admitting to being a thief isn't the same as admitting to specific thefts, your honor, and you'd know that if you'd ever been arrested or spent any amount of time in prison.
i just mean that if people are going to try to do sketchy stuff, and they're going to do it either way, they should at least do it right. they should have help.
[ After reflection he has to assume that's what Sam was trying to do, to some extent. It doesn't make Nate any less worried because he didn't know. ]
The problem is nobody really seems to be willing to trust the judgement of others that may be more skilled in a particular field than they are.
There's an abundance of pride and hubris, and it really makes me wonder if this place isn't populated by action movie heros used to protagonistic invulnerability. Too many of you guys are great at triumphantly overcoming all odds for your own good. Not enough come from doomed planets with no hope, or ones where you're walking down a hallway and someone else is coming from the other direction and you spend too long doing the awkward hallway dance to remind you how insignificant you are in the universe.
[ It's a good argument, and Nate isn't so myopic as to think that everyone is capable of surviving the same crap that he does - he's learned that the hard way, and even Nathan Drake couldn't escape consequences when they nudged him over a cliff.
He could say as much - suddenly wants to, for reasons that he can't define - but it would distract from the point Ian is trying to make. There's no place to make this about him when it's not. ]
you're right.
there's a pretty pervasive attitude that some people know better than others regardless of whether they actually do, and i'm just as guilty of that. getting people to listen is hard. getting people to listen when they're convinced their way is the right way is harder.
there's a lot of cheap talk about collaboration and doing things for the good of everybody without actually involving everybody in the conversation. i don't know how to fix that. i don't even know where to start.
Not to be pessimistic, but maybe thinking that's something we can fix is just a different shade of that same hubris. Changing a single person's mind can be a daunting task, let alone half a dozen of them that reaffirm each other's behavior and decisions consistently.
I can't even get Kyna to see my perspective about a comparatively small side quest. Reforming the displaced into a democracy...
I'm not holding my breath. Democracy didn't hold up where I'm from either.
fair enough. i don't want to change minds, though. i don't want to lead anything, or make any big, sweeping decisions on behalf of everybody else, i just want there to be some accountability on the part of the people who DO, and i don't want people's concerns to keep getting swatted down with "we don't have time for that."
we do have time. everybody should have a say in the decision-making process and people should be able to bring their expertise to the table, and i know that sounds idealistic as hell but i'm living in this world now and it's all i've got left.
[ What he wants is to go back to what they were talking about before this, because it's still important and there has to be some solution to bridge the divides of miscommunication, to ensure everyone is working together, not working at cross-purposes. Not being at odds. Nate counts himself as having room for improvement, as well.
But Ian latches onto minutiae with the pinpoint precision of a fucking engineer, so here they are. ]
He waffles about it the entire way over, and avenues for departing from the subject are in every direction: alleys, streets, bridges that stretch around and divert him from the apartment his feet keep walking him toward like they know he's supposed to be getting better at this stuff instead of violently shoving it into a box, only to have a minor meltdown once a month. It's fine. He's fine.
He knocks thrice the way he always does and leans against the jamb, feeling his stomach lurch the same way it did when he last told someone else, the same way it did when he fell. ]
[ The smile Nate flashes is a quick, shuttered thing when he walks through the door, not especially fond of the reductive descriptor of what is otherwise a very difficult subject to express to people, but that's not Ian's fault. He doesn't know. ]
Don't forget to code my implant.
[ He says on the way to the sofa, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the couch. ]
[ Levelly, and extremely aware of the general feel of the room -- but no idea what the cause is, or that he's inadvertently stepping on it. As such, he carries on with some gentle levity while he preemptively goes to grab Nate a drink. ]
You just have to say the password. It's Matisyahu.
[ There's no password, he already did it, it's an automated thing. ]
[ Nate watches Ian move into his kitchen, retrieving something, stuck staring at the line of his shoulders like they're somehow going to give him the words he has to say.
