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"It's not your fault. That's ridiculous."

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"I know. Sometimes I'm ridiculous."

He's started to shiver a little, in her arms, but he hasn't pulled away from hugs.
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She squeezes him. One hand goes up to pet his hair.

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His hair is pet. It seems to help, at least a little. Eventually, he buries his face in her shoulder and starts quietly sobbing.

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Such cuddles.

She considers kissing his forehead but eventually decides she doesn't know enough about how he'd take it. She does press her cheek to his head and go on petting him.
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Sobs continue, for a while. Vern curls up nearby while he cries.

After a while, he finally starts to stop.

"I'm a mess," he mumbles, when he's not likely to be interrupted by his own sobbing.
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"You were badly hurt," she murmurs.

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"Still a mess. I don't like being a mess."

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She pets his hair. "I'm sorry."

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"Not your fault," he mumbles, snuggling.

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Squeeze. "I'm still sorry it happened."

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Nod. "It's okay. I don't - I don't like that it happened, but - I don't know how to explain what I want to say," he sighs.

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Still not telepathic, Isabella just goes on snuggling him.

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He'll try to explain it, then.

"I think... That to have been in the situation where I wouldn't have been hurt, I would have had to either never come here, or have always kept my guard up and never dropped it once. Either of those is... Worse than this."
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"Just because it might have been unlikely for you to go forever without something like it happening doesn't mean that this in particular had to happen."

Pet, pet.
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"I wasn't supporting it happening, and I'm not glad it happened. But I don't regret any of my actions leading up to it so I guess it's... Better."

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"I'm not sure I get it."

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"I don't like the kind of person I would have had to be in order to avoid the situation entirely. I would have had to - never come to this plane, never have met you, never have learned of a fantastic way to fix things, or I would have had to be so paranoid that I never let anyone in, ever, and..."

He trails off. "I like having you here."
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"I'm glad we met," she murmurs.

She's more running her fingers through his hair than petting him now.

"I like you."
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"Well, good," he says, wryly. "Because otherwise it would be awkward, I did just spend a while crying on you."

He sounded very much like himself, there.
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"You can cry on me anytime you need to."

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"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

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"You're welcome."

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Cuddles. Cuddles help.

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Good. Cuddling, fingercombing of hair.

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