Oh, is that how this works? [there's a smile of incredulity stretching the words thin.] Is that how we do this? We just say that we don't want to deal with it and then suddenly we don't have to? God damn, dude, that's the most human thing you've said this whole time.
[she needs to get that out of her, the anger, the snap response, the judgment that she hopes will slide off of him as everything else has. she doubts she will be so lucky. she can tell that she is speaking to someone who has not revealed himself in this way in a myriad. she does not yet know if this is good or bad, but she's getting what she wants, and she should be happy about that.]
I don't want to bring your dick waving contest against the Pthumerians into this. I already know anyone could come out of there at any time and I'm going to deal with it when—if it happens. I'm not turning it into a crusade. [she knows, realistically, that her odds are low. that everyone she loved had already gone or fled a couple years ago. but there's always the chance, however slim. and she cannot let it destroy her from the inside on the possibility that one of the people she left on terrible terms with does show up here.]
Besides, if I wanted to talk about theology, I'd talk with your son. [she does not know where paul stands. she does not want to know.] I'm not asking you as the Necrolord Prime, or the Conqueror of Death, or the Kindly Prince, or whatever name you decide to hide behind today. [the anger is slowly starting to boil away, or maybe it's just simmering while she attends to something else. either way, she speaks like she's trying to reach out to a friend.]
I'm asking you as John Gaius. The man who once tried to marry a boy on the swingset, the man who wasted away his teenage years on Tumblr and Twitter and TikTok, the man who probably took trips to the mainland to watch fucking—[she fumbles for the name of an opera]—Faust or the Ring cycle or something in Sydney.
And I'm asking you to just stop dodging the question already. [she sounds exhausted by the end of it. there is no way, there is no possible way that she's getting through to him. he's showing all the parts of himself that are the most dangerous, that are just as sharp and deadly as any beak or talon. and she recognizes it as a threat display no matter what tone of voice he puts on it, but she cannot let herself back down from it now.] If you hate how this place never lets anything rest, why are you playing right into its hands? Why can't you just rest, John?
no subject
[she needs to get that out of her, the anger, the snap response, the judgment that she hopes will slide off of him as everything else has. she doubts she will be so lucky. she can tell that she is speaking to someone who has not revealed himself in this way in a myriad. she does not yet know if this is good or bad, but she's getting what she wants, and she should be happy about that.]
I don't want to bring your dick waving contest against the Pthumerians into this. I already know anyone could come out of there at any time and I'm going to deal with it when—if it happens. I'm not turning it into a crusade. [she knows, realistically, that her odds are low. that everyone she loved had already gone or fled a couple years ago. but there's always the chance, however slim. and she cannot let it destroy her from the inside on the possibility that one of the people she left on terrible terms with does show up here.]
Besides, if I wanted to talk about theology, I'd talk with your son. [she does not know where paul stands. she does not want to know.] I'm not asking you as the Necrolord Prime, or the Conqueror of Death, or the Kindly Prince, or whatever name you decide to hide behind today. [the anger is slowly starting to boil away, or maybe it's just simmering while she attends to something else. either way, she speaks like she's trying to reach out to a friend.]
I'm asking you as John Gaius. The man who once tried to marry a boy on the swingset, the man who wasted away his teenage years on Tumblr and Twitter and TikTok, the man who probably took trips to the mainland to watch fucking—[she fumbles for the name of an opera]—Faust or the Ring cycle or something in Sydney.
And I'm asking you to just stop dodging the question already. [she sounds exhausted by the end of it. there is no way, there is no possible way that she's getting through to him. he's showing all the parts of himself that are the most dangerous, that are just as sharp and deadly as any beak or talon. and she recognizes it as a threat display no matter what tone of voice he puts on it, but she cannot let herself back down from it now.] If you hate how this place never lets anything rest, why are you playing right into its hands? Why can't you just rest, John?