He wants space. Fine. That's fine. Tess is an expert in space, practiced in the art of leaving a man alone until she has something to offer, some need that supersedes the silence. Someone died, or nearly did, and we need to deal with that. Someone got hurt, we have to fill in. Something came up, we have to go deal with it. We never have to talk about ourselves, so let's talk about this instead. Move on.
Home offered that up in spades. Hell, the Barge usually does, too. The space game has been ongoing with Butcher for weeks. Arthur's been days and the need for an excuse feels ten times as excruciating.
But the barge doesn't offer up any convenient excuse. No floods, no breaches, no port that would have her knocking on his door. She could bring up Yunlan having an attack dog, but to what end? Bucky threatened her, but there isn't a scratch on her. It all just feels like paranoia. There's no excuse.
No excuse beyond not wanting space, anyway, but it's not really her call to decide when he's had enough.
The one she comes up with herself feels far more tedious than just saying hey, this matters. Arthur will likely never understand the effort it takes to figure out how to get a photo off her communicator with only an old iPhone, the clunky Barge network, the clunkier Inmate network and whatever hardware the common rooms have, but she hopes the sentiment comes through anyway. She can’t put how much he matters to her in words, she can’t admit that just thinking about fucking up their bond leaves a tightness in her throat, but she can bust out that old selfie of them after the treasure hunt, bathed in summer light and smiling like idiots. Taken after their first actual spat –– one that feels small in hindsight.
She gets it printed out. Writes in pen on the back: Treasure Hunt, July 15 ????. It’s fit for a scrapbook.
She just slips it under his door and heads back down the hall.
He has a few pictures. Some of them are so important to him that he keeps
them in his journal - after William broke into his cabin and stole them,
he's never going to run the same risk again. Even if he could ask the
Admiral for new ones, he'd know. So there's the old picture with
Dutch and Hosea; there's Mary; there's his mother and father, damn the
latter to hell. That's it. These things are important to him, but there's
not much he tries to hold on to.
The moment he drags himself out of bed and looks at what's been pushed
underneath his door, he knows it's going into his journal. Jesus, when does
he ever look so happy? When does Tess ever look that happy? Not the
way they're both currently miserable, anger, guilt and resentment fighting
for the upper hand at any given moment. That stupid treasure hunt had
gotten the both of them talking. It'd gotten them on the same level. And
damn it, it was fun.
He can see it for what it is. He takes out his journal and puts the picture
between the pages of his last journal entry, where he'd written about his
doubts about trust, about his own ability to help Tess. Where to draw
lines, when your own life has consisted of crossing any lines you've come
across?
He opens the door, and takes the few steps towards hers. He knocks.
Tess feels a mild surge of dread when he knocks; she wanted her excuse and she worked for it, but having that effort acknowledged feels like a wild card. Maybe he likes it, but maybe it came across as manipulative, some last ditch effort to get back into his good books. Being sentimental is the most cloying and cheap of tricks. Owning it feels disallowed. Sell it or hide it away.
She studies him through the peep hole for a long moment and rests her forehead against the door to compose herself. She puts on her best neutral look to open the door. Pretend to be surprised, but just a touch. Absolutely do not look relieved, or fearful, or even the slightest bit desperate.
"Hey," he says, in turn - and then heaves a big sigh and comes to put an
arm around her. It's not a hug, but it's an invitation to one. How many
times hadn't he wanted that from anyone in the gang? How many times had he
apologized? Said I been a bad man, and my life is gonna have a bad end,
and I deserve it - and wanted someone to say I forgive you, Arthur.
You made mistakes, and God won't forgive you, but I do.
He can't just get back the trust she'd squandered by doing something so
stupid, so soon after their agreement. But he can show her forgiveness. And
he can show her love.
She hesitates hard, and her poker face is abysmal around him, but the siren call of being held is far more powerful than any fear of looking sensitive. She tucks her chin down and she leans into him, her sling tucked against her ribs and her other arm snaking around him. She breathes in deep, to steady herself as relief floods her.
He asked a question. She has to string together an answer that isn’t “being a millennial” or doesn’t require her to explain computers.
