Log Date:
	12/13/98, 12/14/98

Log Cast:
	Neva, Tance

Log Intro:
	It's Passover, and the young Singer Neva has taken it upon herself to
rescue off of Shankill Station a Singer to whom she's taken a liking and
feels more than a bit of pity and sympathy for: Tance Vokrim, who, like
Neva at the moment, seems to suffer from memory problems. It's been an
entirely impulsive fetching on Neva's part, for she found Tance sleeping
in the grip of Passover hibernation on Shankill Moonbase, and could barely
manage to get the man roused enough to move him.
	Now, she has settled her charge in her suite on board the luxury
liner _Alexi Styvesant_, and Tance has promptly fallen asleep again. But
the question is... what to do with him when he wakes up...?

----------
Neva's Suite
Luxury, this rooms reeks of it, or at least as much as you can cram into a 
  room on a spaceship. The walls are covered with wood panels, each set with a 
  differing pattern of hardwood inserts. When taken all together, this creates 
  a panorama that is breathtaking. However with that we have just started. A 
  deep shag carpet covers the floor, and hanging high above this there is a 
  brass and crystal chandelier. Of course the furnishings are also of very 
  high quality. Deep leather couches and armchairs are placed at random about 
  this spacious room. 
 The walls are a similar story. One wall is covered with a sprawling bookcase, 
  filled with -real- leather bound books. Another wall is dominated by a large 
  screen holovid, that is when the wood covering it has been retracted. 
  Another wall empty except for a small curtained porthole. Beyond this the 
  deep black of space can be seen. Finally, the most enigmatic feature of the 
  room is revealed. Set into the last wall there is the facade of a brick 
  fireplace. Within this there burns a gas fire, constantly flickering it's 
  flames, and casting most interesting shadows on the room's contents - 
  especially with the chandelier high above.
Obvious exits:
Bathroom  Bedroom  Out  

The door to the bedroom swings open slowly; in the door, a somewhat 
  dishevelled-looking Neva yawns expansively. "Tance? You 'wake?" Sleepy 
  fingers fumble to do the last button of her blouse, then rake through her 
  hair.

You feel resonance tingling in your bones.

Neva's impulsively fetched guest hasn't left the couch on which she'd 
  ensconced him, though he has shifted position, signalling that his sleep 
  hasn't been quite so leaden that he'd lie like one dead. Tance has rolled 
  over onto his side, still curled up in the quilt that's been placed over his 
  frame. Half his face is buried in the small suede cushion he must have 
  commandeered as a pillow in the midst of his slumber, but there's one closed 
  eye visible, a dark brow over it. Most of his recently trimmed gray-brown 
  hair is in view too, even more rumpled than what seems to be usual for him.

"Guess not," Neva murmurs, chuckling softly. Bare feet shuffle across the 
  plush carpeting towards the shelves. She scans them for a moment, then pulls 
  out a book, wandering across and depositing herself in the chair nearest 
  Tance's couch.

Minutes pass.... five. Ten. Tance keeps lying still, what's visible of his 
  face entirely at peace, at rest. Soon, though, he begins to stir ever so 
  slightly. the faintest of frowns marring his countenance.

As she waits, Neva curls up in the chair, leaning against on arm and draping 
  legs across the other. Book is opened, and she begins reading, glancing over 
  towards the stirring figure every now and then.

Passover sleep is deep... but either Tance is beginning to shake off the grip 
  of the hibernation, or else something is managing to disturb it despite its 
  usual grip on a Singer's mind. The man shifts onto his back, bringing his 
  face full into view as his features tighten up in apparent anxiety. His 
  breathing begins to change its rhythm, shifting from its previous slow 
  sonorous pace towards something more shallow and rapid.

Glancing over and noting the change in condition, Neva frowns slightly. 
  "Tance?" she calls, softly. "Tance, are you okay?"

The older Singer doesn't seem to hear the call of his name, doubtless because 
  sleep still has hold of him -- along with whatever else is stirring in his 
  consciousness. Tance's head jerks once from side to side, and somewhere 
  under the quilt near the couch's back there is a movement that suggests an 
  arm trying to rise.

