[ I see, he says, two innocuous words, but they sound a little weird this time, more like they used to, back when he didn't have any idea what to do with her or how to talk to her. They're a little stiff, reflexive, like they'd popped out just so he'd be able to say something. She's not so close again yet that she can't look him in the eye, and her own tighten slightly as she does, studying him.

(It's actually not at all unlike the way March squints at people when he's trying to work them out... maybe she's picked up more from him than a ring. ) ]

You're gonna have to try harder than that if you want to register on my "brashness" scale.

[ That's not a thing—

She shrugs at his question, willing to admit it. It's not like everyone here doesn't know she's buddies with March. They make the pine wine together, they hang out and drink together, they've... sometimes done other things together, but the main point is: March is... March. A year later, she still doesn't really know how to put what he is to her into words, but she's never had to. He gets it. He gets her. ]

Yeah. He's like half the reason I can still stay even sort of sane in this dump.

[ As much as she wants him to be able to get home, to Holly and his work and L.A. and the sun and the seventies, if she lost him she thinks she's lose her goddamn mind. The delicate balance of her sanity here is held, annoyingly, in the hands of a few very different people.

(Even now, she can feel the snow melting under her knees, soaking her jeans, when she'd fallen to Little's side and begged him not to leave her—) ]

So when we all got those little "gifts"... we made a deal. I'm holding onto his and he's got mine. It's just easier on us both, you know?