Jack rubs his forehead as though easing a headache; there's a look of frustration bordering on (?) tearfulness (?) in his eyes, which he tries to disguise by looking off at the window. A silence follows, cold and thoughtful, before he finally responds.
"I'm not 'muddling about' with him."
A beat, and then he continues, "We don't need to keep traveling together. I don't know how this arrangement took shape. It's Cala that insists we have to stay with you and your corpse; I'd be halfway to [NAME OF OTHER COUNTRY] if I had a choice, and believe me, if it meant muddling a hundred Tollivers to do it, I would."
And another pause.
"But he lowered the cost of the gods-damned hat without any muddling. So - your concerns are noted and alleviated."
<.>
A jolted awareness: He doesn't want Jack to leave.
(He can't. The man can't leave. Orev needs— Jack needs— Something, there's something here he can't reach.)
Then, another moment of awareness: He's moved, several strides across the room toward the boy. Not sure how it'd happened. Not sure when. He draws himself up short before he reaches the man, now crossing his own arms, hands clutching his elbows.
What he says, voice less steady than he'd like: "That won't be necessary.
"Fleeing, that is. Whatever's brought us to this village... I suspect our chances are better as a unit."
He does examine the boy closely, trying to determine whether he's lying about any muddlings or non-muddlings with Tolliver, though he suspects it's true enough. (Trying as well to not linger on just how ill-at-ease he felt, hearing this boy speak of parting ways.) (Probably, it's because Orev could use the support, at least until he figures out what in the hells he's doing here.) ((Probably, that isn't the reason at all.))
"Your Calamus is sensible. I'd heed her, if I were you."
Then, irritably, "And Walt is not 'my' corpse."
Well. Maybe Walt kind of is, but Orev has made no claim to him.
Orev gestures toward the bed. "Sit, wouldn't you?"
<.>
[orev, insight check for lying: 16] Jack seems to be speaking from a place of deep hurt and anger, and he truly seems to believe he'd follow through on his threat to fuck his way across Druskenvald - and also, meant for that comment to hurt.
And he's telling the truth about Tolliver.
<.>
That comment did in fact hurt. At the moment, it's drowned out by the panic (it wasn't panic!) ((it was absolutely panic)) at the thought of Jack leaving. Slowly, though, the sting's beginning to burn through, and as Orev watches the boy, he grips his elbows a little harder, clas beginning to sink through feather and skin.
(Why in fuck is this man so hell-bent on being far from him?)
<.>
Jack sits, but only slowly, and on Cala's bed. Or, what would be her bed if she slept. He doesn't look at Orev; it seems almost as though he doesn't WANT to look at Orev, or perhaps can't look. (Perhaps doesn't want to see the hurt he caused.)
"A unit. I'm sure that's your primary concern. Tactical cohesion." A snort.
"Cala's sensible. She's also too trusting. But if this is what she wants, I'm not going to refuse her."
Now he does look at Orev, his gaze stony and full of acrimony. "Don't make me regret it, or I'll make sure regret's the only thing you know how to feel anymore."
<.>
He blinks, thinks to remark that he is not unconcerned about tactics and practicalities, but it really isn't the point, or it isn't where his attention's focused.
(He doesn't doubt this man could cause regret.) ((Has it happened before?)) (Strange; he doesn't know much of what he feels anymore. Confusion, yes. Irritation. A desire to know... something.
And, when faced with this man, what he feels is something akin to— Well. It couldn't be called longing, could it? The word, the notion makes no sense applied to himself. Perhaps take thought of feeling out of it. Perhaps simply acknowledge that there is something to this man that he doesn't want to let go.)
He meets the harshness of Jack's gaze with a composed blankness. "I don't doubt you will."
Then, carefully, "What I cannot discern is what you believe I'd do to make you regret anything. Or why.
"After all, you've never known me."
<.>
Jack once more crosses his arms and stares impassively at Orev. He seems to be thinking of how he wants to reply to that statement: a comeback, a nasty remark, or just a quiet -
"No. I've never known you.
"But I've known enough men to know which ones will take your heart and break it for a bit of fun." He lets that hang in the air a moment before continuing with a nod towards the door. "But we're talking about her. She still thinks people can be trusted. Don't give her the kind of education I had."
He seems to know he ought to stop there, but he just can't help himself. He adds, "She's not replaceable like some."
[orev, insight check: 21]
That last comment seemed bitter and pointed, as though he's echoing something someone told him.
[orev, wisdom check: 15]
Orev feels a creeping sense that, if only he could remember, he would know EXACTLY what Jack is talking about.
<.>
What he thinks, sharp and sudden, cutting through a growing wariness: 'Who on earth told you that?'
