[Surgeon clicks into place, draws a line between a collection of other pieces, details singing together into a more coherent shape around Stephen. In Takeshi's expression, though, there's no discernable reaction. His eyes definitely don't linger on Stephen's hands.]
I'm whatever I need to be for wherever I am.
[Which might sound evasive, for all that it's true. But explaining Envoys is complicated. Hazardous. Territory he doesn't really want to step into, only one drink down and whatever Stephen's called him here for waiting in the wings. So he strips it down to the bones.]
Military, originally. Rebel militia, when I found out they'd fucked me over.
[ Some of the play in his attention burns off with that revelation, sharpens into focused interest as he overlays new knowledge onto the small map he has of Takeshi Kovacs. A little smile tucking tight into one corner of his mouth. ]
That explains it.
[ Explains what, exactly, he does not elaborate. Downs the rest of his drink and sets it back on the table where it proceeds to refill itself for him. ]
Enough that they created an unstable virus that made my people all massacre each other in the space of an hour.
[Delivered dry, matter-of-fact, as if that explains it were a gauntlet Stephen had thrown down. He pushes his empty cocktail glass to one side, picks up the whiskey, tips his head slightly.]
But that was over two hundred years ago. Now it's just me and my regrets.
[ Oh shit. The easy veneer drops away instantly, giving way to a notch between his brows and a loose jaw as he takes that in.
Massacre. Two hundred years ago.
He sits with it for a long moment - too long a moment - entirely unequipped to offer any kind of comfort. Finally, a brief lift of two fingers lands a full, unlabeled bottle of the same liquor they're drinking on the table with a thud. ]
Sorry.
[ For asking. For what happened. It can't mean much in the face of that, coming from a near stranger, but it's clear he means it. The word catches in his throat somewhere, emerges roughened somehow. ]
[The silence stretches long enough for Takeshi to add it to his regrets, to realise that it had been too heavy, too destructive for the companionability they were building between them. Stephen had offered him an open hand, and he had knowingly dropped a grenade in it.
It means the bottle that arrives on the table in response feels more than undeserved. Still, he reaches for it, examining it despite the lack of label, the implication there that nothing would identify its origins except his knowledge of the man sitting across from him. Magic.]
Don't be. You'll pay me back, whenever I walk into one of your war wounds.
[ If nothing else, it's done the job of distracting him from his own worries. Stephen watches Takeshi closely as he rides through the receipt of the bottle, the absence of label, the heaviness that's descended in a blanket across the table.
And when he speaks again, he allows himself to huff an almost-laugh in response. Even though it's not funny. Even though he'd rather, acutely in this moment, that neither of them had any tales to tell. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
You're saying "wizard" was a career choice.
no subject
[ Mirth-bright eye contact over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. ]
What about you? Or have you always been a launderer?
[ And he tops that one off with a quick, wry little wink. ]
no subject
I'm whatever I need to be for wherever I am.
[Which might sound evasive, for all that it's true. But explaining Envoys is complicated. Hazardous. Territory he doesn't really want to step into, only one drink down and whatever Stephen's called him here for waiting in the wings. So he strips it down to the bones.]
Military, originally. Rebel militia, when I found out they'd fucked me over.
no subject
That explains it.
[ Explains what, exactly, he does not elaborate. Downs the rest of his drink and sets it back on the table where it proceeds to refill itself for him. ]
They regretting that yet?
no subject
[Delivered dry, matter-of-fact, as if that explains it were a gauntlet Stephen had thrown down. He pushes his empty cocktail glass to one side, picks up the whiskey, tips his head slightly.]
But that was over two hundred years ago. Now it's just me and my regrets.
no subject
Massacre. Two hundred years ago.
He sits with it for a long moment - too long a moment - entirely unequipped to offer any kind of comfort. Finally, a brief lift of two fingers lands a full, unlabeled bottle of the same liquor they're drinking on the table with a thud. ]
Sorry.
[ For asking. For what happened. It can't mean much in the face of that, coming from a near stranger, but it's clear he means it. The word catches in his throat somewhere, emerges roughened somehow. ]
no subject
It means the bottle that arrives on the table in response feels more than undeserved. Still, he reaches for it, examining it despite the lack of label, the implication there that nothing would identify its origins except his knowledge of the man sitting across from him. Magic.]
Don't be. You'll pay me back, whenever I walk into one of your war wounds.
no subject
And when he speaks again, he allows himself to huff an almost-laugh in response. Even though it's not funny. Even though he'd rather, acutely in this moment, that neither of them had any tales to tell. ]
Right. I'll start the tab.