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Anya hums a terse melody as she flips through her recipe notebook with one hand, the other holding a pot by the handle.
Delta says, "You seem to enjoy cooking at this hour."
She freezes for just a moment, and then turns back to the book.
"It's...calming. And it's not that late. Clock says 9."
There's a weary air about her. Bright green reflects from her gaze onto the steel counter.
"Considering you haven't started yet, I'd disagree on the time being late."
He stands on the other side of the counter, averting his gaze from her white-knuckled grip on the pot and how she turns away from her reflection.
"...Does it truly bother you? To know what you are?" The question slips out before he can think better of it.
"Bother me?" She raises her head to look at him. "On its face, no. That would only hold true if we saw each other as monsters, and I don't. It's not that, it's...if it were just the exposure over those 25 years that...changed me, finalized by what happened with the Wraiths, it would have been easier. To know that..."
She abandons the rest of those words with a shake of her head, pressing her hand flat against the page.
"...Make no mistake." Anya murmurs. "I won't stop trying for peace. That promise of being a thorn in people's sides, including yours, still applies, not least because I..."
She pauses.
"...I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Anya." Delta says.
When she meets his eyes, her gaze is painfully bright, like light reflecting off of snow. "....I didn't even think of myself as quite human anymore, you know that? Not since Ivan saw me come back to life after I was killed the second time. I needed time to process it, though, so when I first came here, I wanted you to believe just that. That I was a regular human with one...quirk."
"..."
Anya gathers up ingredients that had been placed on the counter. He recognizes some of them – orange, sage, cinnamon.
She shakes her head, voice slightly hoarse. "...I'm sorry. I don't know why I brought this out. I can't cook right now."
"It's a nice recipe." Delta murmurs automatically.
There's a flash of surprise in her eyes. "...How was it?"
"I have never had a cold, so I can't speak to its benefit there, but for winter, it was warming. The flavor was good."
"One day, I'll make the other recipe." Anya's voice is barely more than a whisper. "Just not tonight."
Her eyes close for a long moment.
"...What do you wish to do, then?"
The question seems to snap her out of whatever thoughts she'd been having. She unties her hair. "If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you what you'd do. Just...not talking. Not now."
"..."
It takes time for him to find what to say – Anya has finished braiding her hair. "Music. I found listening to it peaceful."
There's a crack in the weariness around her – like the first hint of the sun behind the clouds. "You have music here?"
"...Follow me." Delta turns back to look at Anya.
The room itself is smaller than most in this building, but well-kept. A worn yellow CD player is tucked in the corner, standing atop a wooden cabinet full of CDs.
Anya looks at the CD player as if it were to fade before her very eyes.
Delta hands some of the plastic cases to her. "I find these comforting. Try to see if you find any for yourself."
"I will."
She puts the disc in gingerly, letting the music within fill the air.
"...It's nice." Anya whispers, eyes wistful. She taps her fingers to the rhythm of the music.
"Nicer than I remembered." Delta responds, sitting down.
Eventually, his eyes slip shut – not sleeping, not really – just resting. It has been far too long.
He opens them to see Anya offering him her hand, the other on his shoulder.
"Delta." She mutters, a slight thread of concern in her voice. "I know you don't require as much sleep as a human, but that's no reason to disregard its importance. Not for my sake."
He blinks. Multiple possible responses echo in his mind, but he finds, above all, just like her, he doesn't quite want this moment to end – and so, he does not move. "I wasn't asleep."
"That's not a comfortable spot." Anya sits down nearby, not quite seeming to believe him.
"I suppose not."
The room grows smaller, in the silence.
"...I can't promise I'd be any good at it, anymore." Delta mutters.
"Any good at...sleeping?" Anya says, brows drawing together in confusion.
"Not sleeping." He studies her. "Something else I liked to do, before."
"And what would that be?" Anya turns to study him, curious.
"...Dancing." He finally says.
Surprise flashes across Anya's expression.
"Dancing?" She repeats.
"Beta put me up to it. I did not...like sparring the way he and Omega did. I believed it would make the humans fear us."
A bittersweet smile finds its way on his face. "He and I...disagreed on humans, back then. Yet he still wanted something for me to do that was even loosely adjacent to sparring – hence, dancing. Mother approved, much to my chagrin. But it was not...unpleasant."
Anya stares at him.
"What?" Delta asks.
"Nothing. I just...It's surprising." She answers. "I thought, if anything, it would've been an instrument."
"And why is that, Anya?"
"You're always so composed." She reaches towards him, then pulls away, hesitating. A moment later, she slicks back her own hair, mimicking his usual style – though it doesn't stay, falling into her face again.
"Ah."
He averts his eyes as he runs his own fingers through his hair, messing it up.
The room appears to grow the slightest bit colder as the last song fades.
He offers her his hand.
Anya seems to hesitate. "I can't promise I'd be good at it, either. I've never really danced."
"We can learn."
"I guess we can." Anya answers, and takes Delta's hand.
He tries his best to remember the starting position. As he places her hand atop his shoulder, faint splotches of pink begin to color Anya's cheeks – more so as he places his other hand between her shoulders. "Just follow my lead. As I go forward, you go back, and vice-versa." He says.
"...Who taught you?"
"Beta's...partner, Luís. He knew quite a few."
She winces as she makes a misstep. "I'm sorry."
Delta ignores the apology – too many, tonight. "Try not to be so tense, Anya."
"...I'll try."
He remembers how she was able to keep time while listening to other songs. "Would the music help?"
"It might." She answers, glancing past him at the case of CDs.
The CD player whirs to life once more, filling the air with soft singing. They start practicing once more.
"You used to like to do this." Anya looks up at him.
"I did. In a sense," He muses, "my brother's wish that this also serve for us to understand each other more backfired. Learning this only made me more fond of humanity. More keen to cling to it."
"Then you stopped." Anya leaves the when and why unsaid. It isn't necessary – they both know the reason.
"Then I stopped."
"Do you mind having started again, even if only a little?"
"...Luís used to say that you cannot cover the sun with a finger. The light still shines through, in its own way. So no, I don't quite mind. The sun is..." He looks at her golden hair, suddenly glad she isn't looking at him, focused as she is on not making a misstep. "...Necessary for life."
Four songs start and come to an end before either of them speak again. They settle into a rhythm.
"...It's..." Anya murmurs. "It's...like an ebb and flow."
"....I never quite understood that saying."
"Hm?" She has to focus to hear his voice, barely more than a whisper, over the music.
"Ebb and flow." Delta adjusts his grip on Anya's hand, stepping forward as she takes three steps back, trying to match his pace.
"What do you mean?" Her eyes only briefly meet his, trying to ensure that she doesn't take a wrong step again.
As Anya now takes three steps forward, Delta steps back.
"The water itself does not actually increase or decrease in volume. Any increase or decrease is just an illusion."
"...I never quite thought about it that way." Anya murmurs.
A new song fills the silence.
Her fingers drum on his shoulder, in time with the beat. "You have a point. But I think it may be more about the reach of the water. Unless you follow it," She steps back, "the high tide is the only time you'd likely come into contact with it."
Delta does follow, now acutely aware of where they touch – one hand between her shoulders, the other holding her free hand. "You may be right."
He watches Anya's hair catch the light, turning gold as the sun's rays, as he twirls her.
"I don't think you needed to worry. You're still a good dancer." She tells him. "That didn't ebb away, not too much."
"...If I were to ask you to dance again, would you mind?"
The smile tugging at her mouth is faint, but it may as well be pure sunlight to him. "No. I wouldn't."