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A moment of actual panic set in when Mimsy realized her mistake. Dying people often spoke at length about their feelings, and it seemed as if she was going to have to sit through an admission filled with exactly that kind of thing.

And she'd have to sit through it with his hands on her face (while he was still too close), which was the more pressing of all of these problems. She might have been able to ignore whatever he said, especially since nodding along was probably sufficient for a response to dying words, but she could not ignore his hands on her skin.

That created a very distinct sensation that could not go away until his hands did.

She didn't say a word while he spoke, because she was done with over-acting to sell the game she was playing. It didn't seem like she needed to, anyway. He looked as if he might cry. He looked sincere. He--

"Very funny," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "And you 'suck' at dying. If you have completed your portion of the charade, could you please..." She moved one hand to put her palm over the back of his, curling her fingers around it to carefully try to pull it away, as if she were gently removing some sort of alien parasite.

"Stop that," Mimsy grumbled, trying to swat his hands away from her. "I am not your anything, and those words are not my name, and I am not a small child or fluffy companion."

So there.

It delighted her that he was worried over his falsely impending death, if only momentarily. That signified improvement. But the positivity that was contentedly curled within her chest was startled into confusion; he'd called her a goddess again. For someone who so easily determined when she was not being truthful, it was odd that he actually believed that.

Which made her curious.

"The spill is contained, but I request that the area be cleaned with water so I can safely walk on it, unless you intend to carry me." Her expression suggested that she definitely expected for him to clean it up. "And that is very unfortunate. I say many things that are important and life-changing on a daily basis. I am a truthful and factual entity."

As she thought, she idly picked up the scissors again and hooked a finger into one ring of the handle, playfully swinging them from side to side.

"For instance: did you know that I almost committed voluntary manslaughter when I was six?"

Was he being sarcastic? Mimsy tilted her head as she watched him clean the floor, wondering where this shift in demeanor had sprung from.

He didn't seem to believe her, and responded with an even more unbelievable story under the guise of comfort. It was a story that she liked, because such an action was extraordinary and interesting to her, but it was nothing that would make someone feel better. Right?

"I apologize for my confusion, but I would have assumed that 'fruit' would dictate that...well, he would be hitting on you, not 'your girl'. Could you clarify?" She frowned, and wasn't sure where she had gone wrong with that one. "Additionally, your fist would have been convex, so it could not have matched a concave structure, per se. In this case, I understand the point that you were making, however."

When she was done poking holes with question marks and geometry, she fell silent, brows knit. She was still curious. Very curious. His story involved a very passionate action, in spite of its wavering verity. There was merit in this fact, for reasons that the story had not covered.

"Robert?" The playful tone was gone, and scissors swung more slowly now, propelled by the trembling in her fingers.

"What does 'love' look like?"

He was married. He'd said that word. He had to know.

A bad mood? Hadn't he been singing when he found her? Mimsy was even more confused than she had been before, but she eagerly watched as he sat next to her on the table, expectant eyes waiting for a response.

She was scared to even breathe, just in case she somehow missed it. She didn't move to put more space between them, just in case it impeded her ability to catch the words he spoke. But the longer he elaborated, she more she wished she hadn't been listening.

"Oh." She felt sick. "That does not seem comfortable. Why would anyone choose to do this?"

That was not the answer she expected. It was disappointing and not at all what she hoped to hear, in spite of research that spoke the same words in different tones. She had been so sure that he would be the one who knew, that he would be able to describe it without consequence. She watched and learned and thought she knew him, but she realized now that she might have been wrong.

This wasn't delusion; this was the knowledge that she was the only one who knew where to find it, when everyone else was busy grasping at concepts and feelings that had no scientific meaning. She excelled at finding the particles that she knew were there, when nobody else could, and she absolutely knew best. She would have to find someone else to ask, or...she could see for herself.

Svensyl called her by a name she didn't use anymore. A warning that sparked a flare of anger. She slipped another finger into the handle of the scissors and glanced sidelong at Robert.

"No. I don't know," she quietly responded. There was a tightness in her chest. She felt like she might throw up. "I don't."

