Then perhaps somebody with the capacity to keep that in mind ought to have been there.
[ Fuck. A pause - this isn't what he came here to do. ]
If you're going over there, don't take accusation. It won't help either of them. You can scold him when he's not still positioned as Iggy's primary caretaker.
If I could go over there, Stephen, I'd be over there. Iggy doesn't want to see me or anyone else. That's why Grady is the primary fucking caretaker, though apparently he's failed to understand how that outweighs his need to waste time or bullets.
Not everyone's so clear-headed in the wake of disaster. Iggy's not so clear-headed. I was in his company at his own discretion less than an hour ago.
[ Again it sounds like accusation, and again that's not what he's trying to do. Lost track of what he was trying to do, really. Call in reinforcements, maybe, for two men who it would seem are not equipped at present to support themselves.
That decision has already been made between Takeshi and Ignatius, so it's time to move on. ]
It doesn't matter. He's spent, he won't be leaving him again.
[Sounds like an accusation, lands like an accusation. Paired with the sting of Stephen being in Iggy's company at his own discretion, Takeshi's tone turns smooth and cool as a blade.]
If I'm clear-headed in the wake of disaster, it's out of necessity, not natural talent. A necessity Grady clearly needs to learn.
[ Silence for a stretch. He has— no idea how to do this. He's never equipped himself with the skills. But the quiet has stretched for too many days, and it won't be fixing itself. ]
I know. [ A start. ] Will you let me try?
[ He will not be an overnight success, but everyone's got to start somewhere. Difficult for that somewhere to be the wrong side of a closed door. ]
[ Because he has things to wrap up. Because he might not be the only one. Because he needs to get the stress of the last few hours off of him before he makes it Takeshi's problem again.
He doesn't bother to announce himself. One moment he's not there and the next he simply - is. No portal, no door, no fanfare. He looks fine, all things considered. Freshly clean, no obvious signs of injury. Tired, but what's new? Perhaps most evident is the slight duck of his head, the caution in his stance, subdued. He's out of his depth.
For lack of any better way to begin, and regretted as soon as it makes it out of his mouth: ] Hey.
[Hey gets a slight tick of Takeshi's eyebrows, standing by the open window, smoking. Where Stephen looks subdued, he looks solid - too solid, perhaps, as if shored up, braced and barricaded. He turns to exhale smoke out of the window.]
You don't want to fight.
[A prompt, so what do you want? Stephen looks like he needs one.]
[ A held breath goes released in a tense sigh when he's met with that small shift of expression, the statement that's a question. He knows what he wants to say, but how to say it without blowing anything up? ]
I don't. [ Confirmation. Somewhere to start. Nothing for a beat or two as he struggles, looking anywhere but at the man he's come to see, grappling with his thoughts. ] I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—
[ No, bad. He sucks in a breath to kill the attempt and lapses into another brief quiet with his mouth screwed shut, glancing away, fingers curling into a loose fist that amplifies his tremors. His focus lands after a moment or two on the cigarette in Takeshi's hand. With a great effort made to get himself over the hurdle of his silence, he tries again. ]
I don't know what I'm doing. Here. This, I'm...
[ Gaze lifts, fixes finally on Takeshi's face, and his expression now is wide open, painfully bare, imploring. ]
If I'm going to screw it up, I don't want it to be for want of trying. I'm done hiding from you, Takeshi, I want to talk.
Edited (don't mind me just doing paragraph edits I could have done before I hit send the first time) 2024-05-30 16:06 (UTC)
[Their last conversation had been defence upon defence. Statements of aptitude and confidence and dismissal. Now Stephen brings him admissions and vulnerabilities, none of them surprises, but something in Takeshi baulks all the same, urges offence or retreat, intuition pulling as if there's a danger here. A danger in the man stood in front of him, looking at him as if he holds far more in his hands than forgiveness for one argument.
The argument returns. The argument offers structure, something to address that's more stable than the half broken sentences and uncertainties of Stephen's attempt to talk. Takeshi turns back to the window, takes one last drag on his cigarette before crushing it between his fingers, dropping the remnants in a mug. Leaves the window open.]
You need to decide what you expect from me. [Approaching, steady, despite the call to retreat, the whisper of something pulling, coalescing at the bottom of his mind.] I'm not going to look the other way whenever you feel like running yourself into the ground.
