TLV PSL ASAP (for wetware)

[oedipusrat]

[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.

Comments

[oedipusrat]

"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.

[wetware]

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."

[oedipusrat]

"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."

[wetware]

"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.

[oedipusrat]

"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?"

[wetware]

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."

[oedipusrat]

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."

[wetware]

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."

[oedipusrat]

"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."

[wetware]

"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."

[oedipusrat]

"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."

[wetware]

"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."

[oedipusrat]

"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.

[wetware]

"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.

[oedipusrat]

"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?"

[wetware]

"A firing range? Somewhere to build and test whatever I'm interested in?" Probably not the best thing to have on the Barge, but it really has been too long since he's dabbled in a little recreational or work-related arson.

"I don't think that would go over well, do you?" Again, he does not jerk away at the touch. Not even a flinch, but there is a momentary stillness.

[oedipusrat]

"Fair enough. I was thinking an item, but a whole room? Yes, that would be nice. Too nice. Too dangerous, even maybe for the Wardens."

No touching this time. He hums a little thoughtful sound. "Favorite color?"

Maybe he's just playing with his food first.

[wetware]

"Do adults regularly have a favourite colour? Should I say that I only eat the red Smarties? Or something poetic about the colour of a flower?" He shrugs and that almost brings his shoulder in contact with Silva's. "I don't suppose I have one. I'd rather not wear orange or have a room decorated in bilious green or baby shit brindle, but I don't think that's a fair answer."

"You?"

[oedipusrat]

"I've a fondness for greens. Pale like the grasses growing on sand dunes or dark as palm fronds. You see, nothing wrong in being a little poetic. It also does not mean I wear them all the time." His own shrug, wide and casual. "These are things you cannot learn from a screen. Maybe I will get you a new mug, hm? In bright orange, just for you. Those are the details I want to know."

Of course he's read Q's file. Strictly to the point, like all files, reports, documentations. It doesn't show the person.

"You want me to get on with it. To not throw softballs, yes? Dig in deep just so you can feel mildly offended and then refuse to answer? This is the game I can play if that's what you want."

[wetware]

"I wouldn't lose it then." You see? A bright side, to even a hideous mug. Why would you get him a mug, Silva? Don't do that. Don't...just, the idea fits into what he would expect at work and that's not a line he wants to cross.

"I would be far easier for me if I could just be offended, scoff, and then walk away. Might even be better for the both of us." His file is fairly uninteresting: an unstable home life as a child, average scores in school, and then joining the military when he was of age. A few years in the Royal Engineers, a few more years in school, and a smattering of small, positive commendations and reports. Clever, but an almost prosaic choice.

[oedipusrat]

"Because it would feel more like the status quo, if I would say something to hurt, and you would remind yourself that willingly letting yourself be open was as bad an idea as you first thought." One little huff of a laugh, almost a scoff.

"Are we not here to grow as people? Maybe I don't go picking fights anymore. Maybe you're picking them now. If I say something that hurts, would you not only have yourself to blame?"

[wetware]

"Not only."

Q considers what he ought to do. He knows he's being goaded, but there's a soft-spoken part of his psyche that wants to see what will happen next. What else, what else.

"I shall try to keep my temper in check." Breathing in, a beat, and then breathing out. He is uncomfortable and feels somewhat trapped in a conversation that he is not equipped to get out of, but it's not wholly unwelcome.

...well, there's an unwanted bit of self-awareness. He's so used to some flavour of adrenaline burning in his breast, but nothing here really provides that jolt. Nothing and no one but Silva - that fear reaction still remains.

[oedipusrat]

Silva takes Q in, takes the information he can gather and sorts it mentally, taking stock. His expression grows more serious. Not playing, then. Maybe still a game, however.

"Dear Quartermaster, maybe your temper will flare, maybe you will simply laugh at me. You won't upset me. But I would like to know. Things I cannot read on a screen, you see." But things that can be read on a person. If Q wants something to keep him so on his toes, so be it. An easy enough part to play for continued contact with someone from home.

He is even quiet, somber. Softer. Earnest. Uncharacteristic of him by and large. It means something to him.

"Do you love him?"

[wetware]

"Not romantically." That is not an answer. Q mulls it over, adjusts his glasses, and again makes a conscious decision to turn and look at Silva, allowing the other man the liberty to watch as he wishes.

"But I looked to the future, and I saw the writing on the wall. When I, I shouldn't have looked, you see? But I wanted to know what medical found in his head. I knew what was coming. I couldn't let it end that way. Not for him, not for anyone." Q is quiet, his voice soft, and there's none of that crisp, cutting tone now.

"I suppose that's love. Of a sort. Or ego. That I couldn't let that happen on my watch. That I couldn't think of a way to do it cleanly and without trace. Too many safe-guards within the time I had available, before the symptoms would become noticeable."

[oedipusrat]

That is an answer. Honestly, he wasn't fully expecting anything. Maybe a quick dismissal. So that Q continues is appreciated. Silva is attentive, not patronizing or overbearing, but present and taking each word as it comes and filling in a picture.

"You gave up everything for him. I would say it is a type of love, yes."

Silva licks his lips, folds his hands together. "It was that bad, I see." Yes, drilling holes in the head could have all kinds of nasty side-effects, but the specifics had been left barren. "Years of recovery at best?"