"I guess! --You should admire my self-restraint in not going 'so, you're okay with things suspiciously close to incest, wanna fuck?'"

"Does that usually work for you? --I guess it would, you kind of have the"-- she gestures-- "face."

"I have been trying real hard not to think about how hot you are because this was supposed to be an Alternate Universe Dads conversation and I feel like there's a line there! ...but kinda yeah."

"Cool, let me talk to Tanya-- where's Tanya?"

"Thaaaaaaaaat is a good question."

He looks around. There is no sign of Tanya.

"Maybe she went back to the room we rented? I'll look."

"I... will check behind random doors, I guess."

"I will check behind random wheelchair-accessible doors!"

"Cool, good plan."

His quest for the least wheelchair-accessible random door in the vicinity leads him out into what appears to be some sort of backyard.

He goes to the room they rented, opens the door, and says, "Tanya?"

There is a quiet and very familiar sniffling noise.

Tanya, it transpires, is sitting wedged into the gap between the bed and the corner of the room, with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head buried in the space created thereby, crying. If he steps into the room, the top of her head is just barely visible past the stack of books sitting on the bed next to her, all of which seem to be about dimensional travel.

"Hey," he says, "you okay?"

Sniffle.

"I mean," she says in a wobbly voice, "...probably yes? Crying about how I'm a terrible person is a pretty standard pastime for me."

It sounds like she needs a hug. 

"I'm sorry, I should have thought more about having a conversation you could participate in."

"It's fine, it's—it's not even really that—I mean there's a causal link between not being a part of the conversation and crying alone in your room about how I'm a terrible person but, like, primarily because I just do that a lot when I'm by myself? And I feel like trying to include me in every single thing you ever do from this point forward would not be a super reasonable solution to that."

"I know this won't fix everything but I don't think you're a terrible person."

Sniffle. "Thanks. I love you."

A pause.

"Your—your version of Obie—did he ever—I guess probably not—but it still would've come up when—did he steal your arc reactor, when he built himself a robot suit?"

"He didn't."

"That makes sense, I guess."

She is not really sure how to proceed from here. She sort of wants to talk about it but she—literally doesn't have the words, there was never a name for the thing, at least not one Obie ever told her—

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah but I can't figure out how."

"Is it something about Toni being in a wheelchair?"

"—sort of—how did you—I can't figure out how you could've seen that connection if you don't know what the thing is—"

"I love you and so I'm paying attention to your facial expressions?"

"Oh."

A slightly less miserable sniffle.

"I love you too."