[ Right. Right, it's time. Time not to crumble into false promises or gift assurances in place of pleas. Time to keep his hands held at his own sides and his breath steady. Takeshi makes his approach and Stephen's demeanour shifts. He pulls himself tall, forces himself solid, a hundred minute corrections to uncurl from the boyish caution of moments before and try to meet him where he is. A swallow gives him away. A breath and he begins. ]
I find my value somewhere other than where you [ do, he almost says, reins himself back half a beat before safer words fill the space that syllable left ] think I should. That isn't going to change.
[ It's blunt, too transparent. Enough that his jaw snaps briefly shut, brows pinching together. But he can't leave it long - can't leave space for himself to stall out, for Takeshi to think he's done. A snatch of breath and Stephen draws on the things he needs him to know, the things he knew he'd have to say. Trusts that he'll give him the space to say it. ]
But I am never reckless in my work. I take whatever time I have and I consider everything, every consequence of every possible predictable action. I identify blind spots, I leave room for improvisation. And I find the only way through that I can accept. There are times when that decision will make room for giving up my life, or for placing it eventually in the hands of people who will do me harm. I'll have weighed those possibilities, acknowledged them, factored them in. Sometimes I will even be relying on them.
I will make the choice that I deem necessary, even knowing who will suffer for it. [ There's something in his eyes here as their focus flits between Takeshi's that says he knows he's not just talking about himself. Regrets it, deeply, even as he vows never to change it. Another shift in the tension across his brow and it's chased quickly with something earnest, something that sheds a little of the calm he'd pulled on for the sake of getting out the part he'd already mostly scripted. His head shakes, just a little, without his influence. Punctuation. ] There are parts of me I can't give away. No matter how many times anyone asks me to. I won't, Tak—
[ The rest of the name gets lost on a staggered little inhale. Too raw to direct it to him when he's standing right there, too late to swallow it back down. There's distress in the downturned corners of his mouth now, in the crinkle of the skin between his brows. But his voice at least comes as steady as he can keep it. This next part is important. It's the whole point. ]
If you want better than that for yourself, I'll understand.
[ He'll have to. This isn't his decision to make. ]
[Takeshi's own words seem to catch in the web of the room. Echoing as Stephen speaks, spinning between, weft and warp. The bind off comes sudden, that sharp inhale that breaks Takeshi's name down into the single syllable that he hasn't heard since Rei. Since Quell.
The threads pull. The image forms clear, the truth Takeshi's been ignoring. Denying the risk. The suffering.
His hand lifts. Tips Stephen's chin up, holding gentle as if to examine him, as if to ensure his gaze, his attention, no shake or break or flitting away.]
You're not infallible, Stephen. [No one human is, and Stephen, despite all his magic and power, is still so blisteringly, beautifully human.] And I'll see your flaws. Because I won't ever look away.
[If this is what Stephen wants. If this is the decision he makes.]
[ Takeshi touches him. Such a small, simple thing, just a cradle for his chin, but Stephen's breath goes shallow. His heart thuds like he's in peril.
It's only fair. He's terrified.
Fifteen words is all he has to use in the end. Fifteen words to first ring tight, then abruptly twist loose every little knot Stephen's tied himself into over the last long, lonely week. I wont ever look away. God. Oh, God.
There's something tremulous in the tweak of his brow as it hits. As blood vessels dilate abruptly, cast a thrill shuddering outward from deep in his chest. He answers it with an unsteady breath, mouth opening around words he hasn't chosen yet.
Finally, when seconds have stretched too thin to bear his silence any more, he wills himself to nod. Tiny. Impossible to miss. ]
—Okay.
[ It's a nothing word, all he can find as he grapples with what he's just been given. But an answer. An answer.
[Okay seems anticlimactic for the moment, but after the grand dramatic speech of reasons why Takeshi shouldn't want this, there's beauty in the simplicity of it. In stripping back those layers, rendering Stephen down to a single word.
There's an urge to pull back, still. To give Stephen his own warnings, the blood on his hands, the ghosts at his back, end this before the knot pulls too tight. But he'd be fooling himself, again. The knot's already tied. It has been for a while.
