Truthfully, as much as she exuded confidence now, it had taken Milla some time to fully come to terms with all aspects of her psychic abilities. Levitation she had taken to instantly, of course, and few of the other basic skills had been excessively difficult, just requiring a little more time and effort to master. She'd even managed an adequate level of proficiency in pyrokinesis before too long, though it was, for a variety of reasons, far from her favorite technique to use.

What she'd really had trouble with in the long run was her status as an empath.

True empathic power was considered something of a rarity among psychics, even within elite organizations like the Psychonauts, and Milla Vodello had apparently had some of the strongest raw ability they'd ever seen. They were quick to draft her into the agency, but she was reluctant to use the skill they wanted her for. To her, all it meant was hearing the agonized screams of children echoing through her mind every night, too close and too real.

Eventually, they coaxed her into practicing and taught her to control it properly. She learned to restrain her powers to determine how deeply she felt another's emotions, and soon she could sort quickly and lightly through a mind and search for feelings related to a specific event or person. It was quite useful in the field, and that, along with her levitation prowess, made Milla one of the Psychonauts' most valued agents. With years of experience and hard work under her belt, she had finally come to embrace her empathic abilities.

Now, though, as she sits across from her brooding partner, trying to focus on writing their latest mission report, and near-tangible waves of irritation are pouring off of him and buffeting painfully against her mind, she is beginning to question the value of her powers all over again.

Milla sighs and puts down her pen. "Darling, please," she says. "You are giving me a headache."

Sasha looks up, and his emotional landscape immediately shifts, a brief spike of guilt over the anger before both fade to a more tolerable level. "Sorry," he mumbles sheepishly.

She gives her head a quick shake and reaches up to massage her temples. One of the downsides of working together so closely for so many years is that, despite all her training and control, she is still quite sensitive to Sasha's emotions, much more than anyone else's. It usually isn't a problem, him being so stoic and restrained most of the time, but even he has his moments. This one has been building for a few days now. "That's alright, dear," she says, "but I really don't understand what you're so angry about."

He frowns and looks back down to his own report. There's hardly anything written on it. "I've already explained it to you," he says.

"You've told me what you're angry about," she replies. "I still don't understand why."

With another brief flash of irritation, Sasha looks at her and says impatiently, "Whispering Rock is a waste of our time right now. We should be on the Lombard case."

Milla clucks her tongue. "Sasha," she scolds, "teaching the children is very important. Besides, Gurung and Peterson are running that case now, yes?"

He glares down at his paperwork so fiercely she almost expects it to burst into flame. It's been known to happen around here. "Exactly," he mutters bitterly.

She laughs. It's amazing to her that Sasha has earned such a stern and serious reputation when he can be so childish and petty sometimes. "Just because you don't like them doesn't mean they aren't good at their jobs. They were very helpful in Istanbul last year."

He huffs, petulant, and resumes working on, or at least staring at, his report. "I suppose," he admits in a mumble.

Milla smiles. "You know we all get the assignments we get for a reason. Could you imagine either of them trying to run the camp with Morceau?"

The mental image of his two least favorite coworkers trying to contend with a swarm of untrained, undisciplined, adolescent psychics – plus whatever you'd classify Morry as – is enough to make Sasha snort with amusement. "You make a fair point," he says drily.

Milla takes that as a victory and grins at him. "Of course I do, darling." She pushes her chair away from the desk, kicks her legs out, and reaches her arms above her head in a full-body stretch. She can see Sasha's eyes flicker up to watch her behind the dark lenses of his glasses. "Anyway," she continues, letting her arms drop with a sigh, "we've been on one mission after another lately, and we deserve a rest. The camp will be a nice change of pace. I'm looking forward to it."

"You're looking forward to it because you actually like the children," he replies.

"Sasha," she says, with a disapproving shake of her head, "you like the children, too."

He shoots her a look over the rim of his glasses, one eyebrow arched.

"Okay, not all of the children," she corrects, "but I know you always grow fond of at least one or two of them. And Truman's little girl is attending again this year. You like teaching her."

"Hm," he mumbles noncommittally. Lili Zanotto has a lot of natural talent, of course, and he's given her a few lessons over the years, even taught her some basic marksmanship, but there's not much more he can teach her until she advances farther along in her other abilities – at least, not without getting Milla or Truman angry with him. Plus, she's starting to reach the age where summer camp is dumb and boring and all her father's friends are deeply uncool, even if they are elite ranking Psychonauts. Sasha can barely deal with children at the best of times; he certainly can't handle them when they hit that moody, sullen stage. He keeps that to himself, and out loud he only says, "She refuses to participate in the Brain Tumbler experiment, though."

"I can hardly blame her," Milla says with a frown. "You really shouldn't be putting children through that thing."

"It's perfectly safe," he protests immediately. This a long-standing point of contention between them, and the argument has become almost automatic. "I've tested the technology hundreds of times, and you and I have both gone through it fine."

"Yes, dear, I know," she replies, still frowning. She taps her fingers anxiously against the arm of her chair. "It's not them getting hurt I worry about; I know you'd never do anything to harm the campers. But facing your own mind like that can be…difficult."

Sasha looks down and away. He knows Milla hadn't slept well for several days after she tried out the Brain Tumbler at his request. "I'm very careful to ask only the children with particularly advanced abilities and mental defenses," he assures her. "The experiments will grant us a greater understanding of how psychic powers develop in young minds, and that helps us to better train them. We'll be able to keep them safer in the long run with that information."

Milla sighs and lifts her hands in a show of surrender. "Yes, I understand," she says reluctantly. "I know you're right. But please be gentle with them, okay? They are still just children."

