Theresa "Tess" Servopoulos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dog_eat_dog) wrote2013-10-22 11:56 am
dog_eat_dog) wrote2013-10-22 11:56 am
Entry tags:
FICLET 025
"Are you hoping that if you hang out long enough, you'll get a handout?"
Tess says it lightly enough, but there's still an edge to her voice. Joel looks over at her, but his eyes are still far-away, as if lost in thought.
"No," he says, "I just want to make sure my brother's being taken care of, that's all."
Tess touches the ball of her pen to paper, but she doesn't write. Instead, she watches Joel with narrowed eyes.
"And hanging around watching me do my work helps that how?" Tess asks, and then goes back to writing. She keeps everything on record on paper, even if the dinged up laptop on the desk still works (if only when they can afford to leech electricity to charge its batteries.) You never know when the last legs of technology will vanish in the civilian population, and for now, the military still prints all its forms. Tess needs to have them.
Joel shrugs, doesn't answer.
"We don't really need a mascot, or a dog," Tess says. "You want to be fed, you gotta work for us."
"I'm never joining the Fireflies," Joel says, pointedly.
"Then fuck off," Tess says, still light but sharp.
Joel ignores her. Tess suspects he has figured her out, figured out that he can push her buttons but she still won't turn him out entirely. As long as he gets up and goes for a stroll every few hours, she'll get so buried in her paperwork and forgeries and inventories that he can just while away the hours until Tommy gets back from whatever miserable demonstration the radicals are putting on that day. It annoys Tess that he'd endlessly chase after someone who just doesn't want him around anymore, but not enough to turn away company. Not enough to bug him over it. There isn't enough time in the day to dress down all the people out there pining after other people.
"So where'd you learn to do this stuff?" Joel asks.
He gestures broadly around Tess's "office", at the shelves of medical supplies and miscellaneous goods. The arms are kept elsewhere, the food in the underground part of their headquarters. Tess's desk is a rickety old table with a wad of paper wedged under one foot to balance it out, and the shelf over her head sags so precariously under the weight of first aid kits that Tess fears it'll someday give out on top of her. There are papers stuffed into beat-up file folders at the end of every shelf, half of the pages dog-eared or water-marked. There's a leak in the ceiling and a bucket under it that drips monotonously.
"Mom worked in an office," Tess says. She goes back to her papers, shuffling through them and making a few annotations. "Grew up watching her, spent some summers helping out as a part-time job. Plus my whole family was military, so it's just in my blood, I guess."
Joel gives a surprised little "hmm."
"And what do your parents think of their daughter runnin' supply for a radical group?"
Tess doesn't look up; she doesn't need to. Instead she shrugs, and offers, almost flippantly: "The dead don't think."
Joel falls quiet.
Without being prompted, Tess continues: "Mom died a week after outbreak, got bit but she died from blood loss before she could turn. Dad drank himself into being discharged, died shortly after."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Joel says. He sounds genuine enough.
"Your parents?" Tess asks.
Joel shakes his head. "None to speak of," he says.
Tess nods. She sets down her pen and sits back in her chair to watch him for a moment, and Joel holds her gaze unperturbed.
"Fair enough," Tess relents.
Joel shrugs. They lapse into silence again, Joel getting up to pace a bit and poke around the shelves with an uncommitted sort of curiosity, and Tess tries to keep her focus on her work. There's so fucking much of it, with so many good outgoing and not enough coming in, and she's glad she has such a good head for numbers. If this isn't organized, then they're no better than a fucking primitive society.
"What about your brother?" Joel asks, finally.
"He's working here in Boston," Tess says. "Working border control."
Joel's surprise is a little heavier here. "And what does he think of this?" Another broad gesture to the room around them.
"Where do you think we get our supply?" Tess says, pointedly.
Joel lets out a low whistle. (Tess likes how it sounds, and finds herself looking to him with a touch of a smile.)
"Not what I'd expect from a military family," Joel says.
"Well, it's one thing to go around gunning down terrorists and shit," Tess says, "it's another thing to be asked to gun down Americans."
Joel frowns in such a way that makes Tess feel about fourteen instead of twenty-four, but then he nods.
