Monica's Apartment • Uptown Vienda
Early Evening on the 34th of Ophus, 2718
He’d done his best not to acknowledge it. He’d realized when the cup was maybe halfway back down to the table; he felt, suddenly – clocking ridiculously – like he was sitting with a startled deer. He could see her in the corner of his eye, with her hands in her lap, now. And he didn’t notice the quiet withdrawal of her field ’til he felt it lap against his again, strong and settled as ever. He still didn’t look at her, not even as she took a sip of tea, ’cause he didn’t think she’d want him to acknowledge it, but he didn’t know half what to do.
The moment passed quick as it ever had before, with her forgiving him in her gentle, formal, respectful way. Quick enough, they was talking about poetry again, and he was looking over the notebook she’d reached him like he hadn’t noticed nothing. But this time, it left a bad taste in his mouth; this time, he couldn’t quite shake it.
It was because he was fresh to this face, maybe, that he couldn’t handle it with as much grace as he might’ve a long time ago. It was just too strange; there was just too much happening, and he was cast adrift on it. He registered his question’d caught her off guard, and he looked up at her appreciatively when she started to answer it. But because of that bad taste in his mouth, lingering bitter like apah, or the dregs of a Low Tide hangover – every time she said sir, his face twitched. Unconsciously, he pouted, just a little, and it might’ve been discomfort or disapproval or even hurt.
Quick enough, though, oes, he found he could focus on what she was saying. What else could he do? A look of surprise crossed his face, first; he raised his brows.
“I’ve never – heard that,” he said. He thought a moment, tapping his fingertip idly against the edge of the page. “Knowledge, conquest, and – glorification of the gods, isn’t it? I’ll wager you can justify a lot, with those last two. But I never understood – if I had a quarrel with somebody, I’d use the fists the gods gave me before I’d ask the mona.”
Tom cleared his throat, suddenly, blinking. It’d just spilled out of him, brought on by his surprise at what she’d said; it’d been careless, and sloppy, and genuine, and Tom felt a thrill of fear. Clearing his throat again awkwardly, he put his glasses back on and looked back down at the notebook.
Careful with the old pages, curling at their edges, he turned one over. His lip twitched, and it was like hell not to smile. An osta rippled up the side of the page, its furry little body picked out in childish – but surprisingly detailed – pen-strokes. Better than he’d’ve drawn it, leastways. With her sitting beside him, he didn’t know much how to respond, other than to skim over it and try to pay attention to the writing. He might’ve tried a little joke, ’cause it really was nanabo – but he kept remembering how she’d sat fair still with her hands in her lap, drawing her field in close.
After a moment of skimming the Estuan on the page, he took a drink of tea, and found it wasn’t too hot anymore. The bitterness of it eased his nerves; he set the cup back down as soft as he could, though it was hard, with his stiff, shaky hand, and it clattered a little against the wood anyway.
Your mind, he thought. The only thing you have to yourself. He felt an ache in his chest, and he didn’t know if it was for himself or – though he couldn’t understand it – for her.
“I know some Seventen use the perceptive conversation to, ah, interrogate. Seems useful,” he admitted, frowning, “but I wouldn’t…” He seemed to struggle with words for a moment; then, rubbing his eyes, he looked up at the inspector again. His look was oddly intent. “If you want to see – actually see, in a bowl of water, or a glass – you have to make a connection between your mind and somebody else’s. I know that much. Somebody who’s willing.”
He glanced back down, frown deepening. “What’s it like? Reaching out with your mind.”
The moment passed quick as it ever had before, with her forgiving him in her gentle, formal, respectful way. Quick enough, they was talking about poetry again, and he was looking over the notebook she’d reached him like he hadn’t noticed nothing. But this time, it left a bad taste in his mouth; this time, he couldn’t quite shake it.
It was because he was fresh to this face, maybe, that he couldn’t handle it with as much grace as he might’ve a long time ago. It was just too strange; there was just too much happening, and he was cast adrift on it. He registered his question’d caught her off guard, and he looked up at her appreciatively when she started to answer it. But because of that bad taste in his mouth, lingering bitter like apah, or the dregs of a Low Tide hangover – every time she said sir, his face twitched. Unconsciously, he pouted, just a little, and it might’ve been discomfort or disapproval or even hurt.
Quick enough, though, oes, he found he could focus on what she was saying. What else could he do? A look of surprise crossed his face, first; he raised his brows.
“I’ve never – heard that,” he said. He thought a moment, tapping his fingertip idly against the edge of the page. “Knowledge, conquest, and – glorification of the gods, isn’t it? I’ll wager you can justify a lot, with those last two. But I never understood – if I had a quarrel with somebody, I’d use the fists the gods gave me before I’d ask the mona.”
Tom cleared his throat, suddenly, blinking. It’d just spilled out of him, brought on by his surprise at what she’d said; it’d been careless, and sloppy, and genuine, and Tom felt a thrill of fear. Clearing his throat again awkwardly, he put his glasses back on and looked back down at the notebook.
Careful with the old pages, curling at their edges, he turned one over. His lip twitched, and it was like hell not to smile. An osta rippled up the side of the page, its furry little body picked out in childish – but surprisingly detailed – pen-strokes. Better than he’d’ve drawn it, leastways. With her sitting beside him, he didn’t know much how to respond, other than to skim over it and try to pay attention to the writing. He might’ve tried a little joke, ’cause it really was nanabo – but he kept remembering how she’d sat fair still with her hands in her lap, drawing her field in close.
After a moment of skimming the Estuan on the page, he took a drink of tea, and found it wasn’t too hot anymore. The bitterness of it eased his nerves; he set the cup back down as soft as he could, though it was hard, with his stiff, shaky hand, and it clattered a little against the wood anyway.
Your mind, he thought. The only thing you have to yourself. He felt an ache in his chest, and he didn’t know if it was for himself or – though he couldn’t understand it – for her.
“I know some Seventen use the perceptive conversation to, ah, interrogate. Seems useful,” he admitted, frowning, “but I wouldn’t…” He seemed to struggle with words for a moment; then, rubbing his eyes, he looked up at the inspector again. His look was oddly intent. “If you want to see – actually see, in a bowl of water, or a glass – you have to make a connection between your mind and somebody else’s. I know that much. Somebody who’s willing.”
He glanced back down, frown deepening. “What’s it like? Reaching out with your mind.”
