She’s there in less than a minute, knocking and then letting herself in anyway. It’s petty, but she figures if she’s going to be under his thumb in any way, she’s going to go where she pleases.
“Hey,” she says, none too pleased.
She’s got some fresh scrapes and a bruised cheekbone since he saw her last.
His cabin door is peeling white paint, and the interior used to be not much
better. The room is tiny, with a cot along the back wall that only
barely fits. There's a door next to it that leads to a bathroom with
running water, which the original space didn't have, and the space they're
in now is almost stripped bare. So far, he's repainted it and sanded the
floor down to something that isn't speckled with paint and water damage.
The fake view is of a swamp, nothing close to what he'd taken her to in the
Enclosure.
There's a closet against one wall, and a desk against the only remaining
space. On it is a map of the country he's from, his own journal, and a
manila folder stamped with Inmate File. Tess.
The room doesn’t bug her, and then it does. Everything kind of bugs her right now — who is this guy, some criminal who still gets to have moral high ground on her, living out of a place that hovers around par with hers. She sees that inmate file and dreads it. Absolutely dreads it.
"You know I offered to come here because mine looks like a shithole, and then you live here?" she says, incredulous. And then: "You know you can get this replaced, right? You're a fucking warden, you can have a fancy apartment with a king-sized bed."
She walks up to him like she wants a fight, but it's hard to instigate with calm people. Scared people are easy to push around. Angry people are easy to push back against. Calm people just make her feel like the crazy one. Is she supposed to be an asshole to him now? Play nice? Pretend none of it is true? If he's got even two brain cells to rub together, he wouldn't fall for it anyway. Whatever's in her file probably laid that bare in an instant.
"They're just big beds," she says, tightly. "You can roll over on them five times and not hit the other side."
He doesn't tense for a moment. He knows just what she's doing, and with any man picking a fight back home he'd raise his chin, square his shoulders. Right now he doesn't move a muscle, just stands there while she goes through it.
"Well, don't that sound like a dream. Unfortunately for me, I like doin' things by myself when I can."
"Yeah?" she replies, a little too sweetly for someone pressing in his space, hoping to get a reaction out of him. "It is unfortunate for you, because I like doing things myself, too."
She's a little miffed at herself, too, for having been friendly to literally any warden. If she'd just been standoffish and rude, she wouldn't be in the position of having let her guard down around someone now responsible for... what? Her rehabilitation? That doesn't belong in anyone's hands but her own.
She could've pushed him. She felt ready to, felt that temptation to shove him around and make it a real brawl. She knows exactly how overfought her body is already, and that's never stopped her before. But he's right in a way –– they did click, there is something there she connects with –– and she can work with that.
She stays exactly where she is.
"If you wanna drink and smoke and pal around the countryside, that's fine by me," she replies, tightly. "But nothing's going to change who I am. I guarantee you that folder doesn't have the whole story."
"Of course it doesn't. It's facts, put down by someone else. Helps me understand where you're coming from, and that's about it."
He picks it up, along with his journal. "I've kept a journal since I was a boy. This one's fairly recent. You want to look at that, even the stakes, that's there for you."
He won't bother explaining to her that this is a big, big thing. Because he wrote this down himself. All of his private fears and hopes and anger is written down there, in his own hand. But he's not going to go into this by acting like Dutch.
He won't be a dictator. He won't tell her what to do.
She sizes him up for a moment, heart hammering, and then:
"Fine," she mutters.
She takes it from him roughly and paces away. That's about as close to an olive branch there can be amongst criminals, and she'll take it, even if it feels like letting him off easy. She's quick to rile, but quick to pacify, too. She tucks his journal under her arm. Save the best for last, she figures, if he's going to let her see his business, too.
She flips her folder open and skims it. Tess isn't sure which is worse; that she can glance over charges of human smuggling and conspiracy to murder and feel so dispassionate, or that she feels more disgusted by the truth than the actual actions. She'd had her reasons for all of this, hadn't she? It being called what it is feels too ugly to think about.
She closes it again before she even finishes it, and then just stands there, thinking and tense, his journal tight against her side.
He sits down on his cot while she reads the file. He aches for something to do with hands, but he woke up this morning with a terrible fucking cough, and he's not about to tempt fate by smoking.
"Yeah," she says, tossing the folder down on the desk. Somehow it's more fun to drink on a warden's charity when it doesn't feel like there's much in the way of stakes around it, but a drink's a drink.
On to the journal, which she cracks open to peruse. His handwriting is pretty, and it's oddly nice to be reading longhand again after even just a couple weeks of digital text on the communicators. His drawings are quaint, his little anecdotes. Ferry robberies, that's a new one for her. Mugging, that's surprisingly beneath her, a person who has smuggled humans. Shooting people, not so much. Twenty pages, then thirty.
She lets out a long breath and starts skimming.
"You regret any of this?" she asks, even if she thinks she already knows the answer.