“Uh, there’s printers for that, the same way books are printed just with colour... the real bullshit was getting it from the phone to the printer.”
"You gotta show me sometime," he says, resting his chin on top of her head.
As if they're having a normal conversation, and not hugging it out after a
big fight.
"I took a picture of the craziest damn bird last month. Maybe someone would
like to see it."
She nods very curtly, forehead against his collarbone. There’s a lump the size of the fucking moon lodged in the back of her throat and she knows she will feel like the weakest person to ever live later on, but for at least a moment, that is exactly where she wants to be.
“Yeah, we can print everything you take,” she replies, somewhat muffled this time. “Maybe someone has glossy paper too or something, it’ll look all official.”
“Well if it’s that crazy, you should have a picture so you don’t have to explain what it looked like,” she replies, and she gives him a little squeeze. She could stay there forever, but the longer she does, the more likely it is she’ll lose her damn head over it, so she pulls back gently.
She nods, hauling herself together again to something like composure. She can feel tears on her lower lashes but she’s going to stubbornly ignore them, and look away as long as she needs to.
“Yeah, I think I’d lose my shit if that happened,” she says, moving into the cabin. “We‘d never hear the end of it.”
She finds the tin and sets it on the counter while she fills the kettle and gets the hot-plate going. She spoons a heaping teaspoon of little coffee granules into a stained mug. All easy to do one-handed, fortunately.
"Yeah, not exactly a great choice on the Admiral's part," she replies, leaning against the counter. Unless he's testing their self-restraint, in which case... touché.
She pours hot water into the mug, watching as it turns dark brown.
"He comes up with these stories for people and lets them run away with him," she replies as she brings the coffee over and sets it down in front of him. She can't help but roll her eyes a little –– William. "Just cross your fingers that the Barge makes you think you're his family or something, it'll settle him right down after."
"No promises that would settle me down," he warns. "He seems to
think it was my fault he shot me that one time, and now he's allowed to
always be pissed at me."
She shakes her head as she takes a seat across from him. Being lovers had been like an ice bath thrown on her conflict with William; she might have denied it with warning, too.
"It doesn't always make sense," she replies. She mulls over telling Arthur that William assumed he'd broken her arm, but maybe that's an unhelpful sort of honesty. "I don't know. You're a warden. Just be the bigger man, the rest of it is his problem."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
soft spammmmmm
Home offered that up in spades. Hell, the Barge usually does, too. The space game has been ongoing with Butcher for weeks. Arthur's been days and the need for an excuse feels ten times as excruciating.
But the barge doesn't offer up any convenient excuse. No floods, no breaches, no port that would have her knocking on his door. She could bring up Yunlan having an attack dog, but to what end? Bucky threatened her, but there isn't a scratch on her. It all just feels like paranoia. There's no excuse.
No excuse beyond not wanting space, anyway, but it's not really her call to decide when he's had enough.
The one she comes up with herself feels far more tedious than just saying hey, this matters. Arthur will likely never understand the effort it takes to figure out how to get a photo off her communicator with only an old iPhone, the clunky Barge network, the clunkier Inmate network and whatever hardware the common rooms have, but she hopes the sentiment comes through anyway. She can’t put how much he matters to her in words, she can’t admit that just thinking about fucking up their bond leaves a tightness in her throat, but she can bust out that old selfie of them after the treasure hunt, bathed in summer light and smiling like idiots. Taken after their first actual spat –– one that feels small in hindsight.
She gets it printed out. Writes in pen on the back: Treasure Hunt, July 15 ????. It’s fit for a scrapbook.
She just slips it under his door and heads back down the hall.
Re: soft spammmmmm
He has a few pictures. Some of them are so important to him that he keeps them in his journal - after William broke into his cabin and stole them, he's never going to run the same risk again. Even if he could ask the Admiral for new ones, he'd know. So there's the old picture with Dutch and Hosea; there's Mary; there's his mother and father, damn the latter to hell. That's it. These things are important to him, but there's not much he tries to hold on to.