He can't be this reluctant, he can't act like this is the verbal equivalent to pulling teeth even if it feels that way, but more than anything Nate knows that saying it makes it that much more real. Makes it concrete. Makes it so the other things attached to it are foregone conclusions and they'll never see a resolution. ]
[ When he returns it's with a beer in hand for Nate, because it's hard to turn off default consolation offerings. He settles down sideways on the couch not terribly unlike the last time Nate was here, but with a far more serious countenance. ]
I did.
[ Returned dutifully, patient but probing. Take your time, man, he's not gonna try and drag it out of you. Accidental misstep aside, he otherwise has a decent amount of tact. ]
[ Nate affirms softly, taking the beer but not taking a sip. His thumbnail scratches at the stamped label as he looks past Ian, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
He's thought about how to deliver the news without implicating Sam, because it isn't fair to shove his brother under the bus, and it really isn't fair to let it color people's perceptions of him. The situation is fraught and complicated and even Nate doesn't know if it's certain, but every day he wakes up here it feels a little more real. It doesn't make saying it any less difficult. ]
I, um. I don't think I can go home. The last thing I remember is- was blurry. The sky. And the trees, around me. I fell, from really...really high up.
[ He shifts and one elbow props on the back of the sofa, hand braced against his neck and jaw, fingertips tapping at his nape. Gaze hovering at Ian's shoulder Nate feels the tension bleed out with quiet words, quieter pauses between them. ]
The last thing I heard was a cracking sound. When my head hit a rock. Then nothing.
[ The sky, then the trees, and Ian already knows where this is going -- or the loose direction, anyway. The understanding filters across his expression, lips parted, voiceless for a moment.
He's thinking of course he fell. Jesus, considering what he does all the time recreationally, screwing around on that crane, scaling up Ian's building to his window. He feels something rising up that sounds like I told you that shit's not safe-- but he presses it right back down again. It isn't even an I told you so, it's another brand of that same angry concern he felt earlier with Kyna.
Way too late to feel that for him, here.
An irrational, absurd voice in his mind murmurs that it's one of the most painless ways to go, at least. If it's fast enough, hard enough, the brain doesn't even have time to register pain.
That's not the right thing to say either. Mostly he just wants to know-- ]
This is gonna sound... really stupid when I ask it, but-- are you okay?
[ Not physically, obviously, but emotionally. ]
Are you- how long ago was it? Have you actually processed it yet?
[ It's easier to let him think it was a mistake of Nate's own making, that he was monkeying around where he shouldn't have, that it's his own damn fault. Easier to take the blame than to admit the accidental nature of it and what led to that point, because even if he only shares my brother was trying to protect me from a gunshot and knocked me over the side, it still paints Sam in a negative light. Simpler still, not having to explain all the baggage that comes with it.
What Ian asks is almost comically funny.
Are you okay, like the first question Nate asked Stephen down in the bunker beneath Red Wings. Are you okay, as though it's an uncomplicated task to define and pin down all the parts where he is not. Nate's eyebrows climb toward his hairline while Ian finishes his thought and he considers the questions before replying. ]
It was right before I got here, so...six-ish months ago?
[ His gaze slants toward the beer in his hand, warming and untouched. Dissociating himself from the reality of his circumstances is the only way he can talk about it, he's realized, and Nate continues with a distance he doesn't normally wear in conversations with Ian. ]
Thought I was doing pretty good for a while there, then backslid some. Not being busy always kick-starts the highlight reel of my biggest mistakes, so I guess I get why ghosts have unfinished business. Lance said- [ He sucks in a sharp breath. ] Lance said there's a difference between accepting that you can't change the result, and accepting the result itself. I don't really know where I am.
[ A small breath escapes his lips at six-ish months ago. No, there's no way Nate's processed his own death in six months. Not unless he's some unbelievably high level of in tune with the universe and psychology and like got a personal reaffirmation from one of the angels running around here. Even then it's a lot to swallow. It took Ian way longer than six months to processes his mother's death, he'd think his own would be... More. In some weird and indefinable way it would be more.
Lance is a smart guy. What he says feels true inherently, and Ian takes his time trying to think through his words with equivalent care. Hell, trying to think all of it through with equivalent care, because no combination of words is really gonna fix it and--
Fuck if it doesn't throw him back to a dream he'd done a good job pushing down. Searching out the right thing to say, falling short, wanting to somehow help or fix something he's not even a part of.
