Their hands touch when the rose passes between them. The gentle force of it traces up her arm like a shiver, crackling into her spine. The barest transfer of motive force but after so much stillness it warms her bones. She hasn't been touched for a million years. An operational hazard of mastery.

< Am I. Like you? >

There's a difference to her signing when she was close. Close enough, bold enough, she could reach across and take Mirror's hand, draw it into the sign. Whispering with hands, making their combined movement form the same words. Almost dance.

< Sometimes I disassemble you. > she said, fingers touching shoulder, collar, ribs. < I think of you as maneuvers. Reaction times. Instincts. > Poetry in gesture involved choosing words where each gesture flowed into the next without need for reset. Do it right and she never had to break contact. < Sometimes you disassemble me. My thoughts are a ruin because of you. Tactics I adore torn apart. Nonviable. Unsolveable. >

There was an invitation here. She [i]had [/i]to act on it. It was easy to think that she was bold, but in her mind she thought the reverse. Making the request, even like this, subtle and secret, was a courage she couldn't manage. Responding to a request was easy. She just needed to become, become, become -

< Are you like me? In pieces? Torn apart? Tearing apart? Barely functional, in a way that can't be expressed to anyone sane? > said Solarel. "Because. It's a [change/relief/blessing] to see you. Whole."