"Coffee, then. A beer? Casual platonic hangout things." His fingers flick and bend, coaxing out a low bass tune he'd been noodling around with whenever Locus was around. "You kinda need to get out more, I say hiding in your bunker."
Of the two of them he gets out plenty and technically this is getting out for him but right now, this is more than enough.
The little twist of self-aware hypocrisy at the end earns a faint snort, but Locus shakes his head all the same. He doesn't do 'casual' very well. Even when he was younger, he tended to be a little too intense, too awkward, even if he'd meant well and wanted to fit in.
That had been a long time ago. That had been Sam, not Locus.
"She has associates." She doesn't need to sit around humoring his efforts at being social. This, on the other hand? This is manageable.
"Associates or friends? Different flavors of koolaid there, locus." Relationships for business and for fun. Or refuge and grounding and all that stuff. It does make york drop his eyes to the strings he's been plucking, voice mild and casual when he asks.
"We're, what? Sparring partners, associates, or friends? Cuz only one of those makes falling asleep on you somewhat acceptable instead of mortifying."
That gives him pause as he considers it, watching York strum away without picking up on the feelers he's putting out, without seeming to.
What he did pick up on, however, was Washington flat out telling him that York thought of him as a friend. And sharing that space, York being comfortable enough around him to fall against him in sleep, is something friends would do. A friend, he reasons, would have been the one to make sure he slept soundly and got back to his own bed.
"If we were associates, I would have left you on the couch," he points out in flat tones.
The strumming stops there for a second. "I, uh. Thought Wash hauled my tired ass home."
Since Locus doesn't really do contact, and carrying is a lot of contact. Still that's... Good to know. He relaxes a little, the quiet tension easing. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Kinda pulled a few allnighters."
"I tried to wake you. When you didn't, I thought it best to let you sleep."
Obviously he'd needed it. And it wasn't that far of a walk. He'd borne someone else's weight for them for a time, before. The memories are there, flickering at the edge of his vision.
This is different, he reminds himself. New start. New...friends.
"Washington did follow, if that's any consolation."
"Yeah, sorry." He sleeps hard when exhausted, and he'd been pretty damn worn out. Pleased but tired. Plenty of code done, plenty of gifts made.
"Really? Huh. You had things handled, why lurk? I mean I haven't really invited him over so maybe he was curious." The strumming resumes, an idle tune wandering through. "...You can, you know. Call me Taylor. My friends do."
The friends that know his name, anyway. Wash will probably always call him York and that's ok. Ish. Mostly.
"He wanted to ensure you came to no harm in my care."
Which, fair enough, considering their history. Which York really has no concept of, does he? He'd seemed fairly oblivious during the movie, only assuming they were some sort of friends prior to this.
Nothing could be further from the truth, obviously, and Washington's words crept back into his mind. He should tell him the truth, before he had a chance to discover it any other way.
"...Okay I know Wash is a paranoid little shit more often than not and it's kept him alive but- why would he think you'd hurt me? We're sparring partners. If you wanted to hurt me you'd do it on the mat and call it an accident." That's how that shit went during the Project, that's not what's going on now. What the hell?
"He's not THAT protective of me." Is he? He isn't. "Just cuz he's the older one now-"
He sighs, grumbling at his guitar. "Damn timelines."
He studies York for a moment. Knowing the truth, he would likely abandon this course, this friendship he was attempting to forge. Why wouldn't he side with his comrade?
He has to accept that eventuality and get this over and done with.
"Because our history is a bloody one. Before coming here, our last experience with one another was on opposing sides of a war."
"The war's over." Mostly, he knew that much, he was sure of that much, Wash was further ahead so it ought to be even more over unless the Innies started picking up new sets of armor or-
Shit that is no longer relevant to him on account of him having ducked down years ago and hidden.
And, well.
Being dead.
"You're gonna have to elaborate on that." Because as it stands it makes no fucking sense.
Every human was more or less on the same side of that war, once the Covenant stepped in. Locus is still watching him intently, watching his fingers play over the guitar strings, debating.
Best way is bluntness, he decides.
"There was a little-known planet called Chorus. Has he mentioned it to you?"
"He has told me fuck and all about what comes after my point in the timeline." Except that everyone but he and Carolina are dead but Wash is on occasion a liar and they were trying to piss each other off, so.
Might be true, might not, even if he's pretty sure it's true he's not gonna mention it to...anyone.
That'll bite him later. "That's way out in the boonies, innit?"
"Yes. Though it held resources that were of interest to the man I was then employed by. Alien artifacts, in particular."
Just state the facts. As unbiased as possible. He still can't quite see a reaction, but that shouldn't be long, now.
"My partner and I were hired to sustain an already bloody civil war among the native population, and retrieve what artifacts we could in the process. Agent Washington and his comrades landed in the middle of said war when their ship crashed on the planet."
The strumming continues- slower, milder, just something for his hands to do while he processes this. War mongering for, what? Potential war profiteering? Research? Tiny place way out of the way where no one will notice this shit going down?
"And then?" New variables for the overall equation, an already murky pattern that he's having a hard time putting together but he knows, bone deep, it doesn't end anywhere good.
"He and his comrades discovered what was happening, and tried to stop it." He paused, and took a breath before correcting himself. "Us."
And it had been months of brutal, bloody fighting, losses on both sides, and he had convinced himself that he didn't care. That it didn't matter. Soldiers died when ordered to, and those that survived earned that right. That was the way of it.