He knows what he'd be doing right now, if it were him.
Those two things combined is what ultimately has him reaching out to settle a careful hand on Nate's thigh. He'd go for arm, he'd prefer arm, but they're angled oddly, Nate's got an elbow on the couch backing, it would take precarious and deliberate shifting to pull it off. This is easier, more natural, it seems less like a huge... thing... to do. He's trying not to overthink it.
It just feels like he should. Like he should be offering something here that he's not sure either of them really know how to navigate. ]
I think... if you have to stay busy enough that you don't think about it, that answers your question.
[ Six months in he accepted he couldn't change what happened with his mom, sure, but he spent the rest of grad school adamantly blocking the rest out and working himself ragged. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i just mean that if people are going to try to do sketchy stuff, and they're going to do it either way, they should at least do it right. they should have help.
[ After reflection he has to assume that's what Sam was trying to do, to some extent. It doesn't make Nate any less worried because he didn't know. ]
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The problem is nobody really seems to be willing to trust the judgement of others that may be more skilled in a particular field than they are.
There's an abundance of pride and hubris, and it really makes me wonder if this place isn't populated by action movie heros used to protagonistic invulnerability. Too many of you guys are great at triumphantly overcoming all odds for your own good. Not enough come from doomed planets with no hope, or ones where you're walking down a hallway and someone else is coming from the other direction and you spend too long doing the awkward hallway dance to remind you how insignificant you are in the universe.
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He could say as much - suddenly wants to, for reasons that he can't define - but it would distract from the point Ian is trying to make. There's no place to make this about him when it's not. ]
you're right.
there's a pretty pervasive attitude that some people know better than others regardless of whether they actually do, and i'm just as guilty of that. getting people to listen is hard. getting people to listen when they're convinced their way is the right way is harder.
there's a lot of cheap talk about collaboration and doing things for the good of everybody without actually involving everybody in the conversation. i don't know how to fix that. i don't even know where to start.
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I can't even get Kyna to see my perspective about a comparatively small side quest. Reforming the displaced into a democracy...
I'm not holding my breath. Democracy didn't hold up where I'm from either.
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we do have time. everybody should have a say in the decision-making process and people should be able to bring their expertise to the table, and i know that sounds idealistic as hell but i'm living in this world now and it's all i've got left.
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You don't plan on trying to go home?
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[ He'd offer to make the trip, except he's pretty sure talking about it in front of the whole family isn't ideal either. ]
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But Ian latches onto minutiae with the pinpoint precision of a fucking engineer, so here they are. ]
yeah, ok.
give me 15 minutes.
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Sorry, man. There's still time to dip out of this one, run while you've got the chance. Speaking of which: ]
remind me to code your implant to the lock when you get here so I can stop standing up when you come over.
[ He suffereth. ]
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He waffles about it the entire way over, and avenues for departing from the subject are in every direction: alleys, streets, bridges that stretch around and divert him from the apartment his feet keep walking him toward like they know he's supposed to be getting better at this stuff instead of violently shoving it into a box, only to have a minor meltdown once a month. It's fine. He's fine.
He knocks thrice the way he always does and leans against the jamb, feeling his stomach lurch the same way it did when he last told someone else, the same way it did when he fell. ]
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When the door opens and Ian catches a quick glimpse at his body language, the concern starts filtering in properly. ]
Oh shit, we're about to have a bonding moment.
[ Pleasantly yet grimly observed; he gestures Nate in. ]
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Don't forget to code my implant.
[ He says on the way to the sofa, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the couch. ]
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[ Levelly, and extremely aware of the general feel of the room -- but no idea what the cause is, or that he's inadvertently stepping on it. As such, he carries on with some gentle levity while he preemptively goes to grab Nate a drink. ]
You just have to say the password. It's Matisyahu.
[ There's no password, he already did it, it's an automated thing. ]
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[ Nate watches Ian move into his kitchen, retrieving something, stuck staring at the line of his shoulders like they're somehow going to give him the words he has to say.
