ataraxionlogs | Open like the elevator doors in The Shining

I will next time. [He promises in a low hum. He doesn't offer up any excuses, won't explain unless she asks. It was a total asshole move-- he had sent her messages while he was lost, but based on what he'd heard of the ones he had left Simon, it wouldn't make much difference if she'd received them or not. He should have sent her a message when he got back. He hadn't.

He rubs her back in a slow circle because he thinks she needs it, not because he thinks she wants him to.]

So what do I owe you for babysitting?

There's better not be a next time. And I'd say a drink, but when all we have is shitty free spacebooze that kinda counts for less.

[any other day she'd protest that circling hand, duck away and crack wise. Get annoyed at him for babying her. But right now, as much as she might deny it, she kind of wants to be babied. Wants the security of it.]

Next time you bust someone on security detail assign 'em to agriculture as punishment?

Edited 2012-07-05 08:31 (UTC)

[He can't exactly promise that there won't be a next time. The ship is way too unpredictable and he only makes empty promises to the dying.]

Deal, kiddo. We'll get you a labor force yet. [He gives the back of her neck a gentle squeeze before releasing her.

[As soon as he lets go she steps back, awkward again, thrusting her hands deep into her pockets. It's an awkward, unnatural gesture - for one thing, her skirt is a close fit and there's not all that much room in the pockets - but it's less awkward than standing there wringing her hands, which is what she'd be doing otherwise.]

Awesome. I always wanted to leave a legacy. Being the asshole who introduced penal labor to our little society should do the trick.

[She looks up at him, and for just a moment she's not wearing a mask of anger or sarcasm - she just looks worried.]

What happened to you?

[ He turns his back and heads for his bed, giving her a moment to compose herself. When he meets her eyes next, his gaze is steady but not grim. Neutral.]

Elevator malfunctioned. Thought I'd walk back rather than risk getting put even further from where I belong. Took longer than I expected to find my way home. [...A week longer.] When I got here... well. [ He holds up one hand and his fingertips are still blue.]

I figured I was immune to it because of the Nanex. I was wrong.

Men. Won't ask for directions, won't go to the doctor...

[Won't call her out on the blazing hypocrisy right there, hopefully. Anyway, it's a joke - mostly. She follows him in, leans against his desk and watches him critically.]

How're you holding up now?

'cause frankly, you still look like shit.

[Not that she's back to 100% herself, but she had the advantage of already being in medbay when the cure was doled out. And if anything he says suggests he's still suffering she is so not above tasing him and trying to drag him - yes, all of him - back to medbay herself.]

Been better, been worse.

Had a stint there where every time I fell asleep, Simon would wake me up. [He puts a hand up to his pulse to demonstrate how. The kid's concern was nice as a concept. In practice... it had gotten him locked out of Tillman's room.]

[...

aaawww. Despite her determination to give Tillman a Piece Of Her Mind, she can't help a snort of laughter at that image.]

Bet he'd be thrilled if he knew you'd told me that, too.

So the nanex is the stuff in your head? [and then, because that's a hell of a weird thing to say when they've never talked about it -] I got a little bit of info when... you know. [and her fingers come up to curve into devil-horn shapes at her temples, because if she tries to brush the whole deal off it's way easier to deal with.]

[Tillman is a bit surprised at the question-- he spent so much time with Heather and Simon that he'd forgotten it wasn't common knowledge between them. He nods.]

It's most of my brain now, I guess. That's how Simon made me slap [neither 'it' nor 'you' feel right in this context...] your face.

Simon's better at explaining it. I just know that it's made me survive bullet wounds that should have been fatal and that this is the first time I've been sick in the past five years.

Edited (dicks dicks dicks) 2012-07-07 05:38 (UTC)

[She makes a face; it is what it is and apparently there's no undoing it, but it still makes a large part of her recoil in horror.]

No offense to most of your brain, but that's still creepy and weird. Most people just take a bunch of vitamin c.

If I'd have known that being a puppet was the endgame, I wouldn't have volunteered. But...

[He pulls his shirt collar down to show her an irregularly shaped scar beneath his collarbone.] Shrapnel broke the bone and cut into the muscle thirteen years ago during the war. Team of damn good medics stitched me up. Took three months to heal-- not counting the physical therapy it took to get the strength back.

[He shifts in his seat and lifts his shirt to show another scar. This one is obviously the result of a gunshot wound. This one, located in the vicinity of his armpit, is smaller, smoother, and about the size of a quarter.] The armor I wore in Slayers was better quality than what the Army provided, but I still managed to get shot in the one place it didn't cover. I finished the round with a sucking chest wound and got stitched up by prison medics that couldn't give a fuck if I survived or not. Two weeks, I was back on my feet. Less than three months, and I was ready for the next match.

There's something to be said about the little fuckers.

[She's frowning. There's still a part of her that thinks scars are plain cool, despite her own less-than-attractive collection, and that could well be the most words she's ever heard him say all at once, but it's still horrible. She's embarrassed to find her hand drifting up of its own accord, fingertips stretching for shiny scar tissue before she catches it and shoves it into her pocket. Not like she can reach him from where she is anyway, but seriously.]

Doesn't really seem like a fair trade, since nobody woulda shot you there in the first place if you didn't have 'em. But I'm glad, I guess. That you're okay. Kinda makes me wish I had a few, if I'm gonna be stuck in this stupid place.