If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing 
  through your body at all times.

"Tance?" A little louder this time, voice soaked with worry. Neva turns, legs 
  sliding off and feet settling back on the floor. "Tance, wake up."

A tiny groan is the only answer to that, as Tance's arm sluggishly emerges 
  from the quilt, fumbling towards his face, as if he's trying to shield it. 
  Then he rolls to his side again, the hand that's come up into view groping 
  blindly for the cushion.

Sighing, Neva does not settle for merely letting the nightmare run its course; 
  she stands, moving over, and crouching down beside the couch. Shaking his 
  shoulder slightly, she calls again. "Tance?"

Another little groan; this one, though, could be a noise of protest at the 
  shaking, of query at his name... or reaction to whatever he's dreaming. 
  Tance's hand fumbles at the one that touches his shoulder, perhaps to bat it 
  away... or perhaps to reach for its support. Hard to tell, for the man's 
  motions are still quite sluggish.

Whatever it is, Neva seizes the hand, squeezes hard--and nudges him again. 
  "Tance, wake /up/. Snap out of it, already. It's a /dream/. A dream!"

And with that, Tance's frame gives a jerk, and his brown eyes come open,
  unseeing, dazed. The older Singer produces an odd, choked little noise of
  startlement, his gaze flicking wildly in several directions.

"It's a /dream/," Neva repeats, squeezing his hand again tightly. "Just a 
  dream. Wake up. That's it, Tance." She smiles a little bit, encouragingly. 
  "Good morning."

The dazed dark gaze locks on the young woman by the couch, and from the look 
  of him, one might wonder whether someone had just smacked Tance Vokrim 
  upside the head with a pipe. It takes him several seconds to croak, 
  "Wh-where'm I?"

"On the Alexi Styvesant. I brought you here, remember? For Passover. We came 
  on a shuttle. Remember? The couches are nicer here, nicer than on 
  Shankill..." Neva burbles on with her little reminders, slowly unlocking her 
  hand from his and moving it down to her lap. "You were having a nightmare."

Visibly disoriented, Tance stares at Neva's hand as she lets go of his, and 
  then blinks several times, pushing himself up on one elbow and peering 
  uncertainly about the room. "Passover," he repeats, his voice still 
  rusty-sounding. "You... brought me here...?"

You can detect some crystal resonance in your bones.

"To the Alexi Styvesant," Neva agrees with a nod, trying to enforce the facts 
  with repetition. "Are you doing okay? Do you need anything? A bath?" 
  Suggesting something? Nah.

Slowly, stiffly, Tance forwards himself to sit up, blinking owlishly to try to 
  clear the cobwebs out of his vision. "I know you," he mumbles.

A soft chuckle. "Yes, you know me. I'm Neva, remember?"

Tance's gaze takes in the books... the fireplace... and all the rest of the 
  luxurious details of the room before coming round again to the younger 
  Singer. "Neva," he bemusedly echoes. "Remember you... sorta. Not your 
  name... forget names all the time..." And he rubs a hand across his face 
  again, still half-asleep. Evidently, at least during the Passover, Tance is 
  slow to awaken from slumber.

"That you remember me is much more important," she volunteers. Then, Neva 
  scoots up onto the couch. "Are you feeling okay?"

The crystal resonance is zinging through your body.

Unthinkingly, Tance runs a hand through his hair, which doesn't do much to set 
  it back into order, but it does make him mumble, "You... cut my hair." He 
  turns slightly towards the young woman as she sits down beside him, his hand 
  dropping slowly down from his head, his gaze confused... but growing more 
  alert. "I'm... kinda foggy on the details, girlie... why'm I here...?"

Neva nods, and smiles. "Yes, I cut your hair. It's Passover--I left early, but 
  it got awful quiet here, and I was... well, I was worried that you weren't 
  going to go anywhere. So... I went back." A slight blush rises on her cheek 
  as she admits that. "Anyway, there you were. So I brought you here."

This, apparently, deeply baffles Neva's guest. "What for?" he says gruffly, 
  and with another uneasy glance about the room and a haphazard wave of his 
  hand, he appends, "Got no credits... can't pay for this...!"

