[ She touches him like he's something fragile — the way people hold babies or puppies, sweet and soft and gentle when he's none of those things. It keeps him still. Not soothed, but— still, even as the warmth of her hand settles on his thigh, even as he watches a fish appear, gulping, in the spot she'd indicated. When she looks back up at him, he almost seems to startle, eyebrows jumping as he considers her question. ]

Sort of, [ he says, even before he directs his gaze back toward the water. ] But not the way you do.

[ Feel isn't the right word for it. He can see each little skeleton, hear each shift in the current, each living thing stripped down to its most component parts. But it's an x-ray, not a true sense of understanding. That's always eluded him, not least because he's always been held at such a remove. What understanding does a human share with an ant? What understanding does a god share with a human? Is wanting to understand enough? (And does he even want to?)

Another question hovers at the periphery of his thoughts: is Alia asking because she hopes he'll say yes? ]

But— yeah. I could tell you how many fish there are in the lake, which one's got a bum fin, who's on the hunt. Couldn't tell you what they're thinking, though.