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
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.