He actually looks a little more tense when she starts going through his. The start of it: the mad dash from Blackwater up into the mountains. Those horrible, cold weeks there, buried in the snow, hunting for the whole group, unable to mourn the people they lost.
Then his doodles when spring came. Descriptions of Valentine. The night with Lenny, the robberies in town, Hosea's little play with the girls so they could ostensibly get away with it.
Mary.
Fuck. His voice is soft and hoarse when he replies: "I regret a lot of it. I know why I did what I did, and I can't change that. I don't care about-- the damn money we took from types like Leviticus Cornwall, or killing folk that was out to kill us. But I did a lot of harm to a lot of people didn't deserve it."
It's different, over a hundred years away, but it doesn't feel too dissimilar. Tess has been a refugee from societal collapse and a fugitive from justice for over half her life now, and it's strange to think that the life in these pages seems more familiar to her than her own teenaged years. She's lost people. She's got someone she loves and can't really be with either, albeit for wholly different reasons. Hell, she's fallen out of love with people she idealized, people she thought had the right way of things.
Problem was she decided to go all-in instead of get the fuck out.
"Alright," she says, and she hates how unsure she sounds about it. She doesn't actually know who her innocents are. She has never really let herself think about it for longer than minute, here or there.
She swallows a lump in her throat.
"Is that why you're a warden? You set other wayward souls straight, you get your deal, you've paid back what you've done?"
He holds his hand out for the bottle he'd only just passed to her. He needs a fucking drink if he's going to be dealing with all of this honesty.
"Wish I was thinking that selflessly when I came here," he admits to her. He asks her for the journal back, and leafs to a page to which he's stuck a few photographs. He gives it back to her, so she can see one photograph.
"Truth be told, Tess, I was dyin'. The doctor here patched me up, but there was nothing for it back home." He still doesn't sound like he's fully reconciled himself with that fact. He can't dare believe he'll actually have a life after this.
"Things was fallin' apart. Everyone was dead, or had the good sense to run before it got too bad. But there were two people left who had no one else to help 'em. John... John died, right before I got here. That's his wife Abigail, and their little boy Jack. The Pinkertons came and took her, and if I don't get her out alive that little boy's not going to have anyone left in this goddamn world. I came here to get his momma out of jail and give them both a fightin' chance."
She hands the bottle and the journal back to him, and she sits down next to him on the cot. Admittedly, she's tired too. It's been a long couple weeks and nobody really knows enough about that to understand how much she's run herself ragged, and she's feeling raw enough as it is without letting anyone poke at her wounds.
Tess mulls over that picture long and hard. Lots of kids have no one, she reasons. Not your fucking kid, so why care about one little boy?
But she's not that heartless, either. Especially not after what she did to Joel, either.
"You reform me or this little boy grows up without anyone, and you'd be dead too," she says, a little cool, but she's still here, isn't she? "You're in a real shit position."
"Get it?" she finishes. "Yeah. I know. But believe it or not, it is on me. You're lucky you didn't get saddled with some genocidal maniac."
For a fleeting instant, she wishes she was one. It'd be easier. It'd make her feel like less of a joke –– big contraband boss, reduced to some fool who chooses to care now, after she'd already thrown kerosene on the flaming shit-pile that was their world.
"I actually give a shit, I don't do any of this for laughs," she says, and she almost feels like she has to convince herself a little. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do to be a better person. I don't know what that looks like."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
audio.
What does that file say?
audio.
Says a lot. You want to read it?
audio.
Might as well. I'll come to yours.
audio.
spam
“Hey,” she says, none too pleased.
She’s got some fresh scrapes and a bruised cheekbone since he saw her last.
Re: spam
His cabin door is peeling white paint, and the interior used to be not much better. The room is tiny, with a cot along the back wall that only barely fits. There's a door next to it that leads to a bathroom with running water, which the original space didn't have, and the space they're in now is almost stripped bare. So far, he's repainted it and sanded the floor down to something that isn't speckled with paint and water damage. The fake view is of a swamp, nothing close to what he'd taken her to in the Enclosure.
There's a closet against one wall, and a desk against the only remaining space. On it is a map of the country he's from, his own journal, and a manila folder stamped with Inmate File. Tess.
no subject
"You know I offered to come here because mine looks like a shithole, and then you live here?" she says, incredulous. And then: "You know you can get this replaced, right? You're a fucking warden, you can have a fancy apartment with a king-sized bed."
Because that’s what matters right now, obviously.
no subject
"You shoulda seen the state of the place when I first got here. Been sprucing it up. I don't even know what a king-sized bed is."
no subject
"They're just big beds," she says, tightly. "You can roll over on them five times and not hit the other side."
no subject
"Well, don't that sound like a dream. Unfortunately for me, I like doin' things by myself when I can."
no subject
She's a little miffed at herself, too, for having been friendly to literally any warden. If she'd just been standoffish and rude, she wouldn't be in the position of having let her guard down around someone now responsible for... what? Her rehabilitation? That doesn't belong in anyone's hands but her own.
no subject
He isn't tetchy, but he's certainly pushing back a little, now. To see how deep this goes for her, while still being present.
no subject
She's right in there, smiling despite being plenty pissed off.
