Don't knock HQ. This is some kind of luxury cruise liner. We could be living in the deep-space equivalent of a camper.

[ Or worse. So much worse. Though he misses the Starjammers, even if the bathrooms were the size of postage stamps and it smelled like sweat, ozone and fur. ]

Though I'm struggling to ever picture you in a camper.

[ It feels like he's talking a lot, and he's pretty sure he's not in any way funny, or fully covering up that the thought of this conversation makes him more than a little nervous. It's not fair to Veronica to expect that the moment he tells her anything meaningful she might hold it against him. Or, worse, bolt. That's insulting to her. Or maybe it's just the thought of trying to explain anything to anybody, knowing what it sounds like, and he's just projecting all his neuroses and shame onto her.

Probably that. But they stumble on a good candidate spot— a number of trees, an artificial pond to drown out noise— he can't help shifting his weight a little as he stands and surveys. Trying to get a more solid footing, maybe, but not quite settling into collected stillness. ]

Here, maybe?