But there is one absolute, core truth, that Stephen deserves to know, and Takeshi's grip slips from Stephen's chin to his neck, then drops entirely to catch one of Stephen's hands. Lifts it, careful, gentle, till he holds the pads of Stephen's fingertips to the neat horizontal scar on the back of his neck.]
There's a metal disc under this scar, in my vertebrae. It's a piece of tech called a cortical stack, and it stores my consciousness. In my world, everyone has them. [But no one else here. An absolute, core vulnerability, but Takeshi needs to put it in Stephen's hands. Stephen needs to know, making this choice.] As long as it stays intact, if, or when you die, you can be resleeved.
[The implication is obvious, but he waits for Stephen to see it.]
[ His awareness of the journey of Takeshi's hand takes on a strange intensity, like his agreement has attuned them somehow— like the words he couldn't find are simmering just under Stephen's skin, called to the surface by touch, heart hammering. Takeshi draws his hand up, places his fingertips over the little scar he must by now have seen a hundred times: always wondered, never asked. Left it, waiting for the answer to come to him should the time ever be right.
His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
[Here, Stephen surprises him. Takeshi's concern had been in the alien of it, that he came from a world where it was a known variable that any lover or partner could be wearing a body different from the one they were born with. Could be wearing a different body tomorrow. Stephen, like most of the others here, didn't have that experience, and Takeshi had expected some alarm over the concept, doubts raised over their intimacy, the validity of it.
Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
[ Stephen's hold on the back of Takeshi's neck tightens, a squeeze. His gaze is briefly searching, watchful— and then something shifts, some displeased downward tug around the mouth, and he folds around Takeshi. Palm spreading upwards to cradle his head, other arm curling around his waist. Head turning, lips a lingering press to the skin of his cheek.
He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Fuck. A pause - this isn't what he came here to do. ]
If you're going over there, don't take accusation. It won't help either of them. You can scold him when he's not still positioned as Iggy's primary caretaker.
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[ Again it sounds like accusation, and again that's not what he's trying to do. Lost track of what he was trying to do, really. Call in reinforcements, maybe, for two men who it would seem are not equipped at present to support themselves.
That decision has already been made between Takeshi and Ignatius, so it's time to move on. ]
It doesn't matter. He's spent, he won't be leaving him again.
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If I'm clear-headed in the wake of disaster, it's out of necessity, not natural talent. A necessity Grady clearly needs to learn.
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[ Enough. Enough of this. He's started it, he'll finish it, a sudden thread of profound exhaustion curling through his thoughts. ]
I don't want to fight with you.
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I know. [ A start. ] Will you let me try?
[ He will not be an overnight success, but everyone's got to start somewhere. Difficult for that somewhere to be the wrong side of a closed door. ]
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[That door, the physical one, hadn't been locked.]
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[ Because he has things to wrap up. Because he might not be the only one. Because he needs to get the stress of the last few hours off of him before he makes it Takeshi's problem again.
He doesn't bother to announce himself. One moment he's not there and the next he simply - is. No portal, no door, no fanfare. He looks fine, all things considered. Freshly clean, no obvious signs of injury. Tired, but what's new? Perhaps most evident is the slight duck of his head, the caution in his stance, subdued. He's out of his depth.
For lack of any better way to begin, and regretted as soon as it makes it out of his mouth: ] Hey.
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You don't want to fight.
[A prompt, so what do you want? Stephen looks like he needs one.]
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I don't. [ Confirmation. Somewhere to start. Nothing for a beat or two as he struggles, looking anywhere but at the man he's come to see, grappling with his thoughts. ] I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—
[ No, bad. He sucks in a breath to kill the attempt and lapses into another brief quiet with his mouth screwed shut, glancing away, fingers curling into a loose fist that amplifies his tremors. His focus lands after a moment or two on the cigarette in Takeshi's hand. With a great effort made to get himself over the hurdle of his silence, he tries again. ]
I don't know what I'm doing. Here. This, I'm...
[ Gaze lifts, fixes finally on Takeshi's face, and his expression now is wide open, painfully bare, imploring. ]
If I'm going to screw it up, I don't want it to be for want of trying. I'm done hiding from you, Takeshi, I want to talk.
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The argument returns. The argument offers structure, something to address that's more stable than the half broken sentences and uncertainties of Stephen's attempt to talk. Takeshi turns back to the window, takes one last drag on his cigarette before crushing it between his fingers, dropping the remnants in a mug. Leaves the window open.]