"The shuttle fare was free, remember? And you don't need to pay for it. It's a 
  gift," replies Neva with a chuckle. "Just relax. Try and enjoy it a little?"

"A gift," echoes Tance, with another of those confused stares, and in a tone 
  that probably translates to 'you... want to give a gift... to _me_?' This is 
  confirmed when he goes on blankly, "What the kark you wanna go givin' me 
  gifts for?"

A small shrug. "I think you deserve a bit of time to relax. And if /somebody/ 
  didn't help you, you would have spent all of Passover on that couch. I 
  couldn't let you," says Neva.

"So you're doin' this to be... nice?" asks the older Singer then, his 
  expression beginning to shift, growing slightly disconcerted, and then 
  embarrassed. His gaze averts, dropping down towards the quilt.

You can detect some crystal resonance in your bones.

"Yes," Neva replies succinctly. She pulls herself up, returning the 
  almost-forgotten book to its shelf with reverent hands. "Why shouldn't I?"

To that, Tance doesn't offer a reply. He just sits there on the couch, turning 
  progressively redder, his expression downcast. _Because I'll forget,_ part 
  of him argues. _Because people who're... nice... to me..._ He can't finish 
  that thought, though, at least not in words, but he is stricken with a sense 
  of cause-and-effect, the certainty that generosity directed towards him 
  inevitably results in loss.

A glance back over her shoulder--and then Neva sighs. "What's /wrong/?" she 
  asks as she steps back over. "You should be enjoying this. All sorts of nice 
  stuff here. There's... a garden, and a pool, and stuff like that."

The older Singer's gaze rests on the quilt still lying half-crumpled upon him; 
  then, uncomfortably, reluctantly, he rises to his feet, pulling free of the 
  quilt and setting it gingerly back down on the couch, almost as if he's 
  afraid he'll somehow damage it with his contact. Unable to meet the eye of 
  his self-appointed hostess, he mumbles hoarsely, "Made... a mistake, girlie. 
  I'm not... fun."

"You're making yourself sick," replies Neva with some authority. Not that she 
  actually is sure of anything; but she's quite sure that if she doesn't /act/ 
  like it, he won't listen. "Just because you miss someone doesn't mean you 
  have to grieve over them until it kills you."

Crystal resonance is humming pleasantly in your body.

Now that he's standing, the state of Tance's clothes can be noted; the white 
  shirt, blue trousers, and ancient scuffed boots all look horribly rumpled, 
  as if he'd been sleeping in his garments for two weeks straight. Something 
  in Neva's statement seems to prick him, though, for he immediately rasps, 
  "Ain't got nothin' to do with it!" He abruptly half-turns as he speaks, but 
  not entirely, not enough to face the younger Singer.

"It does too. Whether you remember or not, I /was/ listening when you talked to 
  me. Not only are you grieving, but you're personally torturing yourself over 
  it." Neva scowls faintly at him. "It's /silly/, Tance. Nobody's worth that. 
  If she cared about you at all, do you think she'd want to see you looking 
  like... well, that?" She gestures towards him, rumpled clothes and all. 
  "Forcing yourself to be miserable, refusing any chance at a moment's rest? 
  You can't even /sleep/ without it getting to you. Nightmares like that--and 
  that wasn't the first, was it?"

_That_ makes Tance complete the whirl he'd begun, his expression suddenly and 
  dramatically altering again. His lined features flare up with an acute 
  anguish, brown eyes turning hot, ashamed. "Kark it, girlie," he barks out 
  loudly, his right hand sweeping forcefully up to point its forefinger at 
  Neva, "I _dropped_ her, don'tcha get it? It's _my fault_!"
And as immediately as he'd flared up, Tance stumbles back a step or two, 
  confusion racing across his eyes as though he has no idea where that 
  outburst came from.

"I certainly don't believe that you did it on purpose. Accidents happen--and 
  as terrible as some can be, you have to move on," says Neva, as gently as 
  she can manage, and seemingly not noticing that he just shouted at her. 
  "Life goes on." She pauses, and sinks down onto the couch. "If you can, 
  remember that."