It still didn't make sense. Mimsy knew that it wasn't feeling good that drew her to a dark laboratory room. It was necessity, a drive, a need, so only part of what he said connected to what she knew, and it was more frustrating than anything she had ever experienced in her life.

She was so close.

"But you do," she said, voice tinged with curiosity as she turned to look at him, frowning when she caught the look on his face. Why did he feel that way?

The scissors were held loosely in one hand as she put the other on Robert's shoulder, a gesture that seemed almost encouraging for just one brief moment. But it was only there to support herself while she moved to straddle his lap, a slow smile creeping across her lips as she moved her hand to the center of his chest. There was a tightness in her chest, and a knot in her stomach, and she felt like she might throw up, but she sighed, and through it's shakiness it almost sounded happy.

When she leaned closer, the smile widened, showing teeth.

"You have absolutely everything I need."

She pressed her hand against his heart and its pulse sang her name beneath her fingertips. Her grip tightened around the scissors. She tilted her head up and stared through her glasses and into his eyes, and leaned even closer, nose barely touching his.

So close.

Everything halted when he said Mimsy's name, and began again in the next instant, finding frustration again in his claim that this wasn't what she really wanted. How could he say such a thing? She wanted this for a very long time, and his assessment in the span of mere seconds was almost insulting.

"That is not true," she mumbled, dipping in and out of petulance. "I waited until I was certain. I heard very clearly when you said that you loved me. I even asked you to confirm your statement."

She clenched the scissors and her teeth and gave him a very pained stare. So close. Too close to listen to his words when he said to trust him.

(Never forget that the only one you can trust is yourself.)

"I know very well what I need. I know better than anyone else what I need. And I know, unquestionably, that I have found it." Insistent, she pushed against his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. She straightened up and turned her head so her cheek brushed his, and in a quivering whisper that was filled with all of the desperation she could muster, she said only:

"Please."

The beginnings of a reaction that he might have expected began to bleed into Mimsy's expression: betrayal, confusion, hurt. Her arms felt heavy against his hands, and she felt as if she might crumple to the ground to recall the situation in a loop until she discerned where she had miscalculated this time. But the single word he said to her finally sunk in, and her refusal to lose a battle whose prize was knowledge surged within her. No. No? He loved her, didn't he? Why was he fighting against her?

She was furious. Her skin felt hot as her ears began to ring, and she tasted blood in her mouth from the last time she'd felt this way. Her fingers slid down the scissors to curl around the blades like a dagger, and she snatched her arms away with a bitter scowl.

"Asking politely was only a formality. You gave me your answer when you said that you loved me." She stared at him, eyes reflecting the empty detachment of a broken woman who believed she was the victor here. This was wrong and four steps from perfect, but all she had was a sharp pair of scissors and a laboratory table. It was wrong, but it was all that she needed.

All she needed to know how to feel it too.

"You are helping me," she said sternly through her teeth, shoving him down onto the table. Her hand slid down his chest, and lingered briefly on his stomach before she found the hem of his shirt, lips pressed tightly together with determination as she tugged it upwards.

"Because this is the answer to what I need." Her hand found the place above his heart again, and its pulse felt even better when it was her fingertips against skin, because she was even closer now: just layers of flesh and muscle between her and her goal. This was achievable. It finally felt as if she would find what she'd been looking for all this time, and her smile grew ecstatic, entwined with something that looked almost like relief.

Svensyl screeched another warning, begged for kisses instead, but he sounded so far away.

The scissors opened with the sound of metal scraping metal, and it only took one deep breath before she drove one blade into the flesh above his sternum; she closed her eyes, a shiver coursing through her body when she felt it hit bone. The scissors closed again with a snip, and she sighed out a happy little laugh before pausing to steady her hands again. It was already much better this time, and she couldn't ruin it. Not now. Not when she was this close.

Svensyl spoke more calmly now, more pointed, said something about defenses, but he was not invited to something this important.

Had she listened to him instead of being so caught up in the perfection of this moment, she might have been able to use the reminder that they all had shields to protect them, might have realized she had not struck the bone at all. But she was lost in a fantasy that played thousands and thousands of times in her mind, the idea that there was something nobody had found yet, that she could discover and use and know how to love, even if--

(In the end, you will always be alone.)

"I know," she whispered, smiling into the darkness. "I know."