[They are, currently, right next door! Lucky they get on. The door slides back, and Simon peeps around from the controls. He has a grey-brown bundle under his arm.]
Winnie, hello. Come on in. [She seems more excited than he does; he's still strained and solemn, but something is different about the way he carries himself—not happiness, exactly, but something deeper. He steps back to let her in.]
[She continues giving him a sunny smile, as if hopeful her presence alone might chase away whatever rain clouds were bothering him.]
Hello! [She makes her way inside, giving herself a courtesy brush off as she looks around-- not that it's much different from her own rover, but still. She turns her attention back to him.]
Now, what did you want to show me? You found out who sent it to you, right?
okay why did I think madu were brown? YOU SAW NOTHING
[The crowd is noticing that Winnie's prone to what we'll call unhealthy optimism—but Simon does sound a little more animated; he's talking faster. The table's already folded out, and he hurries to it, spreading out his bundle there.]
No. I didn't. I have no idea. But look at this.
[He's still unfolding, quiet and precise, pulling the things into view—a scarf and a pair of socks, made hastily in mingled brown white and grey wool. They look soft, and the weave is a little loose, but they're clearly handmade.]
I can't believe it. I can't think of anyone who would do this.
Oh, how darling! [She doesn't pick them up, not wanting to disturb them or possibly ruin them by being too rough, but she does reach out to run her fingers over the scarf.]
Someone made these for you? [Well, obviously, but Winnie is smiling as she looks them over] Strange they didn't leave a note or anything! This is... [She shakes her head lowly and then looks at Simon for a moment, considering.]
[The question takes him by surprise. He turns, sighing a little, peering at her as he examines himself. Happy? No, never that. But touched, deeply so, to the point he could cry? Perhaps.]
Let's say yes. That works.
[He goes back to staring at the fabric, running his fingers gently over its crevices and bumps.] But the weaving. Someone had to spin the fibre. They had to knit all of this—at least, I think it's knitted. They must have been doing this almost since we got here...
Oh, they did leave a note. [And he fishes in his pocket, producing it—an untidy scrawl on the back of a tinned fruit salad label. "fore Simon", it reads.] I should have known it wasn't you. Look at the writing.
[She looks momentarily uncertain, but, again, doesn't push it. Instead she reaches out to touch the scarf and shakes her head in awe. So much work... Clearly Simon meant a lot to whoever went through the effort.
Winnie looks at the label, and then at Simon with a look like really? But with a laugh to show there's no ill-will and that she wasn't actually offended or anything, she looked it over.] Maybe it's someone taking one of the English lessons? It doesn't look like they know the language very well.
Don't be cruel. [But he's not offended at all; he's still looking at the note.]
I think you're right that their English is poor. But not their writing, particularly. They might be foreign—or—maybe the spelling is because they're from further back than you are. Er, if you'll excuse me. Archaic, not wrong...
[And then he hits on it. He looks at her, startled.] Arya, perhaps. You know her, right? But that's—very hard to imagine.
[She blinks, wide-eyed-- how was that cruel? She was just pointing out a fact! Simon did seem to get fussy about the strangest things...]
Hmm, yes I know Arya, she's in my rover. I haven't seen her doing anything like this. Frankly, she seems more the type to stab someone with a knitting needle before using it for it's actual intended purpose.
[She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her chin thoughtfully.] I don't think I know anyone besides Arya and I that are so far back in time. Who else do you talk to often?
Crumbs. [Yes, he really did just say that, thoughtful and solemn with a finger at his mouth.] Let me think. If it's not you, and it's not Arya, then maybe it's... Babydoll? But I'm sure she can spell.
[Handy hint, Simon: men knit. It actually won't occur to him until later on.]
There's Vriska, I suppose. But, uh. [Talk about your people who'd stab you with a knitting needle.]
Crumbs? [She looks bewildered and a tad baffled. What does that even mean Simon. Probably if she actually thought about it she might understand but there's too much else going on for her to bother with it.
Moving on and figuring this out is more important anyway.] Wasn't Vriska the one's whose arms...? [She trails off, a bit uncomfortable.] She doesn't seem the knitting type. [to put it politely.]
Do you know Pilot? Do you think maybe he could have?
I do know Pilot. But this is such an Earth-based craft...
[Not that he has any idea what aliens get up to with fibre and wool, and he realises that almost straight away. He gives her a bit of a helpless look.]
I suppose he might have. I couldn't say for sure that he hasn't. It seems the sort of thing he'd do, doesn't it? [Though he doesn't look like he'd have the dexterity for it. Then again, what does Simon know?]
Maybe you could ask him? Who else do you talk to regularly?
[Winnie looks at Simon for a long moment and then reaches out to place a comforting hand on his arm.] Although, in the end, I suppose it doesn't really matter, you know? It's the thought that counts more than who it came from.