Tance turns away again, his head hanging, his back going stiff under that 
  wrinkled, disheveled shirt. "Sh... she _was_... my life," he croaks, volume 
  draining out of his voice, dropping it down to a bereft whisper.

"What do you think she'd say, if she were standing right here, and saw you 
  acting like this, hmm?" asks Neva--hoping against hope that this woman 
  wasn't the morose type.

Jade... _here_? The very thought rattles Tance badly. A surge of memory sweeps 
  over him, its strength in defiance of his recall's usual weakness, bringing 
  a powerful sensation of a pair of green arms around him, blue eyes on a 
  level with his own. His head bows further, and his stiff shoulders flinch as 
  if taking the force of an unseen blow.

If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing 
  through your body at all times.

A long pause--Neva doesn't frown, exactly, but her face falls, saddened as she 
  watches him. "Tance... I'm sorry. But you can't just fall over and die." 
  What's she apologizing for? Whatever it is, it might have something to do 
  with the fact that she's now grabbed his elbow and is pulling him towards 
  the bathroom.

Neva steps into the bathroom.
Neva has left.

You step into the bathroom.
Bathroom
Marble, marble on a ship. Someone not only had the courage, but the gall to 
  import fine marble and use it in the setup of the room stretching before 
  you. A room devoted to the primping and preening of all races, this bathroom 
  is not specific in it's sanitary arrangements, instead having a unit that 
  can be used by any race. However the decorations of the room are strictly 
  Terran in origin. A huge tub is set on a raised platform, and any quick 
  perusal of the controls would revel that it has not only spa functions, but 
  can serve as a radiant bath as well. A counter made from rose marble holds a 
  sink, and above this there is a vision in silver. Namely a silver rimmed 
  mirror reflects the room's contents. 
 Also spread at random around the room are a few plants. Mostly these are 
  ferns, but a few other varieties are present as well.
Contents:
Neva
Obvious exits:
Out  

Tance starts, blinking suspiciously wet eyes as the younger Singer abruptly 
  seizes him. "Lemmego," he mutters, and then he growls it, grabbing at the 
  doorframe when he's hauled into the bathroom, in an attempt to halt his 
  involuntary progress.

"No," replies Neva quickly, hauling him further in--just far enough to set the 
  tub to fill with cold water. Once it's reached a sufficient depth, ignoring 
  any silly things like the fact that he happens to still be dressed, she 
  pushes him into it.

Tance might be a thin fellow, but he's stronger than he looks... but then, 
  Neva, being a Singer, is as well. Though it takes some effort to get him 
  dragged all the way, dragged he is. And then, *SPLASH!* Tance goes sprawling 
  into the tub, and water goes splashing all over the room, including onto the 
  younger Singer. Her guest lands face down in the water and comes up 
  spluttering, surging to his feet, his look almost... thunderous. "What the 
  _kark_ was that for?!" he bellows.

"To wake you up," retorts Neva. As soon as he's said that, she pushes him down 
  all the way underwater again, then tugs him out by his shirt collar. "You." 
  Dunk. "Have." Dunk. "To." Dunk. "Snap." Dunk. "Out of it!"

Tance goes under for the first few dunks; it's all he can do to suck in 
  sufficient breath before he goes underwater each time. But on the last dunk, 
  letting out an incoherent sound of fury, he grabs for his 
  hostess-turned-tormentor... and hauls her into the water with him.

A yelp--or is that a shriek? Either way, Neva is tugged in, and under, in her 
  nice blouse and slacks. She comes up again, gasping for air--and making 
  noises that sound suspiciously like laughter. At which point she dunks him 
  again. Who needs a swimming pool with a tub like this?

"What kinda idi--" Tance begins, only to be cut off by a mouthful of water as 
  he goes under. He struggles to get to his feet, and once his head crests the 
  water again, he hollers, "Nine hells o' Nirabay, woman, lemme go...!"

You can detect some crystal resonance in your bones.

He's getting slightly more creative with his cursing--is this a good sign? 
  Just to be on the safe side, Neva pushes his shoulders downwards again, then 
  splashes back a little bit. "Not until you come to your senses!"