He can't be this reluctant, he can't act like this is the verbal equivalent to pulling teeth even if it feels that way, but more than anything Nate knows that saying it makes it that much more real. Makes it concrete. Makes it so the other things attached to it are foregone conclusions and they'll never see a resolution. ]
You asked why I'm not trying to go home.
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I did.
[ Returned dutifully, patient but probing. Take your time, man, he's not gonna try and drag it out of you. Accidental misstep aside, he otherwise has a decent amount of tact. ]
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[ Nate affirms softly, taking the beer but not taking a sip. His thumbnail scratches at the stamped label as he looks past Ian, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
He's thought about how to deliver the news without implicating Sam, because it isn't fair to shove his brother under the bus, and it really isn't fair to let it color people's perceptions of him. The situation is fraught and complicated and even Nate doesn't know if it's certain, but every day he wakes up here it feels a little more real. It doesn't make saying it any less difficult. ]
I, um. I don't think I can go home. The last thing I remember is- was blurry. The sky. And the trees, around me. I fell, from really...really high up.
[ He shifts and one elbow props on the back of the sofa, hand braced against his neck and jaw, fingertips tapping at his nape. Gaze hovering at Ian's shoulder Nate feels the tension bleed out with quiet words, quieter pauses between them. ]
The last thing I heard was a cracking sound. When my head hit a rock. Then nothing.
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He's thinking of course he fell. Jesus, considering what he does all the time recreationally, screwing around on that crane, scaling up Ian's building to his window. He feels something rising up that sounds like I told you that shit's not safe-- but he presses it right back down again. It isn't even an I told you so, it's another brand of that same angry concern he felt earlier with Kyna.
Way too late to feel that for him, here.
An irrational, absurd voice in his mind murmurs that it's one of the most painless ways to go, at least. If it's fast enough, hard enough, the brain doesn't even have time to register pain.
That's not the right thing to say either. Mostly he just wants to know-- ]
This is gonna sound... really stupid when I ask it, but-- are you okay?
[ Not physically, obviously, but emotionally. ]
Are you- how long ago was it? Have you actually processed it yet?
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What Ian asks is almost comically funny.
Are you okay, like the first question Nate asked Stephen down in the bunker beneath Red Wings. Are you okay, as though it's an uncomplicated task to define and pin down all the parts where he is not. Nate's eyebrows climb toward his hairline while Ian finishes his thought and he considers the questions before replying. ]
It was right before I got here, so...six-ish months ago?
[ His gaze slants toward the beer in his hand, warming and untouched. Dissociating himself from the reality of his circumstances is the only way he can talk about it, he's realized, and Nate continues with a distance he doesn't normally wear in conversations with Ian. ]
Thought I was doing pretty good for a while there, then backslid some. Not being busy always kick-starts the highlight reel of my biggest mistakes, so I guess I get why ghosts have unfinished business. Lance said- [ He sucks in a sharp breath. ] Lance said there's a difference between accepting that you can't change the result, and accepting the result itself. I don't really know where I am.
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Lance is a smart guy. What he says feels true inherently, and Ian takes his time trying to think through his words with equivalent care. Hell, trying to think all of it through with equivalent care, because no combination of words is really gonna fix it and--
Fuck if it doesn't throw him back to a dream he'd done a good job pushing down. Searching out the right thing to say, falling short, wanting to somehow help or fix something he's not even a part of.
He knows what he'd be doing right now, if it were him.
Those two things combined is what ultimately has him reaching out to settle a careful hand on Nate's thigh. He'd go for arm, he'd prefer arm, but they're angled oddly, Nate's got an elbow on the couch backing, it would take precarious and deliberate shifting to pull it off. This is easier, more natural, it seems less like a huge... thing... to do. He's trying not to overthink it.
It just feels like he should. Like he should be offering something here that he's not sure either of them really know how to navigate. ]
I think... if you have to stay busy enough that you don't think about it, that answers your question.
[ Six months in he accepted he couldn't change what happened with his mom, sure, but he spent the rest of grad school adamantly blocking the rest out and working himself ragged. ]
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