[ Amos has middling luck whenever he comes to visiting the Tree of Life — which is to say, most of the time it's a decent and quiet meditative spot, and every now and then there is a hand attached to a body trying to dig its way out.
There is a hand. He is too far away to offer immediate assistance; still, he comes up just in time to see Matt haul himself out of the dirt, and then he stops.
Stares.
Stares some more.
Were this another time and were he capable of reading thoughts, Amos could point out — they've had that sort of conversation before. Approximately two years and one universe away, they'd discussed the nature of space and time, the way they could converge to send them back to the dark ages — and then the cheery notion that their worlds had just died, and that maybe their brains were playing out an elaborate immediately-pre-death scenario before they finally properly kicked it.
But by now, Amos knows that was not actually the case. The case is that their worlds are dead. It isn't any more complicated than that.
And yet for some reason, he looks like he's staring at a ghost.
He steps up to meet Matt, properly. And, after taking far too long to reasonably answer: ] Not for a while.
[ He has not said anything to Matt in. A long while.
Softer, gentler, he reaches out for him — his shoulder, above where his shard now rests. Slides his palm up a little bit, closer to his neck, a touch light and delicate as though he's ensuring that Matt is both physically here, and not about to dispel under his hand. ]
i
There is a hand. He is too far away to offer immediate assistance; still, he comes up just in time to see Matt haul himself out of the dirt, and then he stops.
Stares.
Stares some more.
Were this another time and were he capable of reading thoughts, Amos could point out — they've had that sort of conversation before. Approximately two years and one universe away, they'd discussed the nature of space and time, the way they could converge to send them back to the dark ages — and then the cheery notion that their worlds had just died, and that maybe their brains were playing out an elaborate immediately-pre-death scenario before they finally properly kicked it.
But by now, Amos knows that was not actually the case. The case is that their worlds are dead. It isn't any more complicated than that.
And yet for some reason, he looks like he's staring at a ghost.
He steps up to meet Matt, properly. And, after taking far too long to reasonably answer: ] Not for a while.
[ He has not said anything to Matt in. A long while.
Softer, gentler, he reaches out for him — his shoulder, above where his shard now rests. Slides his palm up a little bit, closer to his neck, a touch light and delicate as though he's ensuring that Matt is both physically here, and not about to dispel under his hand. ]
Are you okay?