[He glances down at the hand on his arm, opening and closing his mouth like a waylaid fish. Then he looks back up at her.]
I think you're right. It was—just such an unexpected thing to happen. Here, of all places, do you see? I wanted to thank them, but, uh. If they wanted me to know...
[He bites his lip, chewing on it gently, then lifts the scarf from the table and wraps it round his neck, turning back to her. It feels soft and rather heavy, and the splotchy grey turns out to be a good colour on him.] What do you think?
[She smiles reassuringly and nods in agreement-- if they wanted him to know, they would've said something, surely. But mostly likely it seemed like they wanted to do a good deed just to do a good deed, no thanks necessary.
Winnie steps back when he takes up the scarf, eyeing him critically before fussing with the scarf some to make sure it lays right.] It looks wonderful on you, Simon. The colour works for you. [She smiles, pleased, and fusses with the scarf a little again.]
I'm so happy for you, Simon. You deserve good things like this.
[His fingers twist gently in the scarf, spoiling all her painstaking arrangements, and she smiles up at him, and he sighs a little—thoughtful, not sad. So strange to have anyone fuss around him like this—not just Winnie, but the mysterious giftgiver, and everyone else who's quietly watching his back. He's not used to it at all.
And she seems so much happier about the gift than he feels. Maybe because it's her nature to bubble, the way it used to be his. He wonders how long she'll stay that way; how long it will be before all this gets the better of her. He knows she worries, after all; she's not quite oblivious. But he doesn't comment.]
I'm not so sure. But thank you, Winnie. [Turning away from her, he picks up the socks and goes to fold them in his locker.]
Do you, uh, really think this colour works on me? [It's not so unlike the grey of the uniforms—and yes, he's changing the subject.]
[Winnie hums in agreement and nods] It works for you! It matches your eyes. But you could also do with some color, I think... Blue and white would look nice too, I think. Green not so much...
[She muses over it.] I can't see you wearing anything crazy like... canary yellow. [She tries to imagine it, actually, and just ends up grinning and smothering her chuckles behind her hand.]
[Closing the locker up, he gives her another thoughtful look; he's got the words by now, but his heart isn't in them.] Come on, now. I could be a canary. The best canary.
[Caged birds, after all, don't do anything; they don't endanger anyone. They just sit and sing and curl their clawed feet around their perch. He comes back and sits at the table.]
I'm not sure yellow would work for you. Your hair.
Can you sing? You should take up some singing or whistling, and then I can have a better verdict. [She puts her lips together and attempts a whistle, but all she can manage is a blowing noise. Welp. She tries a few more times before giving up with a shrug and a shake of her head.]
Apparently I cannot be a canary either. But no, yellow doesn't work well for me, and I on't particularly like the colour much either. I prefer green, pink, or white. I wear-- wore-- a lot of white actually, with patterns and things. I think I like those best of all.
[He's still pulling gently at the scarf, but his hand freezes at the suggestion that he should sing; he stares at her.] All right. Perhaps I'll give up on the—canary ambition.
White I can see you in. Or black, for that matter. [And either would mean she wasn't here, pretty much, which would be A++ in his book.] Maybe a bit depressing, that.
Black is usually used for mourning, though. [She's not sure how comfortable she'd be wearing entirely back, but it does make her think of home again and she smiles a tad wistfully.] My father wears it often. Wore it often. [She pauses and then laughs a little.]
Wears. I have to believe that much at least. [Winnie clasps her hands in front of her and plays with her sleeves.] I just wish I could write home again, even just one letter.
I'm not so sure. I think we're better lost. I wouldn't, uh. [Yuki, of course. Simon bows his head and coughs a little, composing himself.] Uh. Sorry. Not knowing is bad, of course, but being at home, and knowing about all of this—no, I'm not so sure.
[He's repeating himself. He's surprised, though, by her mention of her father. He'd read about her mother, and remembered because they had it in common. But he'd imagined something more like his own situation.]
Why don't you sit down? [And he nods across the table, at the bench opposite.]
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[He's not smiling, but it's close.]
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Simon, it's me! I'm here!
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Winnie, hello. Come on in. [She seems more excited than he does; he's still strained and solemn, but something is different about the way he carries himself—not happiness, exactly, but something deeper. He steps back to let her in.]
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Hello! [She makes her way inside, giving herself a courtesy brush off as she looks around-- not that it's much different from her own rover, but still. She turns her attention back to him.]
Now, what did you want to show me? You found out who sent it to you, right?
okay why did I think madu were brown? YOU SAW NOTHING
No. I didn't. I have no idea. But look at this.
[He's still unfolding, quiet and precise, pulling the things into view—a scarf and a pair of socks, made hastily in mingled
brownwhite and grey wool. They look soft, and the weave is a little loose, but they're clearly handmade.]I can't believe it. I can't think of anyone who would do this.
