She's about to tell him that he doesn't have to apologize for the reply, but then he introduces himself, and that sure is a thing. Ben is the alternate name for Number Six, and Number Six is dead. She knows this. Diego might have spared her the details, but she knows the broad strokes. Very very dead, and long before she found Klaus, long before Patch and Diego ever crossed paths, long before she even graduated from high school, let alone the Academy. She nods her head, slowly, and shakes his hand, mumbling something about it being nice to meet him while she tries to wrap her mind around it all. He could be here from the moment of his death, like her, and she's just coming to grips with that thought when he keeps going.
That's just. Yeah. That's a thing. Patch opens her mouth to ask him how, but then closes it. No. She opens her mouth again to ask him why, but then closes it. Finally, she presses her lips together, lets her cheeks puff out with a held breath of air, and then lets it out in a noisy rush. Right.
She goes to the door, very deliberately moves the metal container so that it can close and lock, sets it carefully on the desk. Then she looks at Ben, opens her mouth, closes it. She needs to stop doing that. It's incredibly unprofessional, and probably very rude. Ben is on the couch, and while there is room for her to sit next to him, she doesn't want to. It's not him. It's her way of processing. Usually, she sits close to people to establish a connection, to make a bridge of physical proximity. At this moment, she wants a little bit of distance. So she moves a little stiffly to the desk and its lone chair, grabbing it and dragging it across the floor. About half way there, it occurs to her that she should have just picked it up. Less noise. Oh well. She sits down, her chair still a few feet from Ben. This time, when she opens her mouth, a few stuttering sounds of an aborted attempt to say something manage to get out, then she clears her throat, licks her lips. She doesn't even know where to start.
no subject
That's just. Yeah. That's a thing. Patch opens her mouth to ask him how, but then closes it. No. She opens her mouth again to ask him why, but then closes it. Finally, she presses her lips together, lets her cheeks puff out with a held breath of air, and then lets it out in a noisy rush. Right.
She goes to the door, very deliberately moves the metal container so that it can close and lock, sets it carefully on the desk. Then she looks at Ben, opens her mouth, closes it. She needs to stop doing that. It's incredibly unprofessional, and probably very rude. Ben is on the couch, and while there is room for her to sit next to him, she doesn't want to. It's not him. It's her way of processing. Usually, she sits close to people to establish a connection, to make a bridge of physical proximity. At this moment, she wants a little bit of distance. So she moves a little stiffly to the desk and its lone chair, grabbing it and dragging it across the floor. About half way there, it occurs to her that she should have just picked it up. Less noise. Oh well. She sits down, her chair still a few feet from Ben. This time, when she opens her mouth, a few stuttering sounds of an aborted attempt to say something manage to get out, then she clears her throat, licks her lips. She doesn't even know where to start.
Maybe he will. "Start at the beginning?"