worthallthis | The Last Voyages: IC Inbox

The metal arm reconfigures under his sleeve, and he looks further away from her, uncomfortable. He can't see it like that. He can't. And he can't even say clearly why.

"So there's nothing you want out of having an inmate." No motivation for her to try all that hard (though she did seem very happy when Randel did the... thing). No motivation for him to need to help her by getting better (which is probably more of a problem). The thought that someone might do this just to help people doesn't even occur to him.

"I like helping." Another easy answer. Another truth. "People end up here because they're worth the help and they can benefit from it, and I like knowing they can get out safe and sound. Kind of a natural consequence of the place, I guess, so I don't know if you'd count that as something I specifically want, but-- yeah, I like knowing people I care about will get some reprieve."

... that sounds so fake. Nobody does that. Even Rogers only helps him because he thins they're friends. He keeps his expression firmly locked down so he doesn't offend her, but-- yeah, he can't believe that any more than he could believe there's something to "learn" from having whole people shoved into his head.

"So you think everyone here can get better. Graduate." Even the ones who've been here for years and years, because he knows there's some like that.

"I don't know that I believe it's likely in every instance, the Admiral's probably fallible, but I think there's no reason not to believe that people end up here because they've got the potential for it, yeah."

No reason wasting everyone's time, obviously. She's certain enough.

"Nice to be a part of it, good to see people safe."

He can't think of anything to say to that. It still sounds impossible, like there has to be some other motive. So he's silent for a moment, then he says, "Okay."

And the subject change: "What do you need from me. Then." She's asked what he needs from her. There has to be something in return. Something she expects from him.

She shrugs.

"Don't attack anybody if you can help it, don't cause any unnecessary ruckus. If there's a problem I'd appreciate being told, and if whatever this month's thing is turns out to be hard on you I'd appreciate at least a chance at helping. Checking in once in awhile's good, but I won't breathe down your neck."

Checking in. He can do that. He might have to make a schedule. What counts as "once in a while"? Once a week? Twice? Hrm. "Should be a... flood. Right? Since it was a port before."

"Probably, yep." Right on the money. "Usually around mid-month, so you've got a week or so to breathe and then it's time to steel yourself. Hopefully won't be anything too intense."

And after a beat she adds, with less certainty, "You could stop in for Thanksgiving, too. Just a duck-in, anyway."

Since holidays clearly matter in some form.

Which then begs the question: "What's Thanksgiving?" He knows Christmas. He knows Halloween, now. Why is there a third holiday in as many months? That seems kind of excessive.

"You have friends or family over to eat, pretty much. It's not complicated, it's just to eat and be appreciative of what you've got."

Not demanding, little asked of him as a participant.

That sounds easy enough. He is quite fond of eating. "I'm not your friend or family, though," he hedges a little, just in case she made the invitation in error, then. "I don't have any friends." This is not stated with self-pity, just as a fact: by the definition he has of a friend, he doesn't have any. (Yet.)

Head slanting gently to one side, she mulls on that while working through another forkful of egg.

"I'm claiming you, if you don't claim me. You're friend enough to get in."

Thankfully, his definition of friend can be one-sided, so after a moment, he accepts this with a little nod, even if it baffles him that she might feel safe with him, of all her choices on this ship. "If you want me to. Okay."

Then, because he's the inmate here, and because it's something to do, he asks, "Will you need help with it?"

A pleasant surprise, if the sharp rise in eyebrows is any indication.

"I wouldn't turn it down, if you're offering. Do you cook, or should I have recipe cards?"

He shakes his head a little. "Never cooked before." He didn't even eat real food before coming here, and nobody let the Asset fix up the goop that went into the feeding tube. "But I can follow orders well."

Perfectly workable. "Suits me fine! None of it'll be hard, maybe just an hour or two of your time. It's the fourth Thursday of the month, we'll get into details when we're closer unless you're really hankering for practice runs."

He hesitates on that. Usually he can pick things up on the first try, but-- cooking is not fighting or remembering a mission briefing. And he won't be watching her do it, he'll be following instructions. "Practicing might. Be a good idea. Just once, probably."

"We can do a dry run a few days before, I think you'll catch on quick enough."

And she has...little else to press. This is a shockingly relaxed start, compared to the last few months. She inhales, exhales, indulgently slow. Relaxed.

"Thank you, for not being weird about meeting and talking."

He's not entirely convinced this isn't weird. The look he gives her is maybe a little skeptical. "You're my warden. If you want to meet and talk. Then we meet and talk. I don't have much else to do, anyway." A pause. "Was someone else weird? Er? More weird."

"Plenty of people don't operate like that, believe you me." She laughs, only leaning bitter. "I shared, like, ten words with Pagan before he hauled off and started punching me."

He remembers, when the egg things hatched, and her face had looked like someone punched it. Badly. He hadn't asked at the time, because she'd been upset and he's not good at asking things, but he can put them together.

He desn't like the idea of people punching Misty. She's been kind. He frowns at the remains of his breakfast. "Was he punished."

"I'd like to think I won both fights, he had a long time out in Zero, I'd like to think it's coming up on even." It's functional, at least. No major incidents since then, which had been the real fear - the next temp would hand over that stupid pen readily and it'd end up in her neck.

He actually snorts. "If I'd left bruises like that on a handler. I'd have had cattle prods and guns and a double session of maintenance," he grumbles. A little time behind bars was nothing. This prison is so stupid, sometimes.

"We don't do that here," she's quick to say. Maintenance the way she can only imagine he means it - not how it's done. Inhumane. "Isn't like he came close to killing me. I think I broke his nose, he got a good long cooldown period, for here we have to hope that's reasonable."

The moment of annoyance drains out again, and he shovels the last of the oatmeal away slowly. "I know," he finally says. "Three months without maintenance." There, that's-- that's three wardens now who know. And one of them is his. If it's going to happen, it'll happen now. Right?

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