"Of course," he promises quietly, still staring down at the desk.

She gives him a small smile and picks up her pen to begin working again. A more comfortable silence, no longer marred by the suffocating negativity of Sasha's frustration, quickly settles over them. It remains for several long moments, long enough for both of them to make a good amount of progress on their reports.

Milla puts the finishing touches on hers and leans back with a pleased sigh. She watches Sasha scrawl out a few more lines and waits until the pen pauses between thoughts before leaning forward and clearing her throat to get his attention. "By the way, darling," she says, "while we're speaking of the children, I was hoping to ask you for a favor."

Sasha's shoulders tense, and a short burst of anxiety pours off of him. "Yes?" he asks cautiously, without looking up.

"I've made some changes to my levitation course," she tells him. "Since we have so many repeat campers this year, I wanted to give them something new and challenging, but not so hard that the new ones can't complete it. Could you give it a test run and make sure everything is working properly?"

Sasha shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He knew it would be this. "I'm certain that's unnecessary," he says, leaning back slightly to meet her eye. "Your mental landscape is always perfectly stable and functional, and the campers always seem to find the level of difficulty to be suitable."

Milla smiles at his words, hearing the compliment within the evasion, but she presses on despite his obvious reluctance and the anxiety which is now slowly filling the room. "I'm happy you think so highly of my skill," she says, "but it would still make me feel better if you had a look." She dips her chin and widens her eyes slightly, a pleading expression. "Please, dear? It won't take much time, I promise."

He frowns. Milla has asked this favor of him a few times before, and it always makes him deeply uncomfortable. Not because he has any qualms about entering Milla's mind – it is loud, certainly, and far too bright for his tastes, but she is his partner, and they have long ago left behind any notions of mental privacy with regards to each other – nor because levitation is not exactly his strongest ability, and it's something of a blow to his ego when he has to struggle his way through a course meant to challenge preteens. It is because he knows what she really wants him to check on, and it's not the stability of her pinball-inspired obstacle course or her maddeningly loopy racetrack.

She wants him to make sure the mental defenses keeping her Nightmares locked down are all still in place.

It had been a shock the first time he'd found that dark little corner of Milla's psyche. He had seen Nightmares before, of course – one or two were expected in even the healthiest of minds – but he'd never seen so many in one place. And he'd never heard them talk so clearly, hissing vicious threats and accusations not meant for him into his ears. He had learned the basic outline of Milla's past at this point, but he hadn't expected anything like that.

Even more surprising, though, had been the sturdy, fiery barrier surrounding the Nightmares and keeping them safely at bay. Sasha may be the one always preaching the importance of control to all of his students, but he's never seen a mind more controlled than Milla's. His own mind is more organized, certainly, but order and control are very different beasts. He'd gotten everything in his head sorted to its proper place long before he'd learned to keep it that way. He envies Milla that level of skill, but he doesn't envy her the trauma she went through to earn it.

And he doesn't like being reminded of that trauma. He doesn't like seeing the flashes of memory, of a young and happy Milla forced to watch everything she loved burn to the ground. He doesn't like seeing the Nightmares that still prowl her mind as she sleeps, doesn't like hearing the venom they spew into her thoughts late at night.

It is selfish to consider refusing, but Sasha does not like to see his partner in pain, even through the filter of a memory.

But her expression right now is still quietly pleading, and he knows there is really only one answer to her request. Milla asks him to check on her Nightmares because she trusts him and she worries for the children in her care. Nightmares can be very dangerous to an outside mind, particularly a young, unpracticed mind unused to mental combat. She doubles down on her safeguards before she teaches every class, and she wants his additional assurance that the children won't be in any danger.

Sasha inhales deeply, holds the breath for a moment, and lets it out slowly. "Alright," he says with forced calm, looking back down and placing pen back to paper once again. "I'll take a look after I finish this report."

Milla gives a wide smile, so full of warmth and gratitude it is almost blinding, and reaches across the desk to take his free hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Sasha," she says earnestly. "I appreciate it, truly."

After a brief hesitation, Sasha returns the gesture with a light press of his fingers against her palm. "Of course," he says, drawing his hand back a bit too quickly.

"I could look at your course, too, if you wanted?" Milla offers, leaning back and placing her hands in her lap.

He stares down at the paper in front of him, trying to remember what he had been planning to write next. He shakes his head absently in response to Milla's question. "No thank you. I haven't made any changes, so everything should still be working normally." His basic marksmanship course is very simple and straightforward, a few targets scattered across the flat expanse of his surface mental world. He has been working on a couple of new ideas for teaching the more complex techniques, but, as none of the campers enrolled this year are advanced enough yet to learn them, he hasn't bothered to implement anything into a real, functioning lesson. He'll have at least another year to fine tune it, after all.

"That's why the children always say your class is so boring," Milla says, her tone gently teasing.

He huffs in response, but she can feel his emotions settling back into calm and content, which she has sadly learned is as close to real happiness as Sasha gets most days. "Well, we can't all have your talent for curriculum design," he says drily. "I'm fine with being boring as long as they learn something."

"Yes, that is the most important thing." She grins widely and leans back further in her chair, tilting it up onto two legs. One foot pushes against the side of the desk, keeping balance as she sways the chair cheerfully back and forth. "This will be a good summer, I think," she says.

Sasha smiles and shakes his head fondly at his partner's enthusiasm. He may not overly care for the Whispering Rock job, but Milla absolutely loves it, and he can put up with a few weeks of children and chaos for her sake.

With any luck, it would be a relatively painless and uneventful summer, and they could soon get back to the real work.