"Maybe next time? Hospital'll be worried about us."

"...were we not supposed to leave?"

No, apparently they were not. Or – they weren't supposed to stay out, at least. Shit.

"Love." She gives him a squeeze. "We don't answer to them."

"...yeah, you're right."

He wonders if he would have been this concerned about it before.

"...still. We kind of have...an outstanding balance on freaking them out already."

"That, yeah, that's not the same." They don't owe the hospital, or any other random person or group, any deference; they do owe Dr. Mabbett something, and to a lesser degree Dr. Deyne, because they've chosen to take on that responsibility. But that latter thing isn't something to take lightly; it's certainly not something to do by default.

Yeah. That helps.

"Nah. It's not."

With great reluctance, he starts to pull himself back out of bed.

She goes too, helping him up with a hand on his back.

Their clothing for the day is two matching pairs of sturdy black pants with lots of pockets, a plain black shirt in soft, shimmery waterproof fabric, and, somehow, a band shirt from one of the concerts last night. Pradnakt claims this last piece, removes the arms with a few quick rips, and passes it over to him.

It's such a tiny gesture, but it makes him glow, nearly literally.

(She loves him! She wants to be happy! He knows she can just remember his feelings on shirtsleeves but it still feels important!)

He uses her hands a little, for getting dressed, just because it's easier.

He's really cute. And it's nice to help.

She gets dressed too, spends a moment considering whether their old clothes are worth bringing along (yes; it's hard to get clothes their size here) before bundling them up and tucking them under her arm. "Back to the hospital, then?"

He nods.

"Hope they have something good to tell us."

"Would be nice."

Back at the hospital, nurse Wogan is visibly relieved to see them, and they can hear her reporting to Dr. Deyne as they pass the nurse's station to return to their room. They have just enough time to stash their things before she comes in with the scanner - "No trouble overnight, I hope?"

"Not even a little."

He slept all the way through, too. It was a little miraculous.

She nods, scans them both, and nods again at the scan. "Dr. Deyne will be by to talk to you this afternoon about your pump."

He nods back.

“Thanks.”

And off she goes.

Deskyl snuggles up. I think I want to do some embroidery today.

Oh. He remembers that she did embroidery. He's...not sure whether it's his memory or hers.

what kind?

He wonders briefly whether they have the right supplies here before he remembers they can ask Daisy to get things.

Fancy up some of our clothes. Like the stuff I had before.

that was pretty nice.

And it'll be more...hers, then. Theirs. Whatever it is now.

He imagines things idly. Swirling pink-orange-yellow-purple clouds, jagged branching teal lines, clouds of silver stitches so small they just look like points.

Pretty. Maybe she'll do the cloud one first.

"Daisy, do we have an embroidery kit yet?"

    "Yes." She gets it out and hands it over, and goes to where their clothes are stored, anticipating Pradnakt's next request, a pair of pants. (She's thinking of how they'll look on him, more than herself, though there's no reason for them to have separate wardrobes really, and she likes the idea of not.)

...it does make sense, for them to wear the same clothes. And it’s nice to think about. Although there might be a little less overlap on the shirts.

Well, she's not attached to wearing sleeves, but yes.

Anyway, clouds. Maybe... here, and here, and here, and here, for some nicely balanced asymmetry, and then the colors can go like this...

–can she put gold thread in here–and maybe there? He sees that in sunsets.

Yeah, that'll look really nice.

Embroidering itself takes a surprising amount of her concentration: the large movements of fighting are much easier for her than this tiny precise work, and telekinesis is trickier on this scale, too. She enjoys it, but it's the enjoyment of a challenge overcome, not that of a relaxing pastime.

He thinks it would have been easier for his hands.

It’s not a reason for her not to do it — feeling her this engaged is good — but it’s a reminder.

One more day. Maybe two. Then he gets something back.

He winds a fallen piece of thread through his fingers as the clouds take shape.