one on top so that the hot steam rises into his palm.
"What I'm going to teach you is called the Mind Palace technique," she says easily enough, watching him carefully, "and it's traditionally used to help you remember and process information. I thought 'another life? that's a kind of information'. So I used it to help me deal with that information when I want, how I want."
She leans on her elbows.
"Can you think of a place that you know well enough to pull up in your mind's eye?" A pause. "A place you want to be. A good place. Familiar and friendly. Somewhere it's comforting to go."
Well that's a tall order. Charlie casts about his own cabin for inspiration. He's very aware of her eyes on him, and putting a lot of effort into not looking like he's staring down the barrel of a gun.
He's got, uh, places that are familiar but not friendly. Places that are friendly, but too broken-down by time into disconnected details to be really called familiar. Plenty of places that are neither because he was hustling through them without looking or thinking about it. He traipsed to Ulthar thinking he'd feel safe once he was on Earth, and on Earth he traipsed to New York thinking he'd feel safe once he was where he promised to go, and in New York...
This is ridiculous. The diner on 77th, that'll do. He likes it well enough, isn't likely to forget it anytime soon.
He makes himself sit down opposite Saga, or else he knows he's going to start pacing, and gives her a nod that manages to come off as faintly wary. "Alright, easy so far."
"Now you're going to pick a spot in that place. The one you remember vividly. And look for a few items in that space. Maybe a certain chair or a desk. A poster that you liked. Anything."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"I think that's the rhythm." She's only gone through the one, after all. "And you'll remember the life that you were living during the breach the strongest for the first three or so days. Then the memories will fade."
She considers whether she should say something, whether it'll be as helpful, but it isn't as if she'd learned the technique knowing what she was.
She still doesn't know what she is.
"I employ a mental technique, kind of... a sort of meditation, I guess, that helps me to deal with the alternative memories a little easier. I found it pretty effective after the last one, if you're interested in learning." Then, because she's already well aware he's not much for asking for help. "Or I can suggest a book or two on teaching it to yourself."
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He nods, to give himself time to breathe. "Hey, whatever you got, hit me, I'll give it a try," he says, managing to sound as if you won't get a chance to do much of anything before isn't bouncing around his head like a violent screensaver.
The earbuds in his hand are vibrating softly in time with an ecstatic drum beat; the music is still playing, felt rather than heard. He closes his hand around them to control the tremors.
"I ain't looking forward to it, if I gotta be totally honest." He finds refuge in a wry tone.
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She turns a hand.
"Part of what I did once I got back was pointedly close that book and put it on a shelf. It helped."
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He transfers the earbuds from one hand to the other, slowly, for the sake of the movement. Pays attention to the irregular vibrations. Pays attention to the way the soft round ear-pieces move easily under his finger and thumb.
He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't. That's just like how it was. Lost in the fiction, sometimes jarred out of it when the King pushed too hard with his questions, other times fighting it subconsciously, inventing reasons within the dream that he couldn't or shouldn't talk. A really good book. Jesus fuck. His shelf is already full. There are already piles on the floor around his shelf. He can't do this again.
"All right." That's all she gets while he fights to keep his breathing smooth.
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"Do you have some time now? I can get you started."
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"I'm sorry?"
She spoke. He knows she spoke, he knows he heard her, and yet it bounced right off him while he was preoccupied.
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"Sorry. Sometimes I mumble."
And they both know what she's doing, but she's still doing it. She'll do it as long as he needs her to do it.
"I asked if you have some time now. And if you'd like me to teach you the beginning of the mind palace technique that I use to keep my thoughts straight and help me to process difficult information."
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He doesn't know why him. But he does know that sometimes people, good people, go out of their way. The kind of people who make any of this shit seem worth it. And he exhales, and his shoulders relax, just a little. The breach isn't any less frightening, but she's going out of her way.
"You're a doll," he mutters. It means thank you.
"I got time, yeah, I got time. I got a coffee pot too, if you're stopping-- if, if it'll take a while."
