[ She could have gotten rid of it, if she'd wanted to. Hei isn't sure what to make of the fact that she hadn't. He doesn't let his surprise show. Just offers a nod, terse yet somehow stilted, and murmurs, ] I'll find them, [ before edging carefully past her, deeper into the house, feeling strangely like a prisoner who's been given permission to roam around unaccompanied. ]
[ This is my house. Was my house. Where I used to live with Korra. With a cat that I somehow managed not to starve, or break, or ... my house. The words mean nothing. In the basement, he finds the locked box of his clothes. The fabric inside gives off such a familiar smell, of staleness but also of himself, that he is disoriented. None of this feels real, but that's besides the point. It is real, as real as his life with Korra in this house once was, as real as his days floating in space with Chekov, undoubtedly were. ]
[ In the shower, he takes his time on purpose. There's lot to digest, so giving Korra a moment of quiet, staying out of her way, is no great effort. He focuses on the feeling of hot water on his skin, the smell of soap and shampoo, the icy breath after a good scrubbing with an extra toothbrush. The robes on the back of the bathroom door, the towels, the items on the shelves -- everything is Korra's. No shaving tackle or extra shampoo or unfamiliar products in sight. ]
[ Could she have spent all this time living alone? It seems impossible. ]
[ He comes back out in his new (old) clothes, oddly young-looking with his wet hair smoothed down around his skull. At the kitchen, coaxed by the breakfasty sounds and smells, he hovers uncertainly, blinking in the yellow stripes of sunlight that cut through the blinds. ]
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[ This is my house. Was my house. Where I used to live with Korra. With a cat that I somehow managed not to starve, or break, or ... my house. The words mean nothing. In the basement, he finds the locked box of his clothes. The fabric inside gives off such a familiar smell, of staleness but also of himself, that he is disoriented. None of this feels real, but that's besides the point. It is real, as real as his life with Korra in this house once was, as real as his days floating in space with Chekov, undoubtedly were. ]
[ In the shower, he takes his time on purpose. There's lot to digest, so giving Korra a moment of quiet, staying out of her way, is no great effort. He focuses on the feeling of hot water on his skin, the smell of soap and shampoo, the icy breath after a good scrubbing with an extra toothbrush. The robes on the back of the bathroom door, the towels, the items on the shelves -- everything is Korra's. No shaving tackle or extra shampoo or unfamiliar products in sight. ]
[ Could she have spent all this time living alone? It seems impossible. ]
[ He comes back out in his new (old) clothes, oddly young-looking with his wet hair smoothed down around his skull. At the kitchen, coaxed by the breakfasty sounds and smells, he hovers uncertainly, blinking in the yellow stripes of sunlight that cut through the blinds. ]