“The certainty of terminus via failure or success makes decisions easier to make, in a way. Here, there’s always the possibility that we might languish on for a while if we’re cautious, clinging to some pathetic semblance of freedom in hiding or filed away into prisons.”
It occurs to him after a moment that he did not bring Holden here to whinge about the world state. He nudges his pile of nuts closer with the back of his hand and shifts the bowl out of the way, granting Jimothy access to the good stuff he’s portioned out for himself. Here.
Success or oblivion sounds pretty fucking bleak, but it's not like he can't follow that logic. Much as he doesn't particularly love that allusion to the dream future, which — is also pretty fucking bleak.
(Good thing they're having this conversation over drinks x2)
But he does accept the peace offering(??) of The Good Nuts, taking a small handful to crunch on, himself. His answer comes at a delay, equal parts chewing and measuring out an answer.
"He sees like a good guy," is agreed, from what he knows of, has seen of, Loxley. And because he can't not respond to the comparison, "You aren't so bad, either, you know."
“I know.” There’s a bittersweet crimp at the corner of his mouth.
It’s unfortunate -- common decency is a real drain on his productivity and well-being. But if he was truly terrible, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. And he definitely wouldn’t be sharing his snacks.
Two drink Silas cannot pretend to find any charm in it more complex than the kind of affection one might show for a dog with a bag on its head. Still. It speaks to his affinity for this glum human man that he didn’t stop short at irritation.
He drinks. They drink. There are baked nuts to crunch. A moment or two passes in relative silence, the buzzing murmur of other conversations being had. Nothing loud, or rowdy. It’s still early in the evening.
“I wasn’t being entirely facetious about embedding yourself with the locals,” he says, “Rifters return at times only to vanish again without rhyme or reason. You should prepare yourself for that eventuality.”
It's not that he happens to take a pull of ale at the moment Silas goes on to fortify himself for the continuation of this conversation. But he doesn't not do that.
"I know," he says, as he sets it down, drops his hands. Somewhere between accepting and resigned. He'd known, but hadn't been prepared. He'd do well to be.
Amos is a blow that's struck bone. He could say something about how long it's been since he's been anywhere without the crew, about the old fears realized about being the last from the Rocinante here. But if that were the only wound, he'd be bearing up better. That wasn't why he acted the way he did, the last time they saw each other.
When he sets his forearms to rest at the table's edge, there's a small flash of silver; something pulled from a pocket, idly turned over in his hands as he says, soft,
"I said something to you once about two ships and a station being destroyed around the time Naomi and I got to know each other. The first was crewed by more than 50 people. I knew them all by name. The second was manned by a few hundred. All of them died, including one of my people, getting us to safety. My crew and I are the only survivors of those ships. As for the station, there were 100,000 people just living their lives that day, and I was there when they all died in agony."
That isn't even the end of it. There are people who still blame him for the thousands of deaths in the slow zone, and he doesn't disagree.
"I haven't looked up the numbers yet for Tantervale."
There’s a furrow to his brow -- recalculation to account for the filling in of gaps with hard numbers, lives lost. Some deliberate sobering is required of him accordingly, shadows pulled in sharper around the bones of his face, a longer breath drawn in and held a moment to flush fog from the crevices of his brain upon exhale.
“Would you do anything differently?”
He does not specify which calamity he’s referring to. What he does do is add (after a blink that’s a little too slow not to read as preemptive weariness for some highly improbable one in a million odds solution where Captain Holden might have somehow cut a deal with a demon to put himself through a ritual woodchipper in exchange for all of those lives saved):
His hands contract around the metal object he's holding; the points dig into his palm, his fingers. He lets it.
Would he do anything differently?
Not log the fucking distress signal, maybe. Allow the Canterbury to continue on her way to Ceres, and then back to Saturn for ice, and never get blown to stardust by the Anubis. Except maybe Ade, or someone else, would've logged it even if he hadn't. Maybe they would've run into it again, and someone else would've done it. Maybe Protogen would never have let them make it to Ceres, as intent as they were on their war. Maybe, then the Cant would've died anyway, him and Naomi and Alex and Amos still aboard it, and Eros still would've
who fucking knows what Eros would or wouldn't have done, if the protomolecule were still unleashed there. Someone finding Julie Mao's body was only a matter of time. Would Dr. Mesplede, dead by his hand, still have gone there, potentially spread the protomolecule across the Belt, back on Earth?
