oedipusrat | TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

[several months after this initial interaction]

Rachette doesn't kick in the door. She's not a barbarian. But the door is definitely opened in a manner that is heavier and harder than strictly necessary. Being The Warden was pain enough; being a warden is...irritating.

"He talks too much."

That's a possibly very petty thing to complain to the mage (who has explained to her that he is not a mage, but she remains not entirely convinced of this) about his...companion? Compatriot? Person from his same world. But talking to her inmate, a man who seems to prefer the name Silva to any of the other potential names he could be going by, is as frustrating as talking to Sten sometimes. Roundabout. Never to the point. Why does nobody ever just say what they mean?

The dwarf huffs and blows a few strands of silver hair from her face. "He uses too many words in strange ways. Would it kill him to just talk like a normal person instead of blathering on? Before I kill him."

She won't. That's not what she's here for, and he hasn't given enough reason to make her want to. But by the Stone and all of the Ancestors, he makes her job so difficult. Fighting a mob of darkspawn sometimes seems preferable.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Dearest darling little Scrabble tile."

Oh, this ought to be good. Silva's in good spirits, but honestly, it's rare for him to interact with Q and not at least appear in good spirits. The barge's little pit stops are...entertaining. Some of them make him feel young again. And some make him feel so very old.

He rolls his shoulders like working out a knot and unfurls himself on the nearest seat. Or the nearest surface that could conceivably work as a seat. Stretches out his legs, hands relaxed on his lap. Leaned back, but watching Q.

"You may be in it too long and too deep to smell the stench any longer, but tell me, are you aware of how full of shit your inmate is?"

Silva is not wrong, per se; however, Q is sure that it doesn't behoove his role as warden to literally shit-talk his charge. He ought to keep walking along the deck, just pass Silva on by and continue towards the library, but...

"Did you have a run in with Mr Malfoy?" He stalls and seems willing to talk. Q doesn't relax, but he doesn't appear as if he's about to bolt or fidget.

"We chat, on occasion. We have chatted quite recently, in fact, and I have to say--you could do better. His case," Silva blows out a little air through his lips, gives an impetuous wave of a hand, "this is not so difficult, from what I can understand of it. Maybe, in time, you can teach him the merits of humility? Ah, or would that be telling."

"It would, I'm afraid." He's certainly not going to deny that's the case, but Q has a gut feeling that there might be more to it than just a dash of humility. "I don't know how much I'll have to do with it, but I do think he'll graduate in time and hopefully be returned to his family."

A pause.

"Are you doing well?"

"No one day is ever boring." So, yes, that probably means well. "My warden, she's very tenacious. I like her, full of fire and spirit! Much smarter than she thinks she is, but ay, I am no teacher. I think, perhaps, you like her, too? As much as you can like anyone."

As much as he can like anyone that isn't James.

He scoots aside just a hair and solidly thunks his hand down on the space beside him, tapping a few times. "Come, sit, sit. Or would you have me join you instead, as though I could say no?"

"As much as I'm able, I do like her, yes." That he might not be able to like anyone hurts, but it's a little injury and he isn't too put off. "And she has a good heart."

Which may be either praise or condemnation, but it's hard to tell with him.

Q looks down the rest of the deck, off into the strangeness that they pass through, and then he nods. A small, faint motion of acknowledgement before he sits beside Silva.

He doesn't turn this into a big deal. He doesn't even watch but out the corner of his eye, or make any sly commentary. Q has chosen of his own doing to be here, and that is...enough.

"Do you suppose we would be better matched to one another? I do, I do like her, she is very streetsmart and wary, but she is out of her depth with me, I think. And Lucius, I allow him to think what he will of me, else he would steer very clear of me and my opinions." That he doesn't chase the wizard off by being loudly opinionated is perhaps telling in its own right. "He is rude about you. I may ask Miss Brosca yet to be allowed something for...fun. What color would he least like his hair to be? We will see what his magic does to dye."

He's joking!

Maybe.

"I am not the Admiral, but I think that you and her are a good match. If you had someone who loved wordplay as much, you'd both end up trapped in ever-tightening mazes of ideas." Q is quite sure that if they were matched, that's what would happen. Riddles within riddles and layers upon layers, none of which would help either of them.

"And I am quite used to people being rude about me and in Mr Malfoy's case, directly to my face. If he comes up with a novel insult, then I'll be impressed and I'll get you the box of palest robin's egg myself."

You see? He's helping. This is what Q helping looks like.

"Then perhaps I may egg him on myself so he has an original thought in his head. Just for that alone."

Still. Someone is being rude about Q. That is unfortunate.

"I wonder if that's more you've said about him in that alone than you've mentioned about me."

And Q knows just how little he's said about Malfoy. It's nothing that couldn't be learned by anyone onboard who has watched them interact.