LOOKS AWAY....
Someone made these for you? [Well, obviously, but Winnie is smiling as she looks them over] Strange they didn't leave a note or anything! This is... [She shakes her head lowly and then looks at Simon for a moment, considering.]
...Are you happy?
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Let's say yes. That works.
[He goes back to staring at the fabric, running his fingers gently over its crevices and bumps.] But the weaving. Someone had to spin the fibre. They had to knit all of this—at least, I think it's knitted. They must have been doing this almost since we got here...
Oh, they did leave a note. [And he fishes in his pocket, producing it—an untidy scrawl on the back of a tinned fruit salad label. "fore Simon", it reads.] I should have known it wasn't you. Look at the writing.
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Winnie looks at the label, and then at Simon with a look like really? But with a laugh to show there's no ill-will and that she wasn't actually offended or anything, she looked it over.] Maybe it's someone taking one of the English lessons? It doesn't look like they know the language very well.
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I think you're right that their English is poor. But not their writing, particularly. They might be foreign—or—maybe the spelling is because they're from further back than you are. Er, if you'll excuse me. Archaic, not wrong...
[And then he hits on it. He looks at her, startled.] Arya, perhaps. You know her, right? But that's—very hard to imagine.
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Hmm, yes I know Arya, she's in my rover. I haven't seen her doing anything like this. Frankly, she seems more the type to stab someone with a knitting needle before using it for it's actual intended purpose.
[She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her chin thoughtfully.] I don't think I know anyone besides Arya and I that are so far back in time. Who else do you talk to often?
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[Handy hint, Simon: men knit. It actually won't occur to him until later on.]
There's Vriska, I suppose. But, uh. [Talk about your people who'd stab you with a knitting needle.]
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Moving on and figuring this out is more important anyway.] Wasn't Vriska the one's whose arms...? [She trails off, a bit uncomfortable.] She doesn't seem the knitting type. [to put it politely.]
Do you know Pilot? Do you think maybe he could have?
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[Not that he has any idea what aliens get up to with fibre and wool, and he realises that almost straight away. He gives her a bit of a helpless look.]
I suppose he might have. I couldn't say for sure that he hasn't. It seems the sort of thing he'd do, doesn't it? [Though he doesn't look like he'd have the dexterity for it. Then again, what does Simon know?]
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[Winnie looks at Simon for a long moment and then reaches out to place a comforting hand on his arm.] Although, in the end, I suppose it doesn't really matter, you know? It's the thought that counts more than who it came from.
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I think you're right. It was—just such an unexpected thing to happen. Here, of all places, do you see? I wanted to thank them, but, uh. If they wanted me to know...
[He bites his lip, chewing on it gently, then lifts the scarf from the table and wraps it round his neck, turning back to her. It feels soft and rather heavy, and the splotchy grey turns out to be a good colour on him.] What do you think?
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Winnie steps back when he takes up the scarf, eyeing him critically before fussing with the scarf some to make sure it lays right.] It looks wonderful on you, Simon. The colour works for you. [She smiles, pleased, and fusses with the scarf a little again.]
I'm so happy for you, Simon. You deserve good things like this.
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And she seems so much happier about the gift than he feels. Maybe because it's her nature to bubble, the way it used to be his. He wonders how long she'll stay that way; how long it will be before all this gets the better of her. He knows she worries, after all; she's not quite oblivious. But he doesn't comment.]
I'm not so sure. But thank you, Winnie. [Turning away from her, he picks up the socks and goes to fold them in his locker.]
Do you, uh, really think this colour works on me? [It's not so unlike the grey of the uniforms—and yes, he's changing the subject.]
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[She muses over it.] I can't see you wearing anything crazy like... canary yellow. [She tries to imagine it, actually, and just ends up grinning and smothering her chuckles behind her hand.]
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[Caged birds, after all, don't do anything; they don't endanger anyone. They just sit and sing and curl their clawed feet around their perch. He comes back and sits at the table.]
I'm not sure yellow would work for you. Your hair.
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Apparently I cannot be a canary either. But no, yellow doesn't work well for me, and I on't particularly like the colour much either. I prefer green, pink, or white. I wear-- wore-- a lot of white actually, with patterns and things. I think I like those best of all.
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White I can see you in. Or black, for that matter. [And either would mean she wasn't here, pretty much, which would be A++ in his book.] Maybe a bit depressing, that.
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Wears. I have to believe that much at least. [Winnie clasps her hands in front of her and plays with her sleeves.] I just wish I could write home again, even just one letter.
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[He's repeating himself. He's surprised, though, by her mention of her father. He'd read about her mother, and remembered because they had it in common. But he'd imagined something more like his own situation.]
Why don't you sit down? [And he nods across the table, at the bench opposite.]
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