worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

"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.

"Nobody will right off the bat. I assume, anyway." His situation is...unique, it seems. "It's going to be something possible. Hard, but possible, and it's relating to you. Don't get too hung up on other graduation stories as strict guidelines, yeah?"

The bland expression shades... kind of disappointed. He doesn't do well with vague guidelines. He needs structure, even if he doesn't actually know how to acknowledge that properly. "So nobody knows what the hell I'm supposed to be doing here."

"Like I told you, they're all personal goals. Something in your past you've got to work through and be a better version of yourself. Everyone's different, there can't be any uniform rule."

Sucks, but it's the only way anything works. All she can do is shrug.

"You develop. No forcing that, you just keep active and let what happens happen."

Fuck. How can he be the better version of himself if he has no self. Christ. Murder machines don't develop, they do what they're told-- provided you follow protocol and don't get too close when gearing them up. And keep the guns ready, just in case said murder machine follows through on its constant desire to make you use them.

He doesn't sigh. Or bury his face in his knees. But he does kind of slump a little and look further away, out into all the greenery, and can't think of a damn thing to say to that.

Sounds like maybe you're onto something, stranger. Maybe quite some bedrock.

It's taxing to have no better answers to offer in good faith. It nearly hurts seeing him slump. Feebly she adds, "You're going to be okay. I promise. Types like you do well here, you'll get out safe and better for it."

What does "okay" even look like? Or "safe"? He's got no idea. He finally unwinds to pick himself up. There's nowhere else for this conversation to go, right now. What he does offer is to reiterate, "I'll think about the cat thing."

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