[Tillman pulls himself off of his bed and takes a seat next to her on the desk. He's close enough that their arms touch. For the moment, he doesn't have anything left to say. He's not one for empty promises or mindless encouragement. He offers her the reassurance that proximity brings, silent and steady at her side.]

[She feels like she ought to protest - he's still kinda sick, after all, he should be resting - but it's comforting, and given that she started her visit basically having a tantrum she can't imagine her being selfish is gonna surprise him.]

I hate this. Good people are getting hurt - dying - and there's nothing I can do. There's something every jump and nothing we try seems to stop it.

[It's easier to deliver that little speech staring straight ahead. She punctuates with a weary sigh, and though the next phrase from her mouth is worded like a question it comes out with the flat conviction of a statement.]

It's just gonna get worse, isn't it?

[Tillman is silent for a beat. He knows that she isn't looking for an actual answer. He could sit in silence with her and she would accept that as an answer, he knows.

Helplessness is a feeling that he's all too familiar with. He can only think that (and it is a thought that often plagues him) if his daughter were stuck somewhere, scared or sad or hurting or feeling helpless, hopeless, powerless, that someone would do something to help her. Heather isn't his daughter, but she's someone's daughter.

He slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her more firmly against his side.]

I asked something like that once to my buddy, Scotch. [There's a slight pause there as he turns the phrase over in his head. He hasn't uttered it since he had shot Scotch. Too much guilt... He pushed it aside and continued.]

Sitting in the middle of the desert. Sunburned, homesick, miserable. I don't remember what I asked exactly. "Do you think we're going to die out here" maybe. [There's a smile in his voice as he says it, a hint of a laugh that isn't usually there.]

And Scotch launched in to this story about this one time where he stole a cooling pie off of his neighbor's window ledge. He knew he would get caught but he ate the whole damn thing.

Sure enough, his dad beat his ass and made him apologize. His face was still covered with it.

Scotch said it was the best pie he ever had.

--He told it a lot better than that. He had us on the floor. But when it was all said and done, I pointed out that he hadn't answered my question. He looked at me and he grinned.

"John Tillman," he said, "Nothing's certain. Sometimes, you have to eat the pie." [He shakes his head and laughs.] Like it was the wisest thing anyone had ever said in the history of the universe.

[He gives Heather's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.]

That stuck with me. Sad as it is to admit it.

[Sometimes, you have to eat the pie.

She looks up at him, just watching for a moment. He's so warm, so solid, and with his arm around her like that it's the first time she's really felt safe since she arrived on this damn ship.

Maybe even since she found Harry.

And here he is, holding her close and telling her some carpe diem story that sounds right out of Mark Twain. So she watches, blinks, unconsciously touches the tip of her tongue to her lip -

and leans her head against his shoulder with a little huff that comes out halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Sometimes you have to eat the pie. And sometimes you have to leave it where it damn well is, because that pie is not for you.]

That's not sad. It's a pretty good story.

[A chuckle escapes him, quiet and deep.] If Scotch knew that that I remembered it-- that I referred back to it years later-- he would never let me live it down. This was the guy that got to hold off on getting a haircut for weeks because he convinced the barber it threatened the integrity of his Samson-like powers.

[He places a heavy hand on top of her head.] Bad things are always going to happen. You've done a lot of good here. You watch out for people. Don't ever discount that.

[Well okay, that laugh means she needs to take a moment to steel her resolve, but it's still nice to hear. For all the time she's spent with Simon and Tillman, she really knows very little about them - Tillman especially, because there's a lot you can infer from Simon's behavior - and Tillman's usual perfectly neutral expression is a lot less depressing when she thinks of him as the straight man in a double act.

It's good to see him actually looking almost happy without all the guilt and fear and shame that comes with knowing the cause of it is a lie, and one she can't do anything about. And when his hand settles on her head, she can't help grinning.]

That's probably the least cheerful reassurance I've ever heard.

[Hopefully her tone conveys how much she appreciates that. The fact that he's not trying to bullshit her makes his kind words count for more.]

[ Tillman ruffles Heather's hair so that when he pulls his hand away, her bangs are every which way.] Best I've got, kid.

[ Like that's so different to the usual care and attention with which she arranges her hair. She knows how this bit's supposed to go, though - you make a Da~ad, you're so embarrassing face and flatten them down again. So she does, and nudges her elbow into his ribs for good measure. ]

Well, if it's the best I'm gonna get, I guess I better take it.

Damn straight. [This feels good. Relaxing with someone. Smiling earnestly. Pulling up old memories and talking. God, it's been so long since he's had a real conversation. He isn't his old self-- nowhere close-- but it's good to know that it's not all dead.]

I'm making dinner in a few hours. You should come eat.

[He's making dinner.

Of course he is. She shakes her head, laughing, but nods. If she's gonna do the substitute daughter thing, might as well go with what she knows.]

I'd like that. Could come early, if you need a hand. I'm kinda hopeless at actual cooking but I can peel potatoes or chop veggies like a motherf-

uh, like a pro.

I'm thinking pancakes tonight. [They're quick, easy, and Simon can spread his peanut butter on them without complaining. He's going to make chocolate chip smiley pancakes for her god damn it. BC]

Pancakes, huh?

[She grins at him, leans in to nudge him with her shoulder.]

You gonna flip 'em? It only counts if you flip 'em.

Well within my skillset. [pause] First one doesn't count.

Open like the elevator doors in The Shining

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Lmao I'm sorry for this

no you're not you were grinch-grinning the whole time

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