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Two figures emerge from the corridor that leads to the Security Office, moving slowly. It's Ava Wilson and Andrew Wells; they seem tired, or stiff, or dizzy, or possibly all three.

Wait.

Make that three figures. Sort of.

Perched on Andrew's shoulder, alert and looking around, is a familiar arachnoid shape.

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"Definitely weird," he agrees fervently. "But yeah ... kind of fun too. At least, at least parts of it."

Another drink.

"I have never gotten so many nicknames in my life."

A muffled laugh, which just barely escapes turning into choking on his drink.

"I know, right?" He shakes his head. "I didn't expect that."

Ava smiles, but it fades into thoughtfulness as she takes another sip of her drink.

"You know, they were the worst kind of nickname, too," she says.

"Because they were pretty much all true."

A beat.

"Yeah." That's quieter. More sober.

"Mine were, at least."

She is decidedly eyeing him now.

He takes another drink. "Yeah."

He's pretty sure he knows where this is going, and is trying to decide whether or not he should make it any easier for her.

She takes a drink.

"Who'd you murder?"

"My best friend," he says, to the glass of beer.

... Yikes.

Huh.

Damn.

Ava nods.

"Okay."

He glances back up at her.

"Not really." He says it quite calmly. "But yeah."

She snorts.

"Hey. You know me. This is not the corner for judging when it comes to killing people."

He tilts his head in silent acknowledgment of that, and takes another drink.

"I think I told you once," he says, "that I get why you wouldn't want to tell people something like that."

"Rings a bell," she admits.

And Sam told her, didn't he, that Andrew might understand her better than she thought?

(That part she still doesn't believe.)

He glances up at her. "Do you wanna know why, or ... not really?"

Ava's lips quirk.

"Why you didn't tell me when it was really relevant, maybe."

She shrugs.

"I'm curious. But if you don't want to share, I'll-- it'll be fine."

A beat.

"When it was really relevant?"

"Murder reveals."

She takes a sip of her drink.

Should she not be drinking right now?

"Mine. Awhile back."

His gaze drops to the table.

"Would it have helped?" Quiet. "Right then?"

"Not much would've, I guess," she admits, shrugging.

That was a bad time for her.

Looking back, she can't even be happy about Riley.

"I didn't know helpful was the point."

He lifts one shoulder, half-echoing her shrug. "Not the point, necessarily. Just ... I don't know. I wasn't in great shape that night."

... Which.

Fair, as she recalls. He kind of spent it learning that she was a huge manipulative liar who did not return his feelings.

Still, if there's any time for 'we have so much in common,' it's when you're discussing homicide.

"Yeah, well," she says, tone soft but casual.

"That was my fault."

"Not all your fault," he says. "There was other stuff going on too. With Sam, and ..."

He shakes his head. "But, yeah. I was ... it's not an easy thing to talk about. And right then it didn't seem like telling you would have done any good. For you or me."

Ugggh. There is always stuff going on with Sam.

And admittedly, Ava's not sure she would have been all that impressed by the revelation. It just feels like something she should've been made aware of, somehow.

She nods.

"You remember I said something about ... what you believed you had to do?" Slowly. "And you thought I was calling you crazy?"