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."
He gives her a blank look for a moment: not because the instruction is unclear, or even because this all sounds a bit kooky, but because it's either that or look at her suspiciously. Bilingual problems of spending too much time in a country where 'picture familiar things' is local slang for 'give me a stick to hit you with'.
Still, he pictures a booth there, and says: "Alright, got somethin'."
"Now you're going to mentally assign this area a purpose: this is where I'm going to hold my thoughts about... whatever. Let's say 'childhood memories' for instance."
She shrugs.
"Now, what you're going to do is assign a memory to an item in that area. We'll start with one. You can pick it because it's connected to that memory or because you can connect it easily: the salt shaker is your memory of a trip to Coney Island to go to the beach. Or it's a memory of that time when you were helping your mother bake and you mixed up the salt and the sugar. Just... giving you examples. That item is the memory. You're storing it there. Which means you have complete control over whether you interact with it or not. You can pick it up... Or you can leave it there.
Charlie sips his coffee while he listens, industriously working his way towards nonchalance. It... huh. It sure does taste like coffee that isn't bitter. Wild, since he expected in the back of his mind for it to taste salty.
"Think I follow. Like tyin' knots in a string in your head, right?"
This does sound kooky, though, doesn't it? Is it just him? Then again, it's not as kooky as a magic boat flying through an endless universe, so he isn't about to pooh-pooh it without trying it.
"That, and a little more." She sips her coffee and gestures with one hand. "The mind works best with symbols. It's designed to tie things together. That's how we came up with words and concepts. It's how ideas are built. What you're doing when you're tying that memory to that object is you're anchoring it to one place.
"It can't fly around and surprise you nearly as easily, because it's tied to something. The same way, say, a red octagon is tied to the concept of 'you have to stop'."
They aren't at simultaneous coffee sipping yet, but they have time to work on it!
"Huh, that does make sense."
Childhood memories works as a practice run. The phone behind the bar can be that time he scared the life out of his mum by running in front of horses, since they had to call the doctor out from the phone in... the butcher's, he thinks. Maybe it'd make more sense to make that one a plate of sausages. Fork can be poking the fire in the evenings, knife can be the ruler, and it occurs to him he'll be boned if he needs to think of a new location for every era of memories.
A quirk of his eyebrow, and a dry joke: "What happens if I tie a memory to something and then throw it real hard outta the window?"
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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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Still, he pictures a booth there, and says: "Alright, got somethin'."
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"Now you're going to mentally assign this area a purpose: this is where I'm going to hold my thoughts about... whatever. Let's say 'childhood memories' for instance."
She shrugs.
"Now, what you're going to do is assign a memory to an item in that area. We'll start with one. You can pick it because it's connected to that memory or because you can connect it easily: the salt shaker is your memory of a trip to Coney Island to go to the beach. Or it's a memory of that time when you were helping your mother bake and you mixed up the salt and the sugar. Just... giving you examples. That item is the memory. You're storing it there. Which means you have complete control over whether you interact with it or not. You can pick it up... Or you can leave it there.
"Starting to get the idea?"
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"Think I follow. Like tyin' knots in a string in your head, right?"
This does sound kooky, though, doesn't it? Is it just him? Then again, it's not as kooky as a magic boat flying through an endless universe, so he isn't about to pooh-pooh it without trying it.
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"That, and a little more." She sips her coffee and gestures with one hand. "The mind works best with symbols. It's designed to tie things together. That's how we came up with words and concepts. It's how ideas are built. What you're doing when you're tying that memory to that object is you're anchoring it to one place.
"It can't fly around and surprise you nearly as easily, because it's tied to something. The same way, say, a red octagon is tied to the concept of 'you have to stop'."
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"Huh, that does make sense."
Childhood memories works as a practice run. The phone behind the bar can be that time he scared the life out of his mum by running in front of horses, since they had to call the doctor out from the phone in... the butcher's, he thinks. Maybe it'd make more sense to make that one a plate of sausages. Fork can be poking the fire in the evenings, knife can be the ruler, and it occurs to him he'll be boned if he needs to think of a new location for every era of memories.
A quirk of his eyebrow, and a dry joke: "What happens if I tie a memory to something and then throw it real hard outta the window?"
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