To hells with this; he can get away from a little slip of a girl, can't he? 
  Glowering blackly, Tance changes strategies, squirming out of Neva's grasp 
  and reaching for the side of the tub. Or trying to, at any rate.

Hmph. Obviously, things are not going according to plan. Neva quickly launches 
  after him, attempting to get arms around waist or neck or /anything/ to keep 
  him from escaping. "Come back here!"

Tance goes scrambling over the side of the tub, growling irritably at Neva, 
  "Gettin' outta here, don't gotta take--" And he tries to squirm away as she 
  lunges at him again, violently jerking his arm with its now sopping sleeve 
  out of her reach. The vehemence of his movement sends him reeling down, 
  right down the side of the platform on which the tub rests, and he goes 
  smacking head and shoulders into the marble floor.

A wince--Neva didn't need to be him to know that it must have hurt. She crawls 
  out of the tub, too, dripping everywhere and hair falling in damp strings 
  around her face. "Tance--Tance, are you okay?"

Lying now on his back, the lower half of his body up higher than the upper, 
  with his feet still caught up near the tub, Tance clamps his eyes shut. He 
  lifts a hand up towards his face, his movement feeble. "Aaahh..."

"Oh, I'm sorry..." Frowning, Neva reaches up, helping his feet down and then 
  pulling a towl from the nearby stand. "Are you okay? Where'd you bang it?"

"Wha' y'care for?" mumbles Tance, trying to roll over and groaning at his own 
  movement. "Tryin' to drown me..."

"I'm not trying to drown you. You were going to drown yourself in misery at 
  that rate... Here. Sit up." Neva pulls him up, wrapping the towl about his 
  shoulders. "Cold water's the best thing for it. You weren't supposed to 
  climb out and whack your head on the floor."

"Don' touch..." Tance begins, only to trail off into a hiss as he's helped up. 
  His hair is now solidly plastered down all over the top of his head, and 
  rivulets stream down his face and neck to the towel and his equally soaked 
  shirt. His head lolls forward, and as it does he mumbles, "Wha' th' kark was 
  I _s'posed_ t' do...."

"Wake up and smell the roses? Can't you see how self-destructive you're 
  being?" asks Neva incredulously as she begins vigorously rubbing the towl 
  over his back and arms. Then, she peers at him... and smiles a little. 
  "You're even more of a mess than you were before. You should--damn. Clothes. 
  You're going to need dry things."

You can detect some crystal resonance in your bones.

"M-my... clothes," blurts Tance weakly, his head involuntarily lifting a 
  little as he tries to swing a startled gaze around to the younger Singer. 
  "Brought me here... without clothes?"

"I was almost as tired as you were." In fact, Neva makes a poor attempt at 
  smothering a yawn now. "Look. Um." She pauses. "Dry off. I'll go change, and 
  go out and find something, okay? What size are you?"

Tance just gapes -- or he would be gaping, perhaps, if he still didn't look 
  as if he'd just smacked his head against a marble floor -- for a few 
  moments, apparently floored that this young woman shanghaied him without any 
  of his personal possessions. Then, making a low frustrated noise, he barks, 
  "How the kark'm I s'posed to remember _that_?" He jerks away from her, 
  grimacing as his head protests the movement, and starts wrestling out of his 
  shirt.

"Well, I can't just /guess/," replies Neva with a sigh. "C'mon, give me an 
  /estimate/, at least? Unless you want to wander around here in wet things, 
  I'll have to get you something..."

As Tance's wet shirt is tugged up off his torso and over his head, a lean and 
  wiry back crisscrossed with several tiny scars and more than one large one 
  comes into view. It's a somewhat awkward operation, though, the removal of 
  that shirt; even as he's trying to get it off, Tance also attempts to wrap 
  the towel around himself. Once the shirt comes off he inspects it, and then 
  thrusts it at Neva without looking at her. "Tag," is his only offered reply, 
  and this in a rough, embarrassed mumble.

How modest. Modesty is something Neva lacks, however, and she hardly notices. 
  After studying the tag for a moment, she nods. "And... er, I can guess that 
  pant size." That, at least, prompts a polite blush. "I'll be back in a few, 
  okay?" She hands the shirt back to him.