(Who ever said you were replaceable.) (Who could think it.)
And itching beneath his skin, a subtle torment through his mind, he knows, he knows there's something familiar in those words. Which does nothing to settle his unease. Which turns toward its own kind of gnawing, because if he knows those words, if he's not mistaken about having known, he must have known this man—
The conclusions can't bode well. And he doesn't reach to draw them in connection now.
(But he worries. And for the first time, the thought forms coherently, with something like certainty: What did he do to this boy?)
He's looked away from Jack. Finds his eyes tracking along the room's perimeter, pausing now and then to stare at nothing. (For fuck's sake, if he could remember something, if he knew the shape of any piece of this, he might see some way forward.) (Maybe. Or he might bring it to ruin, regardless.)
When he looks up again, his vision settles near Jack, not quite holding him. "I have no interest in quashing her optimism.
"It's— She is. Charming. I don't mean her any harm."
And, after a breath, his eyes fix on Jack. "...I'm not certain you are replaceable."
<.>
"I'm certain I am, to certain men," he responds immediately, but the hardness in his eyes is gone for a moment, replaced with painful longing. This gives way to further anger, as though he can't help but feel furious with Orev for making him feel anything but bitter, and with himself for being weak. (4 on Performance.)
He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, then tries to continue. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through. Don't talk about me like you do." A harsh jerk of his head towards the door. "And if you don't mean her any harm -"
There's a pause here as though an idea has struck him. He glances at Orev and seems to soften, perhaps even be considering offering an olive branch. "If we're going to keep together as a 'unit', maybe you could help us."
<.>
He doesn't know what to make of that; the pain, the angry bitterness, and why it feels so pointed, so particular.
(He might know, if he could remember anything, anything.) (It. Might be better that he doesn't know. (He doesn't believe that.))
There's a moment in which he nearly argues that he does know Jack, which must be an impulse toward gambit, toward bravado, because he doesn't know this man. ((However much he might, perhaps, like to.)) (And even if. Even if he knew Jack once before, that knowledge has been excised, with no telling whether it can ever be returned.)
The change in tone throws him. Orev looks at if he doesn't quite trust whatever Jack's leading toward (it's too good to be true, isn't it? when the boy's been nothing but prickly, ireful in his direction), though he keeps hesitation from his voice when he replies, "That strikes me as reasonable."
Possibly. Depending on the ask. (Depending on what Orev is capable of achieving.)
no subject
"I'm not 'muddling about' with him."
A beat, and then he continues, "We don't need to keep traveling together. I don't know how this arrangement took shape. It's Cala that insists we have to stay with you and your corpse; I'd be halfway to [NAME OF OTHER COUNTRY] if I had a choice, and believe me, if it meant muddling a hundred Tollivers to do it, I would."
And another pause.
"But he lowered the cost of the gods-damned hat without any muddling. So - your concerns are noted and alleviated."
<.>
A jolted awareness: He doesn't want Jack to leave.
(He can't. The man can't leave. Orev needs— Jack needs— Something, there's something here he can't reach.)
Then, another moment of awareness: He's moved, several strides across the room toward the boy. Not sure how it'd happened. Not sure when. He draws himself up short before he reaches the man, now crossing his own arms, hands clutching his elbows.
What he says, voice less steady than he'd like: "That won't be necessary.
"Fleeing, that is. Whatever's brought us to this village... I suspect our chances are better as a unit."
He does examine the boy closely, trying to determine whether he's lying about any muddlings or non-muddlings with Tolliver, though he suspects it's true enough. (Trying as well to not linger on just how ill-at-ease he felt, hearing this boy speak of parting ways.) (Probably, it's because Orev could use the support, at least until he figures out what in the hells he's doing here.) ((Probably, that isn't the reason at all.))
"Your Calamus is sensible. I'd heed her, if I were you."
Then, irritably, "And Walt is not 'my' corpse."
Well. Maybe Walt kind of is, but Orev has made no claim to him.
Orev gestures toward the bed. "Sit, wouldn't you?"
<.>
[orev, insight check for lying: 16] Jack seems to be speaking from a place of deep hurt and anger, and he truly seems to believe he'd follow through on his threat to fuck his way across Druskenvald - and also, meant for that comment to hurt.
And he's telling the truth about Tolliver.
<.>
That comment did in fact hurt. At the moment, it's drowned out by the panic (it wasn't panic!) ((it was absolutely panic)) at the thought of Jack leaving. Slowly, though, the sting's beginning to burn through, and as Orev watches the boy, he grips his elbows a little harder, clas beginning to sink through feather and skin.
(Why in fuck is this man so hell-bent on being far from him?)
