worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

[He is also prompt, when it doesn't require using the little devices. He's been reading his, following along the various public conversations, trying to get intel. But using them to communicate... nope, uh-uh, absolutely not.

But in person requires promptness, especially from a warden, which he still hasn't separated in his head as a class from "handler". Not a main handler, not the one who is directly responsible for him (not having one of those both grates and feels somehow safer) but someone whose orders must be obeyed anyway.

So here he is, actually a minute early, approaching the trees in question with a bland expression and tension everywhere.]

He'll be delighted no doubt to spot one Misty approaching him at a considered, slow pace, a picnic basket in hand. His punctuality is something of a pleasant surprise, as it takes her a beat longer than hoped to actually greet him. (Lacking a name is little help.)

"Hey! Thanks for being so good about the short notice, just kind of got a bug about this all of a sudden." Post graduation rush, it's no joke. "Do you wanna sit a minute?"

Seating is more a feature of the garden or gazebo. She means right there, in the grass, as evidenced by her opting to take a knee before he can reply.

No, he doesn't want to sit a minute, or at all, but she's the warden here, and also, she's already doing it and standing there looking down at her is weirdly awkward. He does it for a beat or two, expression shading a little... put-upon, actually... before it smooths out again, then eases down to sit. Not cross-legged, because that's all but impossible to untangle from quickly if there's an attack, but with knees up and hands resting on top of them. Easy to roll out of and onto one's feet.

And he waits. She asked to see him, so surely she must have a reason.

Edited (typo) 2020-08-09 06:13 (UTC)

Taking the tension of his everything into consideration, Misty makes no extra gestures, adds very little flourish to her movement despite the reveal being one she hopes he'll find pleasant. The closed basket could itself seem threatening, so rather than place it between them it's rested at her side, half of its lid flipped open.

And out pops a head. Such a tiny, soft, harmless little head, blinking at the artificial sunlight streaming in around them and sniffing at the air - not wholly unfamiliar smells, but much stronger than they'd occur in Randel's room. Too small to explore solo yet, this one.

"Wanted to introduce you two," she explains. "My inmate graduated the other day, and he's got an awful lot of cats."

Introduce him to. Is that. A cat? A very... small cat? He looks between the kitten and the general vicinity of Misty's face, letting some of his confusion show. What does her inmate having cats have to do with him? She'd led this with "something to do"....

Oh, hell. Is he supposed to look after them for this (former) inmate, or something? He doesn't know anything about cats. (Sneaky. Skittish. Pawing at the trigger-guard.)

Wait, what?

Plenty to do, relatively simple considering the luck animals have with barge plots and abundant medical skill on board, what surely couldn't be a threatening presence on a ship replete with them. There's thought put into this, at least. It'll be worth the attempt regardless.

"You don't have to," a hasty preempt of the shooting down that wouldn't really surprise her and doesn't seem too far off, judging by his expression. "Zero pressure, they'll have a home regardless. But it sounds like you'd be better off keeping busy, and working with animals can be soothing."

She helps said kitten onto the ground, the whole of their torso fitting snugly enough in her palm. Much curious padding at the ground understandably follows, along with a peer up at him. No searching or sizing, merely acknowledging this large thing in front of them. And then a mew, predictably high in pitch.

"Was just figuring maybe let you see one in person, maybe mull on it until Randel leaves and takes the lot home with him. Very well behaved, this one. Great about the claws, friendly but not too loud..."

And look at that tiny, tiny face.

Yes, okay, it's very cute, but it's also tiny. And delicate. And. He could crush it on accident just by closing his fist at the wrong time. He can, in fact, vividly picture that very thing, and he tightens his hands on his knees as it to protect the kitten from something that only happened in imagination.

"I. Don't know anything about cats." Which is still objectively true, shut up, brain. He has no idea where those little flashes came from, and they might well not even be real, and they don't address important things like how to not crush it. "You shouldn't trust me with something like that." Something alive and dependent and tiny.

"But you're intelligent and you could learn. Again, really emphasizing here, you don't have to! But I think you could, I could give instructions and there's vets on board for an emergency."

Said kitten seems to be quite liking this place. Grass passes inspection, the next matter of business is waddling over to inspect his knee. No pawing as of yet, but some dedicated sniffing.

"Or there's adults, if the age worries you. I just think it might turn out to be helpful for you, worth a pitch."

He's not sure where she got the idea that he's smart, but okay. "Are the adults bigger."

Then he has to actually close his eyes for a few seconds because that was the dumbest thing he could possibly have said. Of course adults are bigger. They're adults. He opens them again at the sense of something moving, and holds very still while the kitten sniffs at his pants-- jeans today, rather than the combat pants. "It's just. It's very small."

It's cause to smile, at least.

"Bigger, more than used to watching themselves a lot of the time. No micromanaging needed. Lots to pick from."

Even if this tiny little thing is placing the first climbing paw against that very knee. Demonstrating, no doubt, a bold spirit.

Demonstrating absolutely no sense of self-preservation. His eyes are on it, and he is moving not a muscle, gripping his knees tightly. What does he do. What is he supposed to do. There's no expression, but it's clear he's tense in his voice when he says, "I might hurt it."

