[text: recipients - all]

[hasaheart]

As per usual every morning with his first cup of coffee, Cain checks his tablet and the list of names cataloguing all the residents/fellow prisoners of Taxon, old and new and present. He doesn't get past the letter A. His mug, his tablet fall from limp hands; the hot coffee spilling over his legs doesn't register until much later.

Once his hands stop shaking, he sends a text message to Glitch. Az is gone. She's gone.

Another few minutes later, he writes another message, hesitating for a moment before sending it. What does it matter? Who cares? Was she ever here to begin with? What's to say she was? When he's gone and Glitch is gone (like DG), and everyone who ever knew her is gone, who will have a clue she was ever here?

He swallows through a painful lump in his throat, and clicks the 'send' icon on the tablet screen.

For those of you who knew her, Azkadellia has gone home. For those of you who didn't, she was just like the rest of us. She had a past, and was making the most of her present, to the best of her abilities. She was family. She'll be missed.

Comments

[hasaheart]

His hand drifts from Paul's arm to his own eyes, fingers brushing over damp lashes and the faintly aching skin around his eyes. Vodka sounds good; food less so; and that last comment tugs at his jaw hinge.

"First off, you're trying to turn me into as much of a relaxed heap of mush as possible - kinda counter productive, there. And second, you're not supposed to tell me your leg's falling asleep. You're meant to suffer in silence, like the sensitive gentleman you are."

He can aim at something less depressing, can't he? Teasing, if not outright banter?

[smecker]

"You must be confusing me with someone from the next dimension over," Paul says, addressing the 'second' and ignoring the 'first'.

He knows Wyatt probably won't much want to eat. Which is why he brought food. He can browbeat you into it if he has to, Wyatt.

His grinds his thumb into the taut muscles at the base of Wyatt's skull, fingers seeking out the skin behind his ears and rubbing there too.

[hasaheart]

The only answer Paul gets is an indrawn hiss of breath, followed by a gravelly, guttural moan. Damn tension. Damn muscles. Damn near everything being a constant mass of knotted up muscle and sinew and not being able to fully relax. It's been two years, and the only time he's ever truly a heap of so much mush is when he's warm and unconscious.

Damn cold. Damn everyone for leaving.

"...sadist." Love you.

[smecker]

"Your very own personal bastard, yup."

Paul closes his eyes. Neither of them are gonna be getting up from the couch soon, he doesn't think. He breathes, slow and steady, and doesn't move except for his hands, continuing to try and repair some of the dings and scratches on this particular Tin Man.