"True, I guess," Joel says.
Silence once more. Tess watches him for those moments, tapping her pen against the desk idly, and Joel watches her back. He's really handsome, she thinks again, and for a moment she entertains a girlish fantasy about getting up and going to him and sitting in his lap to press a kiss to his lips. She wonders if Joel thinks the same thing about her. He'd picked her up for a "date" the other day, after all, even if it hadn't been all that nice of an outing.
"You hungry?" she asks.
"I thought you said I wasn't getting handouts," Joel says. It's almost teasing, and he almost smiles to match. She can see the amusement in his eyes, though.
"Shut up or I'll change my mind," she informs him, fishing a pair of soda cans from her desk drawer, along with a few granola bars. Stale, no doubt. She sets a can and a bar in front of herself, and then holds out the others to him. Joel approaches to take them.
"You gonna get in trouble?" He says, hand closing around them but not taking them quite yet. He looks serious.
"Not if you don't tell."
Joel takes them.
"Thanks, Freckles," he says.
Tess looks up at him, almost quizzical. Freckles is a new one, not just from Joel but from anyone. When she's not Tess, she's usually "honey" or "girl" or "sweetheart", all that infantilizing, generic crap. Freckles is new. Tess can't help a twinge of a smile, one that gets Joel smiling, too.
"Freckles," she repeats.
"Yeah," he says. He reaches out as if to touch her face, but instead just gestures loosely, like he doesn't want to risk overstepping their boundaries. "Freckles."
Tess smiles a little wider, enough that she has to look back to her work just in case her cheeks are getting pink. Christ, she tells herself, keep it together.
Joel peels open the granola bar and then, as an afterthought, drags his chair closer to the desk so he can sit by her.
"Anything I can help with?" he says.
His boot brushes hers under the desk, casual enough that it must be an accident, but it stays there. Tess keeps her eyes on her paperwork, and when she's sure she has herself under control, she pushes a pile of papers in his direction.
"Yeah," she says, confidently. "These are all numbered. Just check that they're ordered right. You can count, right?"
Joel takes it in stride. "Sure," Joel says. "I can count."
She wonders if he feels twenty-five instead of thirty-five, and when he chuckles to himself as he starts going through the papers, she's sure it must be true.
Tess says it lightly enough, but there's still an edge to her voice. Joel looks over at her, but his eyes are still far-away, as if lost in thought.
"No," he says, "I just want to make sure my brother's being taken care of, that's all."
Tess touches the ball of her pen to paper, but she doesn't write. Instead, she watches Joel with narrowed eyes.
"And hanging around watching me do my work helps that how?" Tess asks, and then goes back to writing. She keeps everything on record on paper, even if the dinged up laptop on the desk still works (if only when they can afford to leech electricity to charge its batteries.) You never know when the last legs of technology will vanish in the civilian population, and for now, the military still prints all its forms. Tess needs to have them.
Joel shrugs, doesn't answer.
"We don't really need a mascot, or a dog," Tess says. "You want to be fed, you gotta work for us."
"I'm never joining the Fireflies," Joel says, pointedly.
"Then fuck off," Tess says, still light but sharp.
Joel ignores her. Tess suspects he has figured her out, figured out that he can push her buttons but she still won't turn him out entirely. As long as he gets up and goes for a stroll every few hours, she'll get so buried in her paperwork and forgeries and inventories that he can just while away the hours until Tommy gets back from whatever miserable demonstration the radicals are putting on that day. It annoys Tess that he'd endlessly chase after someone who just doesn't want him around anymore, but not enough to turn away company. Not enough to bug him over it. There isn't enough time in the day to dress down all the people out there pining after other people.
"So where'd you learn to do this stuff?" Joel asks.
He gestures broadly around Tess's "office", at the shelves of medical supplies and miscellaneous goods. The arms are kept elsewhere, the food in the underground part of their headquarters. Tess's desk is a rickety old table with a wad of paper wedged under one foot to balance it out, and the shelf over her head sags so precariously under the weight of first aid kits that Tess fears it'll someday give out on top of her. There are papers stuffed into beat-up file folders at the end of every shelf, half of the pages dog-eared or water-marked. There's a leak in the ceiling and a bucket under it that drips monotonously.