Tance makes what might be a noise of assent, though it might be hard to tell, 
  given that he's still refusing to look at the girl. Instead, he's got the 
  bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers, his head still lowered.

Worried, Neva remains for a moment. "Are you okay?" she asks, looking a little 
  closer at him. "Should I try to find a medic?"

"M'okay," Tance promptly growls.

You feel the resonance tingling in your blood.

"Okay, then." Neva picks herself up, and heads out of the bathroom.

You step out into the main room of the suite.

[And some time later, back out in the suite's main room...]

Neva steps back into the room from the bathroom.
Neva has arrived.
Now in much dryer clothes but her hair still damp except around the tips, Neva 
  enters the suite again, carrying a shopping bag. No, make that two shopping 
  bags.

Her guest hasn't gone anywhere -- or, at least, he hasn't gone farther than a 
  chair near the fire. Tance has slumped in that chair, wrapped anew in the 
  quilt, and he appears to have dozed off. He's taken a towel to his hair at 
  least somewhat, for his hair looks dryer and stands up in random tufts along 
  his head.

Sinking into the chair next to his, Neva smiles. "I found some nice stuff." A 
  yawn sneaks out. "I... hope they're the right sizes. Tance? You awake?"

"Mmm?" mumbles the older Singer, his eyes firmly shut.

"Clothes. I brought you clothes. Nice stuff. Um... well, some slacks and a 
  shirt, and a jacket..." Just in case he might, at one point, want to look 
  nice. Hey, Neva can hope, right?

Brown eyes come hazily open, and Tance peers at the younger Singer. Firelight 
  plays across his face, and he blinks several times in an attempt to adjust 
  his vision to the flickering shadows. "Clothes," he repeats. "Oh..."

Sighing, she reaches over, squeezing his upper arm--or the vicinity 
  thereabouts, given the fact that there's a quilt over him. "Are you okay, 
  Tance?"

You can detect some crystal resonance in your bones.

The man peers unsurely at Neva, very possibly trying to fathom what sort of 
  person could haul him off of Shankill without his clothes... and try to 
  drown him in her bathtub. But perhaps something of her adminitions got 
  through to him, for he closes his eyes tiredly, and murmurs in abashed 
  tones, "I... miss 'er... see?"

"Of course you miss her." A soft smile spreads across Neva's lips--but her 
  eyes are wistful, for some reason. "You're allowed. You just can't let it 
  ruin your whole life. Remember her--and keep living."
 

You feel resonance tingling in your bones.

Tance opens his eyes again, his gaze on the fire, distant and dark. Then he 
  looks back round to the young woman, and whether due to the Passover sleep 
  tugging anew at him or the weight resting upon his emotions, the older 
  Singer looks abruptly very, very weary, and very, very old. "Livin' for 
  what, girlie?" he rasps. "She..." He pauses then, troubled, at a loss for 
  words. Especially in front of this near-stranger.

"For life, I suppose," murmurs Neva, looking over and then staring, for a few 
  long moments, at the fire. "Of course, considering who you're talking to... 
  it took me a broken back and an amputated lung sans anesthesia to make me
  realize just that."

To this, Tance abruptly shivers. And he stares hard at the young woman before 
  him, his expression still profoundly uneasy; then, he says hoarsely, 
  "Girlie, I ain't no stranger to pain."

"Comes with being a Singer, after all," agrees Neva. "But the difference comes 
  in whether or not you learn from it. My piloting may not be very good, but 
  at least I still haven't /purposely/ gone into any more mountains."

Tance lets out a little snort of what very well may be self-disgust. There's a 
  veritable tangle of emotions in his expression and his eyes to go along with 
  that snort, and because Neva's attention makes him uneasy, he closes his 
  eyes. But because darkness, even with firelight dappling along his closed 
  lids, holds memories that soak through even his scattershot recall, he opens 
  them yet again. And the tangle of emotions starts dissolving towards a kind 
  of fright. "Yeah, 'least you got a head that still works," he mumbles. "I 
  got... you... don't understand, Jade, she... gimme somethin' back, and I 
  ain't... sure I can..."

