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Delta knows, by now, that Anya is likely to be found in the kitchen, if she's not resting or stargazing outside.
Unlike previous nights, he elects not to persuade her to sleep – having a restless night himself. He does, however, focus on the ingredients laid out between them. Flour, honey, vanilla extract, butter, sugar, and…
“I thought you said this was calming for you?” He asks, raising an eyebrow - holding the small container of instant coffee.
“Put that down.” She answers, not quite meeting his eyes.
“I would think that caffeine has the opposite effect.”
“It’s not to drink, Delta. It’s...just meant for this recipe. Pryaniki.”
He glances at the recipe – the note scrawled under the title. “You learned this from your father?”
Anya nods. “I did. He liked to say baking was something that would keep both his hands and thoughts busy when he needed them to be, and it didn’t hurt that it resulted in good food by the end.”
“And you need your thoughts occupied at this hour?”
When she looks up at him, her eyes are haunted. “In a sense.”
“...Pay me no mind, then.” He sits down across from her, watching her.
While Anya opens the pantry to find the spices, she shakes her head before saying, “...Delta, did you ever...wonder what your place was, in the world? Why it was you, of all the people in the world, who became one of the Ten?”
With that, he can guess what she wishes to avoid tonight - her sister's demise.
“...I never wondered why it was me. Our mother was quite clear on her reasoning. But yes. I often wondered about my place. To be honest, I...imagined living a life much like yours, before.”
Anya glances at him. “An overworked oncology nurse?”
“Hm.” A smile tugs at his mouth. “I did not mean that specific to your life. But something that would’ve aided humans...I would’ve liked that."
“...Yeah.” She answers, quiet.
After a pause, eyes fixed on the written recipe, she says, “...For what it’s worth, which may not be much, I think it’s, as my father and I would say, бред сивой кобылы. Hogwash, really.”
“What, exactly, are you referring to as hogwash?”
“...That you and your siblings are a violation of what it means to be human.”
Delta decides, in that moment, that he must fix his gaze anywhere else, but not upon her. “...And why is that?”
"300,000 years of humanity existing – and countless people, now including me, along the way who have tried and failed to define it. I suppose what it boils down to, in the end, is a feeling of kinship – to the benefit of some and detriment of others. But there’s so many different experiences out there that it seems silly, doesn’t it? If I didn’t know, I would’ve thought you were no different from me. Well,” she tilts her head, “perhaps not able to revive like this.”
“And I suppose you think that alone makes me as human as...the others you’ve met?” Delta asks. “Or that your feeling different from other humans is the same as what my siblings and I have gone through? They still welcomed you with open arms in the northern base.”
Anya laughs, standing over the stove, stirring the mixture of dissolved instant coffee with honey, butter, and sugar. “I did say my words were probably not worth much, and I'll never quite know the extent of the scorn for you all. But you’re wrong about that; they didn’t welcome me – actually, my brother shot m-” She freezes, inhaling sharply. But it’s too late to take back what she’s just admitted.
The words hang heavy in the air.
He should apologize.
Yet those two words stick in his throat, refusing to come out.
“...That’s why you didn’t even try to deny it, when I told you what he’d done to my sister.” Delta finally says.
“...Yes.” Anya’s voice is low, too, her head bowed as she tries to refocus on her task.
What she says next is so quiet that it’s surely something said only to herself. “...We had our differences in the past, but now, it...there’s hardly anything I recognize in him.”
He pretends he doesn’t hear those words or how thick her voice sounds.
“In any case,” Anya says, clearing her throat, “in a purely physiological sense, neither of us are human. Normal humans don’t regenerate, and they don’t revive either. But that’s not what you mean when you say you aren’t human, is it?”
Delta says nothing for several moments.
“...You seem to be trying to convince yourself of someone’s goodness in this situation. I am not good, Anya, and the scorn humans had for my family and I helped to make it so. Do not forget that.”
"Ah, I never said anything about good, did I?" Anya sighs. "I said human – that isn't the same. I've...learned about you, too, during this time. Enough to know you're likely going to resent me for saying this."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
Anya pours the mixture from the pan into a bowl, then meets his eyes, unflinching – the light of her teal gaze reminds him of a scalpel.
And true to form, her next words cut into him, further exposing a festering wound.
She stirs in the spices. "I know...my brother killed the part of you that hoped to coexist. But he didn't succeed at killing all of your humanity."
"...You know that you gain nothing by saying this, Anya. Or even by noticing it, if you’d like to follow in your brother's footsteps, despite knowing the truth. Do you wish to succeed just like he did?"
Anya flinches at that, the batter almost spilling.
The pained horror in her expression is nearly enough to make him regret his words.
Nearly.
"Don't say that." Anya's voice is icily quiet.
"Hm. For your sake, I hope it isn't true. That would be a very foolish thing to admit."
"...I swore not to cause anyone harm, as part of my former profession. It's been over 25 years since, I know. But it was important to me then. It's one of the few things I have that hasn't changed over that time. That I still know. You don't know how important that makes it to me now." She incorporates the last of the flour into the batter.
A few moments pass as Anya puts plastic wrap over the bowl containing the pryaniki dough.
Perhaps his words are enough to kill her foolish notion regarding his humanity – if it were anyone else, it would have been.
"Delta. I don't know that you realize," She sets the other bowls and utensils to one side, "just how much your humanity...it bleeds out of you."
Delta looks at her, eyes glowing bright green.
Her voice is soft and somehow that only makes her words more painful to hear. "For it to remain, after everything, it must be embedded within you, like bone marrow to blood."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "You've forgotten one crucial part. If the marrow in question is diseased, it should be replaced. Considering your line of work, you, of all people, should be well aware of that."
Anya puts the dough to rest in the refrigerator, closing the door.
“...I see.” She murmurs, and does not speak again.
He can't tell whether or not he's disappointed or relieved that the conversation is over.
By the time news of Omega’s location arrives, the two have wordlessly agreed to ignore that night.
--
Delta is at her bedside, a day after she had....
Not died, necessarily.
Anya was...deathless, after all.
But even Omega had been weakened by those weapons, and perhaps it was the cold quality of moonlight, but she looked...gaunt.
Fragile.
Yet, she'd...managed to not only outrun the snipers, but had enough momentum to tackle him into the snow.
All without consideration for her own fate or for whom she was risking it for, surely.
What would she gain from it?
He checks the thick layer of bandages on her torso, before setting Anya back down gently.
There is no visible blood.
"...I suppose you were right, about someone's humanity. It does...bleed out, doesn’t it?" Delta murmurs, fingers entwined with her hair.
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches Anya's unmoving form.
By the time he leaves at dawn, the blanket covering her has not yet begun to rise or fall with any breaths.