You need to decide what you expect from me. [Approaching, steady, despite the call to retreat, the whisper of something pulling, coalescing at the bottom of his mind.] I'm not going to look the other way whenever you feel like running yourself into the ground.
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I find my value somewhere other than where you [ do, he almost says, reins himself back half a beat before safer words fill the space that syllable left ] think I should. That isn't going to change.
[ It's blunt, too transparent. Enough that his jaw snaps briefly shut, brows pinching together. But he can't leave it long - can't leave space for himself to stall out, for Takeshi to think he's done. A snatch of breath and Stephen draws on the things he needs him to know, the things he knew he'd have to say. Trusts that he'll give him the space to say it. ]
But I am never reckless in my work. I take whatever time I have and I consider everything, every consequence of every possible predictable action. I identify blind spots, I leave room for improvisation. And I find the only way through that I can accept. There are times when that decision will make room for giving up my life, or for placing it eventually in the hands of people who will do me harm. I'll have weighed those possibilities, acknowledged them, factored them in. Sometimes I will even be relying on them.
I will make the choice that I deem necessary, even knowing who will suffer for it. [ There's something in his eyes here as their focus flits between Takeshi's that says he knows he's not just talking about himself. Regrets it, deeply, even as he vows never to change it. Another shift in the tension across his brow and it's chased quickly with something earnest, something that sheds a little of the calm he'd pulled on for the sake of getting out the part he'd already mostly scripted. His head shakes, just a little, without his influence. Punctuation. ] There are parts of me I can't give away. No matter how many times anyone asks me to. I won't, Tak—
[ The rest of the name gets lost on a staggered little inhale. Too raw to direct it to him when he's standing right there, too late to swallow it back down. There's distress in the downturned corners of his mouth now, in the crinkle of the skin between his brows. But his voice at least comes as steady as he can keep it. This next part is important. It's the whole point. ]
If you want better than that for yourself, I'll understand.
[ He'll have to. This isn't his decision to make. ]
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The threads pull. The image forms clear, the truth Takeshi's been ignoring. Denying the risk. The suffering.
His hand lifts. Tips Stephen's chin up, holding gentle as if to examine him, as if to ensure his gaze, his attention, no shake or break or flitting away.]
You're not infallible, Stephen. [No one human is, and Stephen, despite all his magic and power, is still so blisteringly, beautifully human.] And I'll see your flaws. Because I won't ever look away.
[If this is what Stephen wants. If this is the decision he makes.]
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It's only fair. He's terrified.
Fifteen words is all he has to use in the end. Fifteen words to first ring tight, then abruptly twist loose every little knot Stephen's tied himself into over the last long, lonely week. I wont ever look away. God. Oh, God.
There's something tremulous in the tweak of his brow as it hits. As blood vessels dilate abruptly, cast a thrill shuddering outward from deep in his chest. He answers it with an unsteady breath, mouth opening around words he hasn't chosen yet.
Finally, when seconds have stretched too thin to bear his silence any more, he wills himself to nod. Tiny. Impossible to miss. ]
—Okay.
[ It's a nothing word, all he can find as he grapples with what he's just been given. But an answer. An answer.
Yes, please. ]
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There's an urge to pull back, still. To give Stephen his own warnings, the blood on his hands, the ghosts at his back, end this before the knot pulls too tight. But he'd be fooling himself, again. The knot's already tied. It has been for a while.
But there is one absolute, core truth, that Stephen deserves to know, and Takeshi's grip slips from Stephen's chin to his neck, then drops entirely to catch one of Stephen's hands. Lifts it, careful, gentle, till he holds the pads of Stephen's fingertips to the neat horizontal scar on the back of his neck.]
There's a metal disc under this scar, in my vertebrae. It's a piece of tech called a cortical stack, and it stores my consciousness. In my world, everyone has them. [But no one else here. An absolute, core vulnerability, but Takeshi needs to put it in Stephen's hands. Stephen needs to know, making this choice.] As long as it stays intact, if, or when you die, you can be resleeved.
[The implication is obvious, but he waits for Stephen to see it.]
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His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
... How many times?
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Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
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He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
It's lonely. It's really fucking lonely.
He's not going anywhere. ]