worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

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."

"Fine line, there. Prisons are for punishment. This place is rehabilitation, I have to figure part of the point is making sure you've got ample time to...y'know, talk to people." To really, really egg it on. One could fill hours without it, if they were industrious, but it must be rare.

"There's lots to be done, it's just not required. I read, I garden, I listen to music, lots of movies in the library too, trying to learn a couple instruments I got for Christmas..."

And lots of fussing with pets, as evidenced by this kitten, rolling over itself to get still-moving fabric.

Talking to people. Ugh. He has already figured out he's pretty terrible at that. He's actually regretting not taking the out, just a couple minutes earlier, because this is so awkward. He has no idea what to even say to that. It's like with the purple-haired girl, except she at least was happy to ramble about robots, instead of reading and instruments.

Instruments. What that brings to mind are forceps and bone saws. He can't quite suppress a shiver. "What's Christmas." The word is... familiar in a non-frightening way.

"Holiday," she begins, wisely opting not to comment on the shiver, "December twenty-fifth. People spend the season putting trees up inside and decorating them, decorating houses, baking, have family over for dinners. On the twenty-fourth parents leave gifts out for kids and pretend it's Santa, all that."

Easier to explain the straightforward things than anything deeper, immediately observable signs. Won't be long until the Barge is gearing up for it, anyhow.

Misty. It's August. There's five months to go, four if the Barge starts after Thanksgiving.

The feeling of vague familiarity doesn't go away, as if most of that was comfortably within whatever concept of "Christmas" is buried somewhere in there, but it doesn't get any better, either. No helpful personal intel. Maybe HYDRA didn't celebrate. (But then why would it be familiar? Hrm.) Either way, thanks for nothing, garbage brain.

"Sounds pretty nice." He doesn't bother asking what a Santa is. That one wasn't even a little familiar.

Time passes fast on board. It's less of a jump than it would sound.

"It is. The spirit's good, it's about being peaceful. A little respite, being good to each other. We got snow on the deck last year, it was great. Pretty."

Getting him anything will be a headache, but that's something she'll chew on.

"Thanksgiving'll be before that, and it's a little easier. No gifts, you just have family or friends over and eat a lot. That one's actually my favorite."

Gifts are absolutely going to be a weird thing, probably for both of them.

He nods once, accepting that readily enough as a good run-down for both holidays, though he's still a little skeptical of any of that applying to him. It's not like he has friends or family, and he's here to "get better" not to be pampered. "There's all that holiday stuff. Here." On a prison ship. Pardon, a "rehabilitation ship". Whatever.

"Not mandatory, that I've heard of. I've only been on board for one season, nothing at all going on for Thanksgiving and Christmas mostly just decorations and stopping in at a nice port. Nobody's gonna make you do anything for them or anything."

In case that's a worry. She expects it may be.

He's not really sure whether it would be more or less weird if it was mandatory. He finally lets go of his own knees to fold his arms on top of them, instead, leaning a little on them. And he asks, rather than focusing on the weirdness of the Barge and his own mixed feelings about all this shit, "What were holidays like where you come from."

"In broad strokes? The same. A lot more focus on the religious part of Christmas, but the same holidays, same time and usual traditions. Personally, I don't know...quiet?"

No grandparents nearby, no friends-of-family, no one coming over but an aunt and a cousin who had the natural performative disdain for her that all older cousins must.

"Had the house to myself a lot around Christmas, which is cool when you're young. Lots of time for movies with the sound cranked too far up. The meals were probably the biggest focus, and those were always great."

Now that doesn't feel familiar. The joys of having one's formative memories back in the 1920s and 1930s (and then wiped again and again and again until there's only vague impressions left). Being left along to do what one wants should be great, but at the same time it seems kind of lonely. (Because murder machines need company? Maybe it's the lack of orders? But he is still sitting here, now, when he could have been gone ages ago. Christ, he has no idea.)

He is also once again at a loss for how to answer, though. There's a long pause, punctuated mostly by kitten growls, before he comes up with, "Not a lot of family?" Since she'd said it was a holiday for family and friends, and she was left alone a lot. (That might be prying. It might be sad. Shit, now he wishes he didn't say it.)

Between floods and breaches and pot-stirrers and William, it's far from the most intensely prying thing she's had to contend with. Something in her expression falters, recalling last winter-- little what-if ornaments, she presumed. Her parents, separate. Her dad, just...out. Buying groceries, getting the car inspected. Normal. Undisturbed.

She meticulously regains her perk.

"Small to start with, got smaller. None now." And then a shrug. "Not that it'd make a lot of difference here, anyway. Plenty to keep busy with."

Definitely sounds lonely. He really shouldn't have asked. "I'm sorry." For asking, for losing her family, for-- he doesn't even know. He's just sorry.

"Don't be! Not like it's that unusual, and it isn't your fault. I get by."

Last year's holiday season had plenty of reasons to be bad besides.

"Another thing animals are good for, actually. Have a dog, myself."

Somehow getting back on the subject of animals is better than talk of family. "And that's why you don't want the cats." Because dogs and cats. Don't get along?

"Oh, not completely! Dog was a stowaway, snuck on in port and I don't want him going anywhere I don't know will be safe for him. I might keep a cat just as, I don't know, a sort of memento, but if I keep loading up with animals there won't be any cabin left for me. They're nice, though. Very...soothing company."

Nice as it would be to maybe have a whole kennel someday, and roving cats beside, the Barge maybe isn't the wisest place.

"Memento." Why would a cat be a memento. He's going to just not comment on her cat-propoganda, there, because he knows she's trying to convince him by singing cat-praises. He's not going to be able to think about it clearly here and now, so it's safer just to ignore it.

"They were all Randel's, and he's-- well, he lived kind of like a pack of ferals for awhile, I don't know, it feels pretty emblematic. And it'd be something cuddly when he's not around here anymore."

He's pretty ideal for hugging. Napping, even. She peaked too early, she'll never have an inmate safe enough and down for greenhouse naps again.

He might not actually use the devices to communicate, but he does read it. So he at least knows who Randel is, and what happened. The cuddly bit takes him a bit by surprise, though. His brows come together a little. "Cuddly." Ugh, why is he reduced to one-word responses now. He tries again. "Your inmate is cuddly?"

Is that a... thing he should be aiming for...? He's never going to get better if that's a requirement.

"He's graduated now, but yeah!" Soft, huggable giant. She'd struck gold, really. "Tactile, had a lot of siblings growing up, sleeps with cats heaped on him pretty much."

The furrow takes a moment to diagnose, and her conclusion is reached with a laugh. "It's not a mandatory thing, I'm talking about him personally."

Well, that's good. He's pretty sure anyone trying to cuddle him would get thrown into a wall. (Which he will in fact do to poor Steve later today.)

"Okay." Pause. "Still not sure what the whole. Getting better thing is going to be." So it was as valid a guess as anything else, he figures.

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