She doesn't want to tell him. He's going to send her back. She doesn't want to go back. (She can't go back.)

"I- they-" She names a fairly local church. They aren't known for progressive thinking, and are very vocal about their feelings about high-factor destructive abilities.

“...the guys who think the Berlin Baby was the antichrist?”

It’s not like he keeps up with local churches, but they’re...sort of hard to miss.

Berlin Baby: the first known high-factor individual, born in Germany in 1979 and posthumously classified as Pyrokinetic-5.

She bites at her lip and nods hesitantly. (As if she hadn't given him enough reasons to throw her out already.)

“...shit. That’s a really rough way to grow up.”

It would be bad for any high-factor kid, but for a pyro?

“So...the baby...”

He looks down at her stomach.

She flinches and curls over to protect and hide her stomach from his gaze. "I- Don't. She's good. And- they wouldn't have-" (Let her keep her child, one way or the other, and her baby didn't deserve that, any of that.)

“...it was them that did it in the first place, too, right?”

Sometimes he wishes his abilities weren’t so...defensive. Sometimes he just wants to walk into a building and burn shit down.

“...I’m sure she’s good, though. Yeah.”

She looks at least a little confused. "...who else-?" she stops herself - it wasn't like she could identify the father.

"Yes," she agrees quietly - it perhaps wasn't obvious to him given where he found her. She does relax the tiniest fraction when he agrees her baby is good.

“I mean—usually it’s a boyfriend, or something.”

She just...didn’t seem like the type to even have one.

“So you ran away. Are they looking for you?”

For a moment, she looks completely confused - apparently she has no idea what a boyfriend is.

"I- don't know," she admits reluctantly. "M'sorry sir. But- I. They. might be. I. owe them."

Oh, this is bad. This is really bad. He hopes he’s misreading this horribly, but...

“...owe them?”

She nods, and seems surer of that than she has of anything else. "I- they. Didn't have to look after me," she says earnestly. "But they did. even after I kept screwing up on control. And it wasn't much. What they were asking."

His face goes in his hands for a moment. When he comes up he's a little more sure he'll keep it together. Doesn't want to scare her. 

"...nobody has to look after anybody. Doesn't mean they get to ask you to..."

He trails off.

She's silent for a moment. "But how else do I pay them back?" she asks helplessly.

"You wouldn't ask your kid to pay you back."

"I- but. It's different?" It has to be. They didn't have any duty to her. She did to her child. She's shaking again, and her hands wind into her hair again, tugging in a way that looks painful.

Oh, he doesn't know how to do this, he really doesn't.

(Where do you even start?)

He just shakes his head.

"You decide to take care of a kid, you agree they don't owe you. That's how it works."

...it should be, at least.

That- can't be right. It isn't right.

"As you say," she murmurs instead of trying to argue. (She doesn't have the words or the energy.)

Somehow, her agreeing with him doesn't make him feel any better.

"So, uh. If they're looking for you I guess you staying here is definitely the best option, as long as I don't get kicked out."

"I- yes sir?" she agrees quietly. Then, after a pause. "But. You. If it's- I can help? With- paying?"

He shakes his head.

"Probably too early for you to go out and get a part-time job or anything. I can handle it."

He is pointedly excluding the other possibility.

...but she doesn't have any other skills. She nods anyway. She can...probably find something to do around here, even if he doesn't want that.

She watches him out the corner of her eyes, twisting her shirt in her hands, wanting to put it back on, but not wanting to shift from her carefully curled position while he's looking at her.

Why is she–

Oh. Oops. He shuts his eyes and looks away.

"You can, uh, put your shirt on."

She quickly pulls her shirt back on, and then quietly clears her throat. "Thank you."