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Wish it was different. But it ain't, so no use cryin'.
Today, she sees him coming down the hall on her way out from her dinner shift, and she hastily - and obtrusively - ducks into the stairwell.]
He considers just ignoring it. If she wants to avoid him, why shouldn't she? But after he's taken a few more steps, he reconsiders the thought. Maybe because he wants to talk to her, and maybe because she always feels a little like she's running and ducking, and he doesn't think that's a good thing.
"June," he says, firmly, loud enough that she can't pretend not to hear it. "Miss Harris -"
Here, her voice trembles a little, and she pauses briefly to make sure it's under control.
"I wouldn't blame you."
"It weren't as hard for me as it was for you," he says, firmly, stepping in, making sure he can take control of the situation.
"You talk to anyone about it yet? Your warden?"
"So I'm set."
Her pale face and wan expression belie this a bit, but what can you do.
His shoulders fall a little. He's not going to force her to talk about something she doesn't want to talk about, even if it's clear to him that it's necessary.
"You don't look set. But I ain't gonna beat you up about it."
She runs a restless hand through her hair.
"Talking about it won't help with that."
"Why not? You had somethin' awful happen to you, too. You deserve a chance at feelin' better about it. And I know it sounds like a damn cop-out, but I know talking about my mistakes helped me. In the past."
It'll be leverage, she thinks distantly, automatically, in case she ever needs anything to hold over him - but god, even she knows how ridiculous that sounds. Who would she even tell? The Admiral? His friends? Tess? Anything he'd still her is something they all surely already know.
He lets out a breath - and then gestures, follow me.
"I'll tell you, but I ain't tellin' you in a stairwell."
"My cabin's too far off - maintenance office. I got a key, and there's booze if you want some later on."
He rounds a corner, then fishes a set of keys out of the pouches on his belt.
"Arthur, I can't think of anything that's more sad than getting drunk in the maintenance office."
"Didn't realize you was so damn picky," he says, rolling his eyes - but he jerks his chin, in that case. A few more flights to take, to his cabin.
"You don't take the elevator? It doesn't freak you out, does it?"
"You sayin' that because I'm old?" He gives her a slight grin back. "It's slow, and cramped. And I got attacked by one of them statues last time I took it."
Bad juju, June.
"Fine, we'll give our calves a workout today. But you'll have to try to write over those bad memories sometime. You'll keep dwelling on them if you don't."
Take it from her, the expert at trying to overwrite bad memories.
He raises an eyebrow at her as they go. "Ain't some of it preservation instincts?"
He's used to the wild. Instincts do a man good, out there.
He certainly doesn't seem to like hers.
"I think he sometimes don't like what we do about 'em, mostly," he points out. But with one more flight of stairs, they're down on his floor, and he opens the door to his cabin. It's small, smaller than most inmate cabins - a desk, a small bookcase, a bed that's a little out of place since it's too big for the space it's in. A few personal pictures, a map on the desk, and two chairs.
He sits down on one, gestures at her to take the other.
"So?" she prompts, perching herself on the edge of the second chair.
"So," he says, stretching his legs out, folding his hands on top of his stomach. "I can't remember what all I told you about what I did. Who I was, back home."
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