[Ah. Hm. A considerably more subdued (and less sulky) Nav than the one who'd been swinging a bigass sword around in the onsen last night. More gawky, too. More normal.

He shoves a bag of cheapass garbage chips into his carry bag, next to the everpresent stuffed cat.]

Not familiar with the term?

Essentially. 'Tis hell on the back. Worse on the other bastard's neck.

[Terrible when you're a man with GRIZZLED OLD BONES. But anyway, with that statement he just sort of falls silent, watching her face. She's not making eye contact, but he seems to have no problem with it.

And he just waits.]

I gave you the pretense of claiming to fight me instead of what we both know you were really doing. You don't get the pretense of claiming you didn't seek me out for a reason, alongside it.

[t e e n a g e r s]

If you've something to say, Nav, then say it.

Would you have been all right with me dying in some other mood?

[But ah — ah. Look at her, not just bashful and withdrawn but full of contrition while she's at it.]

...I'm not angry at you. I wasn't then, either.

You do recall that I provoked you, don't you?

[He picks up one of the packaged sandwiches and hands it to her. Roast bird with cheese. A pickle spear.]

If I'd thought you meant it, we'd both be in considerably worse condition right now.

[And following a quick check to make sure that there's no one around, he nudges her back and digs into his bag to produce one of his Weedy's knives (this one conspicuously undamaged) before throwing it artfully a solid five or six yalms to thud quivering into one of the display racks.]

[He trots over to dislodge the knife, wrenching it back out of the side of the display before heading back over to her. Even as he moves, he's sighting down along the edge of the blade, running his thumb against the side looking for bends and imperfections caused by his little trick.]

I was also fighting a trained swordswoman brandishing a real weapon with a pair of tavern utensils, in a crowd, and trying my damnedest not to hurt you in the process. In a different situation, I would've put one of these in your throat after your first lunge.

[It is, in fact, his favorite opener. Provoke, flip, throw. In the angry mood she'd been in, would she have even seen it coming? Could she have deflected it? Could she have deflected the second knife that would've followed the first a second later?

He doesn't want to think about it. Not about her.]

It would've been easier.

And both our fates would've been left to a mere roll of destiny's dice. I can't say I'm much eager to learn how they'd land.

[He finds a patch of counter to lean on, cocking his head at her.]

What had you so upset? I've seen you in a mood before. That was something else.

[UH]

What are you talking about? Based off of...?

Experiences of yours. Someone took them and made others live through them?

[Because on one hand, that's grounds to be empathetic as hell. On the other hand, that's grounds to be more than a little bit terrified.]

...

[He has to just sit with that a moment. Really process it.]

That doesn't make you responsible. You know that.

[And the thing that's strange is that he almost can't even argue against her feelings on it. Because he would say the exact same thing, if it were him. His death is supposed to be what preserves others, his actions what deliver them. He's supposed to die so that others don't — not be the template model for their suffering.

But he does know the argument against them regardless. And how it aches, to know exactly how it would be delivered, if that person were given the opportunity.]

And you're supposed to suffer things so that others are spared them, not forced to mimic them. That doesn't mean you failed, when it comes to this. It doesn't make it your burden to bear, for all that you might want to.

And you'd feel better if they did. Because then at least they'd have the right idea of you. Because you don't deserve their sympathy or their kindness after what you did.

[He closes his eyes a minute; it's his turn to fold his arms loosely across his chest.]

And it doesn't matter, because what you deserve plays no part in their feelings. Their kindness makes them good. And reminds you that you aren't.

I've a rather troublesome friend who isn't here to take you to task for all this. More fortunate you; my crack at it is merely a pale imitation by comparison.

[He shrugs.]

She would like you. She would also tell you that you're being an idiot.

Reasonable? I'd hardly go that far.

[He actually laughs, at that. Just a little, under his breath.]

Some days I'm half surprised she hasn't turned up here yet.