Withdrawal
Foundation feels Overseer Two’s body heat through the three layers separating them: her sweatpants, comfortable to work through the night, and the personification’s long-sleeved gray polo under the lab coat she’s forgotten to take off. The shirt was tailored to fit like a second skin—the scars underneath are security hazards, and even she isn’t allowed to see them—but there’s space between her stomach and the fabric now, shifting when she moves.
She sits on the floor, back against Two’s leg, arms wrapped around legs pressed against her middle. The warmth is superficial. She makes the most of it.
She shudders. Yawns in the middle. She hasn’t been this tired in centuries, and this is the only place where she has a chance of staying awake. Looks up at Two’s desk, compares the stack of paper to her right to the one on the left, and leans harder against her.
“I’m trying, Ira.”
The words and the use of the pet name Overseer One gave her almost jolt her back to her usual awareness. She straightens her spine and tilts her head back, fitting the back of her neck to the bend of her knee. It’s not comfortable, but it’s the easiest way for her to make eye contact without losing the warmth. It soothes the constant static where the roots of her hair end, too, but she’s too tired to smile.
Distantly, she remembers she’s not supposed to be so… physical. One stopped tolerating it once she reached her teens.
The place in her chest where his voice lives is empty.
Two shows her the file she’s looking over with one hand and runs fingers through her hair with the other, sending clumps of blonde strands to the dark floor. “I’m not going home for at least a month. I promise.” A forced smile, for her sake. Her Overseers have promised many things to her; less than half are fulfilled.
“Don’t go home at all,” she blurts, suddenly fearful, then digs her nails into her coat when she realizes what she’s said. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean that—“
But she does. Two has been her replacement lynchpin since One’s breakdown, and she’ll unravel completely without her. She squeezes her legs with her arms, checks that they’re still solid. There are exactly twelve people in this world she can’t hope to control. She’s not going to act like she can.
“He’s going to come back, Ira,” she says, whispers, like it’s their secret. “Our researchers are working. Day and night.”
Foundation knows that well. She, and Site-17, made sure of it themselves. But she’s shivering now, because it’s One’s paperwork Two has taken on and it hurts when she’s not working on it.
She nudges her leg again instead of talking.
“What’s wrong?” then Two corrects herself, which is also wrong. “Other than the obvious.”
This is obvious. The more of his work Two completes, the warmer she’ll feel, and the less stressed One will be when he comes back. She fights the irritation trying to show in her voice and returns to somewhat-professionalism, discounting the touch: “His absence hurts, and it helps me when you work, Overseer.”
Two barely conceals her sigh—something wet and cold enters the emptiness—but she does what she asks, and Foundation returns her head to its former position. One never complained about this, even internally. The ache intensifies.
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i missed the dash hug train earlier but on the same note as my last hc post, j’isu is high up on physical affection with people she cares for or gets to know closer. she just loves being close n touchy
all that’s to say, she gives amazing hugs, not too tight not too loose the kind that is specifically tailored to each person as if she knows exactly how you’d want to be held. emotional support catte uwu also she smells amazing n she’s warm so that’s a plus
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