Stars are better off without us, is a memory. Another ghost in his wake.
"I don't know," he admits. There was a time when he would've thought of the farm, at a question like this. Today it's barely a flicker. "Yes. It doesn't change anything now."
He loosens his hold on the badge, goes back to turning it between his fingers.
And so affects every relationship and decision made going forward.
Not that Holden is asking for an assessment. Silas catches himself there, and -- lacking for any more effective or intelligent transition into less invasive territory -- picks up his tankard to take a long drink. Hm.
There's a flash of anger, because of course there is — bright in the look he cuts to Silas, in the tensed lines of his shoulders, hands. There are a half dozen accusations he could make,
and
doesn't, because that wouldn't be fair. Because lashing out has never made anything better; he's tried. All he got for it was a series of regrets and even more blood on his hands. Just the same: no, he wasn't asking for an assessment.
"I'll try to take it better," he says, presently, tightly, "the next time someplace burns down around me."
The anger is enough -- the look in Holden’s eyes fielded head on and filed away with a flicker of uneasy relief once it’s never quite manifested into an attack. He’s abandoned or forgotten about the snacks that remain, bony knuckles bleached white around the handle of his tankard.
Well.
He’s said what he’s said.
“Unless that was your dragon in the sky, at the very least you owe it to yourself to diminish the amount of personal responsibility you seem to be taking for the razing of Tantervale.”
There’s a matching brace to his shoulders, tension bit in at the scruff of his neck to keep him on target in spite of burrowing instinct to slide quickly from the table.
“If Tevinter’s military keeps pushing, Tantervale was just the start.”
You owe it to yourself is such a strange thing to say to James Holden.
From his earliest memories, he's always had some notion of what he owed his family, the land they called theirs. When he didn't have that, he was adrift; and then with the Rocinante he owed it to his people to keep them alive as they were catapulted from disaster to disaster. When he took the captaincy, he owed it to them to act in their best interest, to protect their ship and their way of life. He'd respected the man in front of him after the dreams, even given the treason and the ways it'd specifically hurt him, because of his convictions of what they owed the natives here.
"Why do you care?"
The words might sound more like a barb if his tone did, but there's honest curiosity. Why are they having this conversation, about the relative flaws of how Jim's been handling loss and war, about whether or not Silas has his trust or respect? I just don’t want to be dismissed only stretches so far. We’re soldiers, too.
“Because I like you.” Obviously. He doesn’t have to give much thought to the answer, for all that there’s a hint of grudging resistance to the pinch at his brow, a pull at his frown. As if it’s against his better judgment.
“And you’re a disaster.”
To be fair, what human isn’t?
The flint in his glare is all defensive bristle, pushing back against pushback, holding his ground. The pause between one turn and the next is brief, hedging while he flexes the ache out of his grip on the tankard.
“Rightfully so," from the sound of it, "but I worry.”
That answer isn't completely unexpected, but it is enough so to leave him momentarily wrong-footed. If he'd had to compile a list prior to this conversation of who in Riftwatch he thought worried about him, Dick Dickerson wouldn't have even ranked. No wonder it was so easy to hurt feelings he hadn't known existed.
(Disaster should probably offend, but he's either too surprised or too self-aware to protest that.)
There's a twist to his mouth, self-directed mockery, as he admits, "I hadn't realized."
He revokes their shared ownership of the Good Nuts, sweeping the mismatched few that remain back into a pile between his hands. There he can focus his full attention down on crunching and grinding his way through them to occupy himself while Holden comes to terms with this new reality.
"I didn't mean to make you worry," comes after only a short pause, an equally well-worn and earnest thing for him to say. He drops his hands, silver medallion disappearing back into his pocket, and if he notices the irony of saying that right after everything else he's just said, it doesn't show. (It might if he were more sober. It might not.)
He lives here, is the thing, at the intersection of I didn't mean to make you worry and I owe it to them to not let that happen to anyone else. Whatever it is that I can do.
"I know I haven't been at my best. I'm working on it." In anticipation of argument, he corrects to, "I'll work on it."