"...remember?" Neva attempts to complete, frowning slightly. "At least I'm 
  starting to get mine back. Just... I mean, you have a recorder, don't you? 
  Use it. And try to remember. Mnemonic devices, all that..."

"... m... manage without her," is Tance's completion of his own statement, 
  though. With eyes closed again, his features set into pained lines, his 
  voice turned gruff, strangely humble.

"Of course you can manage. You're here now, aren't you?" Neva dismisses that 
  nervousness with a wave of her hand. "You just have to take things a day at 
  a time."

Tance mumbles, "Here 'cause ya brought me."

The crystal resonance is zinging through your body.

Head tilts slightly; Neva frowns. "What do you think, I'm going to abandon you 
  when we get back to Ballybran? You don't have to do anything by yourself. 
  You have friends."

Tance doesn't answer that, but he doesn't have to. The flash of fear in his 
  weathered countenance says loudly enough for him that he is very likely 
  afraid of that very thing: abandonment. "Whaddya wanna be friends with a 
  cracked old karker like me for?" he mutters.

A little sigh, a pitying smile. "Why do I need a reason? Maybe I'm like 
  you--or maybe someday I will be. Maybe because you need friends, and so do 
  I," offers Neva.

As if bothered by what this young Singer before him might see in his face, 
  Tance turns his head away, but not quite enough to hide a flicker of 
  something like hope crossing that frightened, lonely gaze before his eyes go 
  closed again. His voice now even gruffer, he mutters, "Silly waste of 
  time... but your time, girlie."

"I've got plenty of it," volunteers Neva with a chuckle. Then, softer: 
  "Nothing hurts forever. Pretty damn long, sometimes, but it's never forever."

Tance doesn't answer _that_, either. Instead, he shoots his uncomfortable gaze 
  down towards the bags Neva's brought in with her, and abruptly changes the 
  subject, saying roughly, "You said you brought stuff..."

"Oh!" Startled into remembering, Neva nods, and picks up one of the bags, 
  handing it to him. "Slacks--kind of a navy-blue/indigo. I hope they're the 
  right size. And a white shirt, no ironing necessary... and a navy suit 
  jacket. Might as well look nice, right?" She smiles. "I got some stuff for 
  me, too, of course. They had some gorgeous things."

Making another snort of a noise at the notion of himself 'looking nice', Tance 
  sits up, accepting the bag and peering into it with a grudging curiosity. 
  "How much do I owe ya?"

"You don't," Neva replies resolutely. "They're gifts, because I was the one 
  who got your other things soaked."

Tance fishes the white shirt out of the bag, running a sleeve of it unsurely 
  between his fingertips. He pauses, then returns his gaze to his self-elected 
  hostess, and ventures huskily, "Thanks..."

The younger singer studies him for a long moment--and then smiles softly. "Any 
  time. Do you like it?"

"Umm..." Tance, already proven himself to be a less than eloquent man for the 
  most part, apparently extends this to opinions on clothes. He peers at the 
  shirt and then at its giver, and then requests in sheepish tones, "Umm... 
  gimme a minute, I'll... umm... try it on."

"Oh! Of course!" A slight blush, and Neva nods. "I'll just go put my things 
  away," she offers, then stands, carrying the other bag into the bedroom.

Only when the young woman has vanished off with her clothing does Tance risk 
  emerging from the protective cocoon of the quilt, and then only enough to 
  make a quick transition from blanket to clothing, with little left bare in 
  between. Only when he tries to put on the dark blue trousers does he realize 
  another difficulty, but the now-blushing grizzled Singer isn't about to 
  point out the lack of underwear in the bag; not only is he not about to make 
  himself sound like an ingrate, but he also isn't about to mention 
  underthings to a girl. Tance makes do, pulling on the blue slacks and 
  finally winding up standing there barefoot by the fire, fidgeting with a 
  shirt sleeve and struck with a sense of deja vu to the notion of a young 
  woman buying him clothes.

Hey. Neva can't remember everything, you know. The door cracks open again, and 
  she peeks out. "Is it okay?" she asks, stepping into the main room. "Fit all 
  right?"

Brusquely, Tance nods, and then perhaps because he suspects something more 
  might be required, he mutters, "Dry, and clean. Uh... thanks."

