[ Fortunately, "why" isn't a question that Maine is interested in asking. To him, the reason doesn't matter. Locus helped Wash. Given the wound, he may have saved Wash's life. And all Maine wants to say is: ]
Thanks.
[ It's probably insufficient, but Maine has never been eloquent. He's grateful, and he wants Locus to know that. ]
[ He doesn't need to be thanked. He hadn't done it for thanks, or gratitude. While Maine certainly benefits from his decision to do so now, there is a great deal more that he doesn't know.
And while he doesn't, thanks feel like something stolen. Something swindled. Unearned. Thankfully his discomfort does not translate through text. ]
[ Maine doesn't press it. Nor does he reply at once. He's checked Locus' status; he's said his thanks. That's what he set out to do.
But he lingers, frowning slightly as he looks at their messages. He thinks of their first and only meeting, and the comfort he felt as a fellow soldier watched his back. He thinks of York dropping Locus' name in the list people who thought he and his former teammate should talk things out. He thinks of their last conversation, when Locus told him that being a soldier was all he knew, too. And he thinks again of the scar on Wash's neck.
... He wants to get to know Locus better. Wants to get to know him, period. ]
[ A similar pause takes place on his end. He stares at the message, knuckles pressed calm and quiet to his lips as he deliberates his next words.
Knowing more means it is likely he will find out about Chorus. About his own fate, his armor and status dangled like a prize in front of him, only to then be held over his head like some sword of Damocles. How much will knowing change things?
He remembers York's terror, thinking Maine was coming for him. For being a threat to Church. What would he do to someone who had been a threat to Church, to Wash, to Carolina? To an entire world, no better than the aliens they had fought during the war?
It might be simpler this way, having that blank slate.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text;
Thanks.
[ It's probably insufficient, but Maine has never been eloquent. He's grateful, and he wants Locus to know that. ]
text;
[ He doesn't need to be thanked. He hadn't done it for thanks, or gratitude. While Maine certainly benefits from his decision to do so now, there is a great deal more that he doesn't know.
And while he doesn't, thanks feel like something stolen. Something swindled. Unearned. Thankfully his discomfort does not translate through text. ]
text;
But he lingers, frowning slightly as he looks at their messages. He thinks of their first and only meeting, and the comfort he felt as a fellow soldier watched his back. He thinks of York dropping Locus' name in the list people who thought he and his former teammate should talk things out. He thinks of their last conversation, when Locus told him that being a soldier was all he knew, too. And he thinks again of the scar on Wash's neck.
... He wants to get to know Locus better. Wants to get to know him, period. ]
Like to know you.
[ Blunt as ever, Agent Maine. ]
text;
Knowing more means it is likely he will find out about Chorus. About his own fate, his armor and status dangled like a prize in front of him, only to then be held over his head like some sword of Damocles. How much will knowing change things?
He remembers York's terror, thinking Maine was coming for him. For being a threat to Church. What would he do to someone who had been a threat to Church, to Wash, to Carolina? To an entire world, no better than the aliens they had fought during the war?
It might be simpler this way, having that blank slate.
And yet.
Minutes later comes the response. ]
I can make time.
[ He won't run. What happens, happens. ]