"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
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.