Better reason; he would have been better served to start there. She extends a hand, drumming her fingers against the dirt. A click of the tongue gains kitten attention, and the motion of her hand allures as intended. Stationary knee is easily abandoned in favor of pouncing practice - if the excitable, lumbering little jumps could be called pounces.

"But maybe that'd be less of an issue for an adult?"

Sometimes you have to work up to the truth a little bit, and really all the previous protests were clearly related to this one. Some of the tension bleeds out when the little one is no longer pawing at him, at least.

" ... maybe." He'd have to see one. But surely anything bigger than this, and more capable of defending itself, would be safer around a goddamn murder machine. Maybe not safe, but safer.

Misty looks predictably encouraged by this, visibly pleased despite the barrage of tiny nips directed at her hand.

"Seeing them all at once would probably be a little too much, I could film some and let you see them? Maybe just pick ones to meet in person that you already think seem an okay fit."

... how does one know if a cat is an okay fit? What mysterious criteria would there even be? Does he look for cats with a missing leg, or who don't want to be touched? Does he just look for the biggest one? He stares at her hand and the kitten for a long minute before he says flatly, "I have trouble picking out food at mealtime." How the fuck is he going to pick a cat?

"Sounds like practice could only be a benefit then." It's light, but not entirely a joke. "You just let something pique interest, or let me trot out a candidate at a time. Find you a nice fit, some good company."

He doesn't make the frustrated noise that he wants to make. This is a ~~handler~~ warden, and that's not acceptable. But he wants to make it. This is a much bigger and more important kind of decision than just what to eat, and she wants to make him make it.

Everything is both easier, now that he's not under HYDRA, and at the same time so much fucking harder. He's honestly not sure whether he'd take being responsible for his own decisions over cryo and the Chair, at this point. Maybe if he had more to fucking do. (And yet, here's this woman, trying to give him something to do, it seems.)

Watching the kitten chew on her fingers, he finally says, "I'll think about it." Maybe she ought to just send him pictures of different cats now and then to keep him thinking about it.

"That's about as much as I could hope for, and I appreciate it." Truthfully. There's some deft petting of neck, head, and as the kitten rolls over, belly, before it's scooped and nestled into the crook of her elbow. "You don't have to linger if you don't want, didn't want to eat your afternoon. I'll keep in touch, keep my eye out for ones that might be good fits."

He hesitates, then shrugs, and doesn't pick himself up yet. As much as it might be easier, what the hell else is he going to do? Make another useless patrol around the ship? Sit in his cabin and stare at the wall? Spend another hour counting stars?

"Nothing else planned," he admits. As long as she doesn't expect him to play with the kitten, and without the stressful idea of taking it back, it's not unpleasant to watch.

Taking it as a good thing, she merely smiles at him. The kitten is returned to the ground, and treated to the corner of her shawl being dragged in a loose serpentine fashion. It predictably delights, and is thus the new object of attack.

"Seen anyplace on ship you like? The library's quiet and huge, easy to get a private nook to read in."

Watching the kitten is in fact easier than carefully not watching a person, who knew. He keeps his eyes on it, Misty only in his peripheral vision, and it's a little more comfortable than it could be. "I've seen it." He has not actually tried to read. It didn't even occur to him.

And while he's not supposed to like or dislike anything, he does have a statement of absolute fact he's willing to share: "The stars are great."

It's making the most of the playtime, far from a smooth hunter or pouncer but making up for it in tail-wiggling enthusiasm.

His input is interesting and amusing. Abundant as her enthusiasm is, the deck freaks her out. Easily the least visited portion of ship, the stars only barely tolerable from the confines of the greenhouse or garden. "I'm glad to hear that! It seems to be popular, I never know if it's novelty or something about it really hitting people."

She met Randel on the deck. Not meaningful, but fond. Too tempting to stretch everything back to him, currently. She brushes it off.

"Could read there, too. Or I'm sure there's a room with a view in there, a big window. Some peace, some quiet, plenty of stars."

The wiggly butt is kind of ridiculous. Do cats know they look that silly?

Also, what is her obsession with reading. Seriously. "You must. Read a lot." To keep shoving it at him. Are inmates even allowed to read? This is the weirdest prison imaginable, already, without giving the prisoners free reign of almost every amenity.

With a mouthful of fringe to gnaw on and the weight of the fabric to kick against, it seems impossible to care.

"Mhm. Not uncommon around here, selection's huge and we all have a lot of free time. Lot of great stuff to read. Lots to learn!" A productive use of time, betterment, advantage taken of a truly unique resource - it spans universes, that library.

A lot of free time. Fuck, that sounds unpleasant. He watches the kitten bunny-kick the tassel with a sinking feeling. So the past week of nothing-to-do outside of cleaning showers and staring in consternation at food options is normal. He'd been starting to actually hope for one of those flood-port-breaches Steve mentioned, if just to give him something to fucking do.

Other than, apparently, look after cats. And read? The thought of the library full of books is even more overwhelming than the food selection.

He wants to be behind a door so he can punch something without anyone seeing. The wall beside his door has acquired some dents over the past week or so. But he's stuck here, with the earnest blonde warden, and a very squash-able kitten. Worse, though not unfamiliar, he doesn't know what to say to that. He wrestles with words for a long moment before coming up with, "You'd think. A prison ship would keep people busier."

=> Action!

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