"Comfortable enough? They look nice on you," Neva volunteers, making her way 
  over and depositing herself in a chair.

There she goes again, with that commentary about 'looking nice'. Gruff again, 
  Tance glances self-consciously down at his newly clad frame, and mutters 
  simply, "Yeah... uh... thanks..." Never mind that he said that already. He 
  retreats to the chair he'd previously occupied, looking distinctly as though 
  he might vanish under the quilt again at any moment.

Neva brings her knees up, wrapping arms around and clasping hands in front of 
  her shins. "Still tired?" she asks.

You feel the resonance tingling in your blood.

"Some," Tance admits as he sinks down into the chair, nudging the quilt out of 
  his way. His tone's still a gruff one, the tone of someone having trouble 
  admitting to weakness.

The crystal resonance is zinging through your body.

"It's Passover--no crime to be tired," comments Neva. She stretches a little. 
  "Can't wait 'til it's over, can finally stay awake for a decent portion of 
  the day."

"And do what?" comes the rumbled reply from the older Singer.

Brows crease slightly as Neva ponders the answer to that question. "Oh--I 
  don't know. Read? Cut crystal once we get back to Ballybran. That sort of 
  thing." What an exciting life.

Read. Tance looks up, then, his gaze travelling to the shelves of books. 
  "Read," he echoes, half to himself.

"I'd love to have as many books as this, someday," Neva says, gesturing up to 
  the shelves. "It's much more satisfying with a /book/ than with a terminal."

"I don't... remember if 've ever seen so many books," Tance murmurs. His voice 
  is shifting again, perhaps even relaxing a little.

"I think I have. But it's certainly been a long time." Neva chuckles. 
  "There're some good ones. Classics--all the way back to nineteenth century 
  Terra."

Encountering something older than _he_ is seems to strike some sort of 
  sympathy in the grizzled-haired Singer. Tance stares up at the shelves, and 
  then turns his gaze round to his companion, seized by the impulse to ask, 
  "Whaddya like to read...?"

"There was this old playwright... his name was 'Shakespeare'. Dialect's kinda 
  hard to understand, but he was a really great writer. Poet, too." Neva grins.

If you pay attention to it, the crystal resonance can be heard coursing 
  through your body at all times.

Tance's brow furrows; it must do that a lot, for there are lines etched into 
  his skin that speak of much time spent in the grip of bafflement or perhaps 
  weighty consideration. "Plays," he muses, sounding dubious. "What else...?"

"Some newer stuff, too. Guy named Jipao from--um, in the Centauri area 
  somewhere--wrote some good mysteries a few years back. There're two--second 
  shelf from the top," Neva suggests.

This makes Tance blink again, but he also does rise; if one didn't know 
  better, one might wonder whether this expression was showing signs of 
  eagerness. He approaches the shelves, lifting a hand to but not quite 
  touching the volumes thereupon, scanning the shelves before glancing back at 
  his young hostess. "You, uh..."

"What?" Neva looks up towards him, expecantly.

"It's, um, okay?" Tance mumbles, flicking a hand at the books.

A little chuckle, and a nod. "Yes," Neva replies. "It's okay."

Tance actually smiles then, a lopsided, sheepish little smile, before swinging 
  his gaze back to the shelves. It doesn't take him long to find the two 
  volumes by Jipao, and he takes them down off the shelf and brings them back 
  to his chair with almost the same sort of delicacy of handling that he might 
  use for freshly cut crystal. He sits, but doesn't sit back quite yet, simply 
  hefting the two books in one hand and peering down at them bemusedly.

You feel resonance tingling in your bones.

"I hope you like them," Neva offers to Tance. "I thought they were very good."

The weight of the books in his hand feels somehow, oddly, familiar -- the 
  memory of a sensation more than of holding a particular book, though it's 
  enough to bring a wistful kind of smile to the older Singer's mouth. 
  "I'll... read for a bit, then, I guess," he murmurs.

Nodding, Neva pulls herself up to her feet. "I'm going to go lay down," she 
  says, then stretches. "See you in a bit."
Neva steps into the bedroom.
Neva has left.

[To be continued...]