It happens. The Christmas spirit likes to tear into fresh and old wounds. There's actual studies on it. Tim keeps quiet, and then he's echoing her amused, awkward huff.

If it makes you feel any better, he doesn't say because he catches himself knowing that it will not help, I don't remember the last gift I've gotten so anything will get backflips outta me.

But in that same vein, his words dip experimentally into playfulness. "Seriously, it's okay. If it makes you feel better, though, I'm easy."

--stop.

"--to shop for."

It dawns on him that he misses... scripts. A deer in headlights, he struggles to salvage his butt from sinking in this shallow pool of niceties. "If you find anything with--"

God damn, he has no idea what he's doing and that's both unacceptable and plain sad.

His mind's blank.

"Like--"

Very empty.

It's not fun, the anxiety that loves him sloshing through the paths of what used to be Memory and Identity.

Tim shrugs, eyes alight with the idea of inventing someone new; Kate doesn't deserve it. This is supposed to be an apology and fresh start, not a game. A game he's losing. And he's breathless, exhaling again despite the empty strain of his lungs.

"--photography?Idon'tknow. A camera? It doesn't have to work, I like-- fixing-- And I'll let you know if I find the Mouse's siblings around. They'd make a cute set. Hey, I... gotta bounce."

Lame. So lame.

"I told someone I was taking over dishwashing duty and I'm absolutely not going to do that."

That's better.

"I'll see you around?"

Like, duh?