"I don't know, Arthur, what did the Admiral promise you? It worth hounding me?"
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He already likes her- and likes her more now that she's showing that hard, angry side of her. That's not the problem.
no subject
She stays exactly where she is.
"If you wanna drink and smoke and pal around the countryside, that's fine by me," she replies, tightly. "But nothing's going to change who I am. I guarantee you that folder doesn't have the whole story."
Threat, warning, mea culpa, it all works.
no subject
He picks it up, along with his journal. "I've kept a journal since I was a boy. This one's fairly recent. You want to look at that, even the stakes, that's there for you."
He won't bother explaining to her that this is a big, big thing. Because he wrote this down himself. All of his private fears and hopes and anger is written down there, in his own hand. But he's not going to go into this by acting like Dutch.
He won't be a dictator. He won't tell her what to do.
no subject
"Fine," she mutters.
She takes it from him roughly and paces away. That's about as close to an olive branch there can be amongst criminals, and she'll take it, even if it feels like letting him off easy. She's quick to rile, but quick to pacify, too. She tucks his journal under her arm. Save the best for last, she figures, if he's going to let her see his business, too.
She flips her folder open and skims it. Tess isn't sure which is worse; that she can glance over charges of human smuggling and conspiracy to murder and feel so dispassionate, or that she feels more disgusted by the truth than the actual actions. She'd had her reasons for all of this, hadn't she? It being called what it is feels too ugly to think about.
She closes it again before she even finishes it, and then just stands there, thinking and tense, his journal tight against her side.
no subject
"...You want a drink?"
no subject
On to the journal, which she cracks open to peruse. His handwriting is pretty, and it's oddly nice to be reading longhand again after even just a couple weeks of digital text on the communicators. His drawings are quaint, his little anecdotes. Ferry robberies, that's a new one for her. Mugging, that's surprisingly beneath her, a person who has smuggled humans. Shooting people, not so much. Twenty pages, then thirty.
She lets out a long breath and starts skimming.
"You regret any of this?" she asks, even if she thinks she already knows the answer.
no subject
Then his doodles when spring came. Descriptions of Valentine. The night with Lenny, the robberies in town, Hosea's little play with the girls so they could ostensibly get away with it.
Mary.
Fuck. His voice is soft and hoarse when he replies: "I regret a lot of it. I know why I did what I did, and I can't change that. I don't care about-- the damn money we took from types like Leviticus Cornwall, or killing folk that was out to kill us. But I did a lot of harm to a lot of people didn't deserve it."
no subject
Problem was she decided to go all-in instead of get the fuck out.
"Alright," she says, and she hates how unsure she sounds about it. She doesn't actually know who her innocents are. She has never really let herself think about it for longer than minute, here or there.
She swallows a lump in her throat.
"Is that why you're a warden? You set other wayward souls straight, you get your deal, you've paid back what you've done?"
no subject
"Wish I was thinking that selflessly when I came here," he admits to her. He asks her for the journal back, and leafs to a page to which he's stuck a few photographs. He gives it back to her, so she can see one photograph.
"Truth be told, Tess, I was dyin'. The doctor here patched me up, but there was nothing for it back home." He still doesn't sound like he's fully reconciled himself with that fact. He can't dare believe he'll actually have a life after this.
"Things was fallin' apart. Everyone was dead, or had the good sense to run before it got too bad. But there were two people left who had no one else to help 'em. John... John died, right before I got here. That's his wife Abigail, and their little boy Jack. The Pinkertons came and took her, and if I don't get her out alive that little boy's not going to have anyone left in this goddamn world. I came here to get his momma out of jail and give them both a fightin' chance."
no subject
Tess mulls over that picture long and hard. Lots of kids have no one, she reasons. Not your fucking kid, so why care about one little boy?
But she's not that heartless, either. Especially not after what she did to Joel, either.
"You reform me or this little boy grows up without anyone, and you'd be dead too," she says, a little cool, but she's still here, isn't she? "You're in a real shit position."
no subject
"It ain't on you. I'm not gonna hold that over your head. But I thought you should know, so you..."
Get why he's here. Why he's participating in this at all, when he's done what he's done and he's here as a warden. He isn't here for himself.
no subject
For a fleeting instant, she wishes she was one. It'd be easier. It'd make her feel like less of a joke –– big contraband boss, reduced to some fool who chooses to care now, after she'd already thrown kerosene on the flaming shit-pile that was their world.
"I actually give a shit, I don't do any of this for laughs," she says, and she almost feels like she has to convince herself a little. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do to be a better person. I don't know what that looks like."
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