<.>
Jack sits, but only slowly, and on Cala's bed. Or, what would be her bed if she slept. He doesn't look at Orev; it seems almost as though he doesn't WANT to look at Orev, or perhaps can't look. (Perhaps doesn't want to see the hurt he caused.)
"A unit. I'm sure that's your primary concern. Tactical cohesion." A snort.
"Cala's sensible. She's also too trusting. But if this is what she wants, I'm not going to refuse her."
Now he does look at Orev, his gaze stony and full of acrimony. "Don't make me regret it, or I'll make sure regret's the only thing you know how to feel anymore."
<.>
He blinks, thinks to remark that he is not unconcerned about tactics and practicalities, but it really isn't the point, or it isn't where his attention's focused.
(He doesn't doubt this man could cause regret.) ((Has it happened before?)) (Strange; he doesn't know much of what he feels anymore. Confusion, yes. Irritation. A desire to know... something.
And, when faced with this man, what he feels is something akin to— Well. It couldn't be called longing, could it? The word, the notion makes no sense applied to himself. Perhaps take thought of feeling out of it. Perhaps simply acknowledge that there is something to this man that he doesn't want to let go.)
He meets the harshness of Jack's gaze with a composed blankness. "I don't doubt you will."
Then, carefully, "What I cannot discern is what you believe I'd do to make you regret anything. Or why.
"After all, you've never known me."
<.>
Jack once more crosses his arms and stares impassively at Orev. He seems to be thinking of how he wants to reply to that statement: a comeback, a nasty remark, or just a quiet -
"No. I've never known you.
"But I've known enough men to know which ones will take your heart and break it for a bit of fun." He lets that hang in the air a moment before continuing with a nod towards the door. "But we're talking about her. She still thinks people can be trusted. Don't give her the kind of education I had."
He seems to know he ought to stop there, but he just can't help himself. He adds, "She's not replaceable like some."
[orev, insight check: 21]
That last comment seemed bitter and pointed, as though he's echoing something someone told him.
[orev, wisdom check: 15]
Orev feels a creeping sense that, if only he could remember, he would know EXACTLY what Jack is talking about.
<.>
What he thinks, sharp and sudden, cutting through a growing wariness: 'Who on earth told you that?'
(Who ever said you were replaceable.) (Who could think it.)
And itching beneath his skin, a subtle torment through his mind, he knows, he knows there's something familiar in those words. Which does nothing to settle his unease. Which turns toward its own kind of gnawing, because if he knows those words, if he's not mistaken about having known, he must have known this man—
The conclusions can't bode well. And he doesn't reach to draw them in connection now.
(But he worries. And for the first time, the thought forms coherently, with something like certainty: What did he do to this boy?)
He's looked away from Jack. Finds his eyes tracking along the room's perimeter, pausing now and then to stare at nothing. (For fuck's sake, if he could remember something, if he knew the shape of any piece of this, he might see some way forward.) (Maybe. Or he might bring it to ruin, regardless.)
When he looks up again, his vision settles near Jack, not quite holding him. "I have no interest in quashing her optimism.
"It's— She is. Charming. I don't mean her any harm."
And, after a breath, his eyes fix on Jack. "...I'm not certain you are replaceable."
<.>
"I'm certain I am, to certain men," he responds immediately, but the hardness in his eyes is gone for a moment, replaced with painful longing. This gives way to further anger, as though he can't help but feel furious with Orev for making him feel anything but bitter, and with himself for being weak. (4 on Performance.)
He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, then tries to continue. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through. Don't talk about me like you do." A harsh jerk of his head towards the door. "And if you don't mean her any harm -"
There's a pause here as though an idea has struck him. He glances at Orev and seems to soften, perhaps even be considering offering an olive branch. "If we're going to keep together as a 'unit', maybe you could help us."
<.>
He doesn't know what to make of that; the pain, the angry bitterness, and why it feels so pointed, so particular.
(He might know, if he could remember anything, anything.) (It. Might be better that he doesn't know. (He doesn't believe that.))
There's a moment in which he nearly argues that he does know Jack, which must be an impulse toward gambit, toward bravado, because he doesn't know this man. ((However much he might, perhaps, like to.)) (And even if. Even if he knew Jack once before, that knowledge has been excised, with no telling whether it can ever be returned.)
The change in tone throws him. Orev looks at if he doesn't quite trust whatever Jack's leading toward (it's too good to be true, isn't it? when the boy's been nothing but prickly, ireful in his direction), though he keeps hesitation from his voice when he replies, "That strikes me as reasonable."
Possibly. Depending on the ask. (Depending on what Orev is capable of achieving.)
"You have something in mind?"
<.>