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She's got the nursery rhyme dolls in her cabin, after all; she'd had them on her when she came. She's spent more time than she'd like staring at the Father doll and considering what it might mean.
"As for the technique, yeah, it'll take a bit." She grins. "So maybe you should get a pot going for both of us, huh?"
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He mirrors her grin, answers "You got it." He heads off to the pot, where he stops the music with -- the square? right, with the square button -- and then busies himself with a coffee canister and a scoop. The pot's a modern one, came with the kitchenette, and he likes this future innovation much better than he does the little typing screen. The kitchenette's open to the rest of the living space, so it's easy to carry on the conversation.
"Uh... go ahead and take a load off, sister. Make yourself at home. You smoke?"
He doesn't have a lot of visitors at all, here or before, and hasn't had a female guest in longer, but he can at least attempt to host her thoughtfully.
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"No, thank you," she says cheerfully, "but thank you."
And she'll settle onto the couch and wait for him for the time being, give him some time to do normal things and have his space in his space.
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50% to Saga, 50% thinking out loud about a funny little piece of culture shock that still throws him off sometimes.
"I tell ya, I knew somethin' was screwy with this place when there were no ashtrays put out in the cafeteria."
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"Modern medicine has noticed that it's not that great for you," she admits, "so a lot of people, when they get older, choose to try and quit smoking. I never tried it myself, but my partner did."
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She's hopeful that the guy doesn't need to deal with lung problems on top of the Eldritch Horrors
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"Huh. No kidding."
That's... a strange and unexpected piece of trivia, and goes against probably every doctor's testimonial he's heard. Then again, doctors were into radium water too, and look where that's ended up. Huh!
"Gonna be bad news for some people back at home."
Not him though! His days are already numbered.
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"Probably. But life is about choices. And for some people, cigarettes are worth it."
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...hmmm okay they're making friends but maybe saying he hasn't got much else going on is a bit of an off-colour joke to make to a young lady...
"Anyway, pot's about done -- how d'you like it?"
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"Happened by accident the first time, but you'll be surprised if you try it."
She shakes her head.
"I've got my vices, sure. Some of them have gotten a little less appealing lately," because when you see a trailer full of liquor bottles where you apparently drank your life away, the idea of touching booze is less than pleasant, "but so far, nothing's ruined 'ice cream, tv, and sweatpants' and I hope it stays that way."
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Pinches a tiny bit into his coffee too, with an "alright, let's see."
Ice cream he knows, TV he has gathered is a whole thing in the future, but, uh- "Sweatpants?" he asks, with the faint entertained grin of someone who doesn't know that word but does find it evocative.
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She'll hold out a hand for her coffee with a warm smile.
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He hands over the coffee, but doesn't sit right away; there's a nervous energy in how he's standing that he isn't entirely managing to hide, like he's trying not to start pacing about. He holds his own mug between both hands, one on top so that the hot steam rises into his palm.
"Alright. Closin' a book. What do I gotta do?"
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She leans on her elbows.
"Can you think of a place that you know well enough to pull up in your mind's eye?" A pause. "A place you want to be. A good place. Familiar and friendly. Somewhere it's comforting to go."
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He's got, uh, places that are familiar but not friendly. Places that are friendly, but too broken-down by time into disconnected details to be really called familiar. Plenty of places that are neither because he was hustling through them without looking or thinking about it. He traipsed to Ulthar thinking he'd feel safe once he was on Earth, and on Earth he traipsed to New York thinking he'd feel safe once he was where he promised to go, and in New York...
This is ridiculous. The diner on 77th, that'll do. He likes it well enough, isn't likely to forget it anytime soon.
He makes himself sit down opposite Saga, or else he knows he's going to start pacing, and gives her a nod that manages to come off as faintly wary. "Alright, easy so far."
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"Now you're going to pick a spot in that place. The one you remember vividly. And look for a few items in that space. Maybe a certain chair or a desk. A poster that you liked. Anything."
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