[ Pietro hadn't called after Dr. Rousseau's initial announcement. Truth be told, it hadn't sunk in that he needed to. The days before that had been trying enough, and when Rousseau explained some of them had had their memories tampered with, in the midst of all the other fresh revelations about their situation (the end of the world), Pietro had felt a little ill on behalf of the people that had been done to — but he hadn't wondered about his own. His memories were fine. He was raised in Yugoslavia, his mother died, he moved to Wayward Pines years ago, and he must have been there when the outbreak occurred. There was a thousand year gap, certainly, but that was all. He doesn't ask.
Just like he doesn't ask why he sets the table for two sometimes, despite living alone for the last third of his life. Why he dreams of playing hide and seek with a girl he knows is Wanda but looks nothing like her. Why he knew how to fight those creatures like he'd done it every day, not in schoolyard brawls but in fights for his life that never ended. Why combat had felt more natural to him than a classroom ever did, why his teachers' kindness feels so unforgivably coddling, or why there's been this sick knot of guilt in his gut since the first broken bone he'd given one of those monsters, not because he felt bad for them but because it felt inescapably familiar. He doesn't ask those questions, because he doesn't want answers; he wants this. Wayward Pines. Normalcy. School, family, safety, stability, being a good person—
But for every answer Rousseau gives, the cracks in that life wear thinner and thinner. Now, he calls Cassian, and there's something brittle in his voice when he asks, ]
[ If Cassian sounds tired it's because he is; Jyn's death, Caroline's coma, Poe's sadness, his own weighted depression - none of it would add up to good sleep if Cassian were the sort to get good sleep in the first place and he definitely is not. The exhaustion is in his voice, in the lines of his eyes, in the fact that he still hasn't cut his hair since waking up here, in the fact that he hasn't shaved in the better part of a week.
Still. He's worried about Pietro, and that comes through. ]
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mumble mumble late june
Just like he doesn't ask why he sets the table for two sometimes, despite living alone for the last third of his life. Why he dreams of playing hide and seek with a girl he knows is Wanda but looks nothing like her. Why he knew how to fight those creatures like he'd done it every day, not in schoolyard brawls but in fights for his life that never ended. Why combat had felt more natural to him than a classroom ever did, why his teachers' kindness feels so unforgivably coddling, or why there's been this sick knot of guilt in his gut since the first broken bone he'd given one of those monsters, not because he felt bad for them but because it felt inescapably familiar. He doesn't ask those questions, because he doesn't want answers; he wants this. Wayward Pines. Normalcy. School, family, safety, stability, being a good person—
But for every answer Rousseau gives, the cracks in that life wear thinner and thinner. Now, he calls Cassian, and there's something brittle in his voice when he asks, ]
Could I come over?
no subject
[ If Cassian sounds tired it's because he is; Jyn's death, Caroline's coma, Poe's sadness, his own weighted depression - none of it would add up to good sleep if Cassian were the sort to get good sleep in the first place and he definitely is not. The exhaustion is in his voice, in the lines of his eyes, in the fact that he still hasn't cut his hair since waking up here, in the fact that he hasn't shaved in the better part of a week.
Still. He's worried about Pietro, and that comes through. ]
That won't change. I'm at home. Just come over.