[ She's noticed. Of course she's noticed. You don't spend eight weeks with someone in a murdercan and not learn to pick up on their tells. And it's even more obvious now, compared to even a month ago, now that he's flesh and blood and beating heart again. And she doesn't think it takes a genius to work out what might have him so... this.

She's quiet as she writes, for the most part. She's only concentrating on this little list on the surface, really. She's far too busy thinking about those snatches of conversation from before. The Chosen King. The fallen son. Bahamut.

She wants to ask. She wants so badly to ask, so she can understand. So she can help. But she doesn't know if forcing him to talk about something he might not be ready to talk about will do any good. ]

Mmn. I think I should've made a list like this as soon as we all knew we were travelling together. It's important to know what sort of skill pool we have between us in case... in case of this sort of thing, I suppose.

[ She watches that ring twist, twist, twist around his finger for a moment in silence before speaking up again. ]

Dad. What's wrong?

[ Her voice is soft but with a firm undertone and though it's a simple question she chose her words carefully. "What's wrong?" is "I want to help" and "Dad" is "Because we're family". ]