“I’m not asking for your best.” Dick watches the silver go, curiosity piqued without follow-up. Provided Holden doesn’t intend to throw it dramatically down a toilet hole somewhere, it can be snooped after some other time. “I’m only asking you to be reasonable.”
It’s different.
Who among them here in Riftwatch has the time, energy, or will to be their best in any capacity. Wysteria notwithstanding.
He finishes his second round with a frown. There’s more he could say, obviously, but no need to kick a spaceman while he’s down.
Maybe is an acquiescence that comes too easily, but even alcohol can only make him so willing to continue a conversation like this one. The difference between his best and what's reasonable isn't something he's particularly interested in concerning himself with right now, truthfully.
But his own tankard has gone neglected for some time, and he's reminded of it now. The ale's gone warm, but he picks it up for a drink anyway, intending to not let it go to waste.
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no subject
Silas drinks.
“The certainty of terminus via failure or success makes decisions easier to make, in a way. Here, there’s always the possibility that we might languish on for a while if we’re cautious, clinging to some pathetic semblance of freedom in hiding or filed away into prisons.”
It occurs to him after a moment that he did not bring Holden here to whinge about the world state. He nudges his pile of nuts closer with the back of his hand and shifts the bowl out of the way, granting Jimothy access to the good stuff he’s portioned out for himself. Here.
“Loxley is better-natured than I am.”
no subject
(Good thing they're having this conversation over drinks x2)
But he does accept the peace offering(??) of The Good Nuts, taking a small handful to crunch on, himself. His answer comes at a delay, equal parts chewing and measuring out an answer.
"He sees like a good guy," is agreed, from what he knows of, has seen of, Loxley. And because he can't not respond to the comparison, "You aren't so bad, either, you know."
no subject
It’s unfortunate -- common decency is a real drain on his productivity and well-being. But if he was truly terrible, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. And he definitely wouldn’t be sharing his snacks.
“I didn’t know you liked puns.”
no subject
Though he does pause in picking up his tankard to add,
"The alcohol doesn't help."
Two Drink Jim likes puns, apparently.
no subject
Two drink Silas cannot pretend to find any charm in it more complex than the kind of affection one might show for a dog with a bag on its head. Still. It speaks to his affinity for this glum human man that he didn’t stop short at irritation.
He drinks. They drink. There are baked nuts to crunch. A moment or two passes in relative silence, the buzzing murmur of other conversations being had. Nothing loud, or rowdy. It’s still early in the evening.
“I wasn’t being entirely facetious about embedding yourself with the locals,” he says, “Rifters return at times only to vanish again without rhyme or reason. You should prepare yourself for that eventuality.”
no subject
"I know," he says, as he sets it down, drops his hands. Somewhere between accepting and resigned. He'd known, but hadn't been prepared. He'd do well to be.
Amos is a blow that's struck bone. He could say something about how long it's been since he's been anywhere without the crew, about the old fears realized about being the last from the Rocinante here. But if that were the only wound, he'd be bearing up better. That wasn't why he acted the way he did, the last time they saw each other.
When he sets his forearms to rest at the table's edge, there's a small flash of silver; something pulled from a pocket, idly turned over in his hands as he says, soft,
"I said something to you once about two ships and a station being destroyed around the time Naomi and I got to know each other. The first was crewed by more than 50 people. I knew them all by name. The second was manned by a few hundred. All of them died, including one of my people, getting us to safety. My crew and I are the only survivors of those ships. As for the station, there were 100,000 people just living their lives that day, and I was there when they all died in agony."
That isn't even the end of it. There are people who still blame him for the thousands of deaths in the slow zone, and he doesn't disagree.
"I haven't looked up the numbers yet for Tantervale."
Like a coward, his tone indicates.
no subject
There’s a furrow to his brow -- recalculation to account for the filling in of gaps with hard numbers, lives lost. Some deliberate sobering is required of him accordingly, shadows pulled in sharper around the bones of his face, a longer breath drawn in and held a moment to flush fog from the crevices of his brain upon exhale.
“Would you do anything differently?”
He does not specify which calamity he’s referring to. What he does do is add (after a blink that’s a little too slow not to read as preemptive weariness for some highly improbable one in a million odds solution where Captain Holden might have somehow cut a deal with a demon to put himself through a ritual woodchipper in exchange for all of those lives saved):
“Within the bounds of practical reality.”
no subject
Would he do anything differently?
