[No answer could make her happy; there's something to hate about every single option. Oh, you don't care about your wife? You just fucking move on, say your wife's life means less than a bunch of strangers, like some deranged trolley problem?]
So much for loyalty.
[But she might have thrown her glass at him if he'd said it was for the wife.
[It's hard not to feel insane, hearing that; she knows him but she didn't know about the wife. His memories don't matter but they have to be suppressed. His wife is a tragedy but not enough of one to undo.
[He doesn't know the concept of a rebound, but he does know what she's getting at. And on top of what she's already said, he wants to be the one to throw a drink.
He doesn't. He just downs the rest of his second whiskey and sets it aside. Because this fucking hurts. He didn't anticipate this part of it. He stares at the floor because that's easier than looking at her.]
No, you ain't.
You know, he said you didn't know-- about all of what I thought of you. Felt about you. And I don't know what the hell you told him, but I guess I should be the one wondering why the fuck you even care right now.
Well, guess that's partly my fault for thinkin' I didn't need to spell it all out for you.
[She glances at the bottle when he knocks back that drink, gauging how much is left; she's barely touched her own. But she listens, halfway across the room, arms folded against her ribs.
It's hard not to be defensive in turn.]
The last few guys I was with rarely told me shit, so sorry if I'm a little burnt out on guessing where I really stand.
[He wants to tell her, he really does, but he also wants to stalk off and sulk about it. He chooses both.
Standing up, he places the glass upside down on the table, fingertips pressing against the bottom. Still not looking at her yet. He's defensive. Angry. Hurt.]
Then listen. I like that you're a fucking force when you have to be, but you want to be soft. That you like the fancy shit. And you always want to do better. Be better. Than everyone else. Than yourself. I like havin' fun with you, sure, but I ain't that kinda man anymore.
But this right here? This is bullshit, Tess. [And he finally turns to her.]
I sure as fuck didn't lie to you. And I don't know what you want from me, but I'm tellin' you the truth. So you figure out what you want, then you come find me.
[She's not entirely sure whether to take him seriously at first, not with his gaze fixed away from her, not when what she'd love to hear in any other moment is capped like that.
And truthfully, she isn't sure what she wants, either. There are so many things she wants, and sure, one is him, or could be him –– but how on earth does she say it? She can barely tell Arthur to his face how much he matters, and that's the least complicated relationship in her life, or at least the most reliable one. She never got to figure out where she stood with Joel, not really, and she doesn't imagine she ever will. Butcher's gone. She never got to tell so many people anything. She's supposed to just figure that out?
Tess just swallows her breath. She's sure her eyes are glassy. She's never been particularly good at anything approaching a poker face in these situations, and the sting in her eyes is there even if she pretends it isn't.]
[He doesn't know what he was expecting. A blow up, maybe. More angry words. Something defensive. Something else. But not this.
He wishes they could go back to that. At least then he knew she felt something, but now he's pretty sure that she doesn't. That he had completely misjudged this whole damn situation. That she was throwing all of that around for -- for nothing. He doesn't know. He can't know because she doesn't say.
For a moment, it seems like he might add something else, but he doesn't. He's fucked no matter what. Tell a lie, that's no good. Tell the truth, that's no good.
He gives her a nod.]
Yeah. Later.
[And, with that, he turns to head out of the door, just barely resisting the urge to slam it behind him before he storms off down the hallway to go hit something that isn't a wall.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She matters, but the people trapped in that fuckin' ship matter, too. All of 'em. Deal's to save them and get the aliens off the fuckin' planet.
no subject
So much for loyalty.
[But she might have thrown her glass at him if he'd said it was for the wife.
She scoffs.]
no subject
Loyalty? What the hell does loyalty have to do with anything?
no subject
[Tess feels so frustrated that she has to stand up to pace, to move, to do something other than sit there and look at him.]
What do I care? I don't even know her. Or you, actually.
no subject
He spreads his arms around a bit, watching her pace as he settles into a chair again. Defensive. Annoyed.]
Yeah? Dammit, Tess. What do you want to know that you don't already? You know who I am. No memories change that.
no subject
There's really only one question to lob at him.]
Am I fucking rebound? Is that what this is?
no subject
He doesn't. He just downs the rest of his second whiskey and sets it aside. Because this fucking hurts. He didn't anticipate this part of it. He stares at the floor because that's easier than looking at her.]
No, you ain't.
You know, he said you didn't know-- about all of what I thought of you. Felt about you. And I don't know what the hell you told him, but I guess I should be the one wondering why the fuck you even care right now.
Well, guess that's partly my fault for thinkin' I didn't need to spell it all out for you.
no subject
It's hard not to be defensive in turn.]
The last few guys I was with rarely told me shit, so sorry if I'm a little burnt out on guessing where I really stand.
no subject
Standing up, he places the glass upside down on the table, fingertips pressing against the bottom. Still not looking at her yet. He's defensive. Angry. Hurt.]
Then listen. I like that you're a fucking force when you have to be, but you want to be soft. That you like the fancy shit. And you always want to do better. Be better. Than everyone else. Than yourself. I like havin' fun with you, sure, but I ain't that kinda man anymore.
But this right here? This is bullshit, Tess. [And he finally turns to her.]
I sure as fuck didn't lie to you. And I don't know what you want from me, but I'm tellin' you the truth. So you figure out what you want, then you come find me.
no subject
And truthfully, she isn't sure what she wants, either. There are so many things she wants, and sure, one is him, or could be him –– but how on earth does she say it? She can barely tell Arthur to his face how much he matters, and that's the least complicated relationship in her life, or at least the most reliable one. She never got to figure out where she stood with Joel, not really, and she doesn't imagine she ever will. Butcher's gone. She never got to tell so many people anything. She's supposed to just figure that out?
Tess just swallows her breath. She's sure her eyes are glassy. She's never been particularly good at anything approaching a poker face in these situations, and the sting in her eyes is there even if she pretends it isn't.]
Fine. Talk to you later or something.
no subject
He wishes they could go back to that. At least then he knew she felt something, but now he's pretty sure that she doesn't. That he had completely misjudged this whole damn situation. That she was throwing all of that around for -- for nothing. He doesn't know. He can't know because she doesn't say.
For a moment, it seems like he might add something else, but he doesn't. He's fucked no matter what. Tell a lie, that's no good. Tell the truth, that's no good.
He gives her a nod.]
Yeah. Later.
[And, with that, he turns to head out of the door, just barely resisting the urge to slam it behind him before he storms off down the hallway to go hit something that isn't a wall.]