The moment he drags himself out of bed and looks at what's been pushed underneath his door, he knows it's going into his journal. Jesus, when does he ever look so happy? When does Tess ever look that happy? Not the way they're both currently miserable, anger, guilt and resentment fighting for the upper hand at any given moment. That stupid treasure hunt had gotten the both of them talking. It'd gotten them on the same level. And damn it, it was fun.
He can see it for what it is. He takes out his journal and puts the picture between the pages of his last journal entry, where he'd written about his doubts about trust, about his own ability to help Tess. Where to draw lines, when your own life has consisted of crossing any lines you've come across?
He opens the door, and takes the few steps towards hers. He knocks.
no subject
She studies him through the peep hole for a long moment and rests her forehead against the door to compose herself. She puts on her best neutral look to open the door. Pretend to be surprised, but just a touch. Absolutely do not look relieved, or fearful, or even the slightest bit desperate.
Be calm.
"Hey."
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"Hey," he says, in turn - and then heaves a big sigh and comes to put an arm around her. It's not a hug, but it's an invitation to one. How many times hadn't he wanted that from anyone in the gang? How many times had he apologized? Said I been a bad man, and my life is gonna have a bad end, and I deserve it - and wanted someone to say I forgive you, Arthur. You made mistakes, and God won't forgive you, but I do.
He can't just get back the trust she'd squandered by doing something so stupid, so soon after their agreement. But he can show her forgiveness. And he can show her love.
"How'd you get that picture onto the paper, huh?"
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He asked a question. She has to string together an answer that isn’t “being a millennial” or doesn’t require her to explain computers.
“Uh, there’s printers for that, the same way books are printed just with colour... the real bullshit was getting it from the phone to the printer.”
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"You gotta show me sometime," he says, resting his chin on top of her head. As if they're having a normal conversation, and not hugging it out after a big fight.
"I took a picture of the craziest damn bird last month. Maybe someone would like to see it."
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“Yeah, we can print everything you take,” she replies, somewhat muffled this time. “Maybe someone has glossy paper too or something, it’ll look all official.”
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"It was crazy, not nice to look at," he argues, softly, gently patting her shoulder. "Maybe if I catch a big fish sometime."
He's got his priorities straight. Jesus, he's glad she took the first step.
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He pats her shoulder again, then notches his chin at her cabin.
"C'mon. Three's a crowd, don't want someone like BJ seein' us and getting the wrong idea."
He might make up a song. No way he's going to let that happen.
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“Yeah, I think I’d lose my shit if that happened,” she says, moving into the cabin. “We‘d never hear the end of it.”
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He gives her a little slap between the shoulder blades, following her inside.
"That man has too much energy by far."
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"Less to prove to everyone," he guesses. "You got some coffee?"
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“Uh, somewhere around here,” she replies, and she goes to the wardrobe to root around amongst the canned goods. “It’s instant, though, that alright?”
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"Sure, I don't mind instant."
He sits down at her table and puts his journal down, relaxing a little. They have to talk about it, but he's enjoying settling into a dynamic first.
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She finds the tin and sets it on the counter while she fills the kettle and gets the hot-plate going. She spoons a heaping teaspoon of little coffee granules into a stained mug. All easy to do one-handed, fortunately.
“I miss anything fun these past few days?”
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"Oh, yeah. The invisibility thing's going great on a ship full of petty assholes and people with an under-developed sense of humor."
He puts his hat on the table too and tries to relax.
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She pours hot water into the mug, watching as it turns dark brown.
"Anyone gone after you yet?"
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"Oh, yeah. William had a go at me. Where that man's grudge comes from I don't know, but it's annoying as hell."
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"No promises that would settle me down," he warns. "He seems to think it was my fault he shot me that one time, and now he's allowed to always be pissed at me."
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"It doesn't always make sense," she replies. She mulls over telling Arthur that William assumed he'd broken her arm, but maybe that's an unhelpful sort of honesty. "I don't know. You're a warden. Just be the bigger man, the rest of it is his problem."
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"I try to be. I ain't the one who smacked him in the head, on account of not being invisible."
He probably wouldn't have done it anyway. Probably.
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