Not log the fucking distress signal, maybe. Allow the Canterbury to continue on her way to Ceres, and then back to Saturn for ice, and never get blown to stardust by the Anubis. Except maybe Ade, or someone else, would've logged it even if he hadn't. Maybe they would've run into it again, and someone else would've done it. Maybe Protogen would never have let them make it to Ceres, as intent as they were on their war. Maybe, then the Cant would've died anyway, him and Naomi and Alex and Amos still aboard it, and Eros still would've
who fucking knows what Eros would or wouldn't have done, if the protomolecule were still unleashed there. Someone finding Julie Mao's body was only a matter of time. Would Dr. Mesplede, dead by his hand, still have gone there, potentially spread the protomolecule across the Belt, back on Earth?
Stars are better off without us, is a memory. Another ghost in his wake.
"I don't know," he admits. There was a time when he would've thought of the farm, at a question like this. Today it's barely a flicker. "Yes. It doesn't change anything now."
He loosens his hold on the badge, goes back to turning it between his fingers.
no subject
And so affects every relationship and decision made going forward.
Not that Holden is asking for an assessment. Silas catches himself there, and -- lacking for any more effective or intelligent transition into less invasive territory -- picks up his tankard to take a long drink. Hm.
no subject
and
doesn't, because that wouldn't be fair. Because lashing out has never made anything better; he's tried. All he got for it was a series of regrets and even more blood on his hands. Just the same: no, he wasn't asking for an assessment.
"I'll try to take it better," he says, presently, tightly, "the next time someplace burns down around me."
no subject
Well.
He’s said what he’s said.
“Unless that was your dragon in the sky, at the very least you owe it to yourself to diminish the amount of personal responsibility you seem to be taking for the razing of Tantervale.”
There’s a matching brace to his shoulders, tension bit in at the scruff of his neck to keep him on target in spite of burrowing instinct to slide quickly from the table.
“If Tevinter’s military keeps pushing, Tantervale was just the start.”
no subject
From his earliest memories, he's always had some notion of what he owed his family, the land they called theirs. When he didn't have that, he was adrift; and then with the Rocinante he owed it to his people to keep them alive as they were catapulted from disaster to disaster. When he took the captaincy, he owed it to them to act in their best interest, to protect their ship and their way of life. He'd respected the man in front of him after the dreams, even given the treason and the ways it'd specifically hurt him, because of his convictions of what they owed the natives here.
"Why do you care?"
The words might sound more like a barb if his tone did, but there's honest curiosity. Why are they having this conversation, about the relative flaws of how Jim's been handling loss and war, about whether or not Silas has his trust or respect? I just don’t want to be dismissed only stretches so far. We’re soldiers, too.
no subject
“And you’re a disaster.”
To be fair, what human isn’t?
The flint in his glare is all defensive bristle, pushing back against pushback, holding his ground. The pause between one turn and the next is brief, hedging while he flexes the ache out of his grip on the tankard.
“Rightfully so," from the sound of it, "but I worry.”
no subject
(Disaster should probably offend, but he's either too surprised or too self-aware to protest that.)
There's a twist to his mouth, self-directed mockery, as he admits, "I hadn't realized."
no subject
Now he knows.
He revokes their shared ownership of the Good Nuts, sweeping the mismatched few that remain back into a pile between his hands. There he can focus his full attention down on crunching and grinding his way through them to occupy himself while Holden comes to terms with this new reality.
no subject
He lives here, is the thing, at the intersection of I didn't mean to make you worry and I owe it to them to not let that happen to anyone else. Whatever it is that I can do.
"I know I haven't been at my best. I'm working on it." In anticipation of argument, he corrects to, "I'll work on it."
no subject
It’s different.
Who among them here in Riftwatch has the time, energy, or will to be their best in any capacity. Wysteria notwithstanding.
He finishes his second round with a frown. There’s more he could say, obviously, but no need to kick a spaceman while he’s down.
no subject
Maybe is an acquiescence that comes too easily, but even alcohol can only make him so willing to continue a conversation like this one. The difference between his best and what's reasonable isn't something he's particularly interested in concerning himself with right now, truthfully.
But his own tankard has gone neglected for some time, and he's reminded of it now. The ale's gone warm, but he picks it up for a drink anyway, intending to not let it go to waste.