"Mom worked in an office," Tess says. She goes back to her papers, shuffling through them and making a few annotations. "Grew up watching her, spent some summers helping out as a part-time job. Plus my whole family was military, so it's just in my blood, I guess."
Joel gives a surprised little "hmm."
"And what do your parents think of their daughter runnin' supply for a radical group?"
Tess doesn't look up; she doesn't need to. Instead she shrugs, and offers, almost flippantly: "The dead don't think."
Joel falls quiet.
Without being prompted, Tess continues: "Mom died a week after outbreak, got bit but she died from blood loss before she could turn. Dad drank himself into being discharged, died shortly after."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Joel says. He sounds genuine enough.
"Your parents?" Tess asks.
Joel shakes his head. "None to speak of," he says.
Tess nods. She sets down her pen and sits back in her chair to watch him for a moment, and Joel holds her gaze unperturbed.
"Fair enough," Tess relents.
Joel shrugs. They lapse into silence again, Joel getting up to pace a bit and poke around the shelves with an uncommitted sort of curiosity, and Tess tries to keep her focus on her work. There's so fucking much of it, with so many good outgoing and not enough coming in, and she's glad she has such a good head for numbers. If this isn't organized, then they're no better than a fucking primitive society.
"What about your brother?" Joel asks, finally.
"He's working here in Boston," Tess says. "Working border control."
Joel's surprise is a little heavier here. "And what does he think of this?" Another broad gesture to the room around them.
"Where do you think we get our supply?" Tess says, pointedly.
Joel lets out a low whistle. (Tess likes how it sounds, and finds herself looking to him with a touch of a smile.)
"Not what I'd expect from a military family," Joel says.
"Well, it's one thing to go around gunning down terrorists and shit," Tess says, "it's another thing to be asked to gun down Americans."
Joel frowns in such a way that makes Tess feel about fourteen instead of twenty-four, but then he nods.
"True, I guess," Joel says.
Silence once more. Tess watches him for those moments, tapping her pen against the desk idly, and Joel watches her back. He's really handsome, she thinks again, and for a moment she entertains a girlish fantasy about getting up and going to him and sitting in his lap to press a kiss to his lips. She wonders if Joel thinks the same thing about her. He'd picked her up for a "date" the other day, after all, even if it hadn't been all that nice of an outing.
"You hungry?" she asks.
"I thought you said I wasn't getting handouts," Joel says. It's almost teasing, and he almost smiles to match. She can see the amusement in his eyes, though.
"Shut up or I'll change my mind," she informs him, fishing a pair of soda cans from her desk drawer, along with a few granola bars. Stale, no doubt. She sets a can and a bar in front of herself, and then holds out the others to him. Joel approaches to take them.
"You gonna get in trouble?" He says, hand closing around them but not taking them quite yet. He looks serious.
"Not if you don't tell."
Joel takes them.
"Thanks, Freckles," he says.
Tess looks up at him, almost quizzical. Freckles is a new one, not just from Joel but from anyone. When she's not Tess, she's usually "honey" or "girl" or "sweetheart", all that infantilizing, generic crap. Freckles is new. Tess can't help a twinge of a smile, one that gets Joel smiling, too.
"Freckles," she repeats.
"Yeah," he says. He reaches out as if to touch her face, but instead just gestures loosely, like he doesn't want to risk overstepping their boundaries. "Freckles."
Tess smiles a little wider, enough that she has to look back to her work just in case her cheeks are getting pink. Christ, she tells herself, keep it together.
Joel peels open the granola bar and then, as an afterthought, drags his chair closer to the desk so he can sit by her.
"Anything I can help with?" he says.
His boot brushes hers under the desk, casual enough that it must be an accident, but it stays there. Tess keeps her eyes on her paperwork, and when she's sure she has herself under control, she pushes a pile of papers in his direction.
"Yeah," she says, confidently. "These are all numbered. Just check that they're ordered right. You can count, right?"
Joel takes it in stride. "Sure," Joel says. "I can count."
She wonders if he feels twenty-five instead of thirty-five, and when he chuckles to himself as he starts going through the papers, she's sure it must be true.