"I wondered if she'd come to you about that. Your warden wasn't too pleased when I refused to talk about you, to give her an 'edge'." His refusal wasn't any great sacrifice, but it felt important.

"Oh, she said nothing of the sort. Which, in a way, is very telling. No one seems to know much of me save what I let them know, despite having a prickly source of information right here. And if you had given her that edge? Would I not be, hm, better adjusted for her renewed efforts?"

He watches carefully.

Should he deny it? It would feel better if he did. Telling this particular truth seems to cut a little too close to the bone.

"I will tell you what I told her: you are not one of mine, nor were you ever, but I do not talk about anyone that I have or could've worked with. If she wants her efforts to succeed, they must be on your mutual terms and as a result of her actions."

"I do not disagree with you." Fetch the smelling salts. "I was never one of yours. A rival? Hm? Fleet of fingers, sharp of wit, playing the digital chess board? But not one of yours."

He tilts his head, gives a thoughtful hum.

"Secret Keeper."

"In as much as I can."

Does he need to say that he chose to be a secret keeper for his own sake and not Silva's? Probably not.

"And, for what little it's worth, I am not your warden, nor do I wish to be, but I would like to ...if you want to talk to, at, or with someone who has an idea of what our world was like, I am fairly easy to find."

Did that hurt? It looked as if it might've hurt.

"You would like to...?" Of course he latches onto that unfinished statement instantly, immediately. Turns his body just so. Knocks their knees together. Leans, just so, into Q's space.

"Would you like me to seek you out, deliberately? Would you like to help drag me out of my own head, eh? Would you like to commiserate about home, about the prices of London flats, about dreary rain, about, hm, work?"

Q closes his eyes and takes a deep steadying breath. He does not move away or push Silva back, but his words are as icy cool with all the professionalism he can muster. "I would like to make the offer. And I have."

"If you would like those things, I will not dismiss you out of hand." A pause. "....except perhaps not housing prices."

A laugh, then. Too loud right next to Q, rippling down the hall. A hand claps Q's shoulder.

"Barely getting by as it is on a government paycheck, aha, you're starting to sound like an American, my friend. You need to relax, do you know? Relax, let loose, do things for yourself. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate you making it all about me and what I want, but this is about you as much as it is me."

He pointedly does not jump at the touch. It's not you, Silva, it's nearly everyone. Excepting a handful of Double0s that are utterly oblivious when it comes to personal space and preference.

"Is it? In what possible way is it about me?"

He gestures, vaguely waving away that question. It's not important. Not really.

"And I do relax. In my own way. I've never been a particularly loud or demonstrative person. Becoming one would not be very relaxing."

"Would you make me an offer if it did not also benefit you? Maybe you miss me, your little slice of home."

He clicks his tongue, slides the hand away. A very deliberate slide. "Maybe you can show me how you relax, and I can give you pointers on making friends instead of just acquaintances you keep at distance."

"Maybe."

There are things he misses from home, but he's not sure if Silva is the best way to replace them.

"And, I am not sure I need your, ah, help in that department. I am well and content. I ..." He doesn't want to do this. He truly doesn't, and yet. "But, I'll make an effort."

"Ah."

Maybe Q was expecting more flamboyancy, more excitement, lording over a small win. Silva smiles still, but it's more subdued.

"You miss his antics that much."

Not How To Make Friends, that's not James' style, but willingly giving into the idea of spending time with Silva? Wild spy with a penchant for chaos and utterly terrible coping mechanisms? The banter.

"You do not let anyone else get close enough to know you, and I am the only one left to have a conversation like this with you. That must burn."

"It is not a pleasant feeling."

He doesn't like Silva, but he is somewhat tired of not truly being seen by anyone here. There are good people here, interesting people, but they look at him and see a slight, harmless boffin. Too young, too soft.

"What do you want to know? If anything."

"Just like that? No strings, no--" He makes a motion like he's tugging on said strings. "Price, no negotiating?"

Seems a little too good to be true from the slight young man who has a bit more steel in him than most might give him credit for.

"I reserve the right to refuse, but what should I bargain for? There's not much that I want and even less than I need."

Q turns towards Silva, actually looking at him for once. Usually he looks past him, avoids eye-contact in general, but here he's truly studying the man. Curious.

"Information, time, effort, these are all things to bargain for. But you would just allow me to ask. I like this."

What a change. Silva is all easy lines, relaxed but ready--one in the field never really loses that. Studies in return, eyes flicking here, there. On what seems to be impulse, he reaches out again, gingerly, and flicks a bit of Q's mop of hair aside.

Smiles.

"Is there anything you want, an item that you do not have here, that the Admiral has not seen fit to bestow on you, whether through inability or your lack of asking?"

TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

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