"Then I abandoned my orders. And my partner. I stopped fighting."
It's as simple as that, as far as he's concerned. The details and motivation don't matter as much as the results. People died because of him. It explains well enough why Wash would be cautious leaving a teammate -- or former teammate -- in his charge.
He's no longer looking at York, not directly, his gaze focused on some point off to the side.
The strumming finally stops, York going so far as to unsling the guitar from his shoulders and set it aside so he can lean forward and lace his fingers together. "So. Lemme get this straight."
Because as much (little) as he's been given? The impression he gets is this. "You fight in the war. Shit happens because hey, it's war, that's what happens. Somewhere between that ending and the past, I dunno, two, three years you get to a place where indirectly prompting genocide seems an appropriate request of an employer. Then you just decide to quit. Pack up, go home, come here and take the oath like the rest of us."
The one about protecting people and shit. The one about preventing Chronoblivion. "Is that entirely accurate? Because I feel like I'm missing shit here."
That's the only thing that could be missing, surely. There's certainly no motivation that could explain away what he'd done, what he'd chosen to do, and the weight of that choice isn't one that's escaped York, if the emphasis on his words is any indication.
Nearly done, he thinks. Just follow through, answer his questions, wait for him to leave.
"..." christ he is not equipped to deal with this. "I'm asking you as a person, not as a solider."
Good on Locus for quitting before actually doing the thing but- "What happened that made figuratively glassing a planet ok to you? What made you change your mind? What happened that made wash think you wouldn't, I dunno, slit my throat in my sleep? Cuz you heaven even given me the basics here, man. What the hell."
"It wasn't." It wasn't okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. No one in their right mind would forgive such an action. "I knew. I knew how terrible it was, but I felt nothing. I was following orders. That was all that was required of me."
Press on. Focus. He took another quiet breath before continuing, tonelessly. "When I did question, my partner would...'reassure' is not the correct word. But it made sense. The strong survive, as their right. If they deserved to live, they would be strong enough to stop us."
"I wanted to continue as I had been, to be a soldier. And instead I became a monster. Washington...He had been where I was, but he had taken a different path. Chosen to find his purpose in people, rather than in orders. There was another way, provided I left everything behind."
And he had. A choice he still sometimes questions.
"It's too late to change what I did. But I can do some good here. I think he agrees, as much as it irks him to do so."
"You're supposed to question unethical orders as a solider. You're supposed to use your judgement." Not buy into them. Not bury yourself in them so deep you can't tell which way is up.
There's more that's not being said but- even if locus recognizes having gone off the rails- he needs a minute. An hour. A few days. Without a word he tugs his guitar back up on his shoulder and stands, muttering. "This is not the reality check I needed, christ."
The door's right there and he starts walking till he hitsthe threshold and hesitates. "You ever feel like filling in the rest of the blanks, you know where to find me."
This needed to happen, sooner rather than later. Washington had been correct in that respect, at least. He'll maintain his distance, find someone else to spar with. He doesn't look up again until he hears fading footsteps.
Find where it stings, he thinks, where it hurts, where you thought you might have had hope for something good, and push it down. Drown it. You'll survive without it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Of the two of them he gets out plenty and technically this is getting out for him but right now, this is more than enough.
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That had been a long time ago. That had been Sam, not Locus.
"She has associates." She doesn't need to sit around humoring his efforts at being social. This, on the other hand? This is manageable.
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"We're, what? Sparring partners, associates, or friends? Cuz only one of those makes falling asleep on you somewhat acceptable instead of mortifying."
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What he did pick up on, however, was Washington flat out telling him that York thought of him as a friend. And sharing that space, York being comfortable enough around him to fall against him in sleep, is something friends would do. A friend, he reasons, would have been the one to make sure he slept soundly and got back to his own bed.
"If we were associates, I would have left you on the couch," he points out in flat tones.
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Since Locus doesn't really do contact, and carrying is a lot of contact. Still that's... Good to know. He relaxes a little, the quiet tension easing. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Kinda pulled a few allnighters."
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Obviously he'd needed it. And it wasn't that far of a walk. He'd borne someone else's weight for them for a time, before. The memories are there, flickering at the edge of his vision.
This is different, he reminds himself. New start. New...friends.
"Washington did follow, if that's any consolation."
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"Really? Huh. You had things handled, why lurk? I mean I haven't really invited him over so maybe he was curious." The strumming resumes, an idle tune wandering through. "...You can, you know. Call me Taylor. My friends do."
The friends that know his name, anyway. Wash will probably always call him York and that's ok. Ish. Mostly.
He'll deal.
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Which, fair enough, considering their history. Which York really has no concept of, does he? He'd seemed fairly oblivious during the movie, only assuming they were some sort of friends prior to this.
Nothing could be further from the truth, obviously, and Washington's words crept back into his mind. He should tell him the truth, before he had a chance to discover it any other way.
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"He's not THAT protective of me." Is he? He isn't. "Just cuz he's the older one now-"
He sighs, grumbling at his guitar. "Damn timelines."
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He has to accept that eventuality and get this over and done with.
"Because our history is a bloody one. Before coming here, our last experience with one another was on opposing sides of a war."
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Shit that is no longer relevant to him on account of him having ducked down years ago and hidden.
And, well.
Being dead.
"You're gonna have to elaborate on that." Because as it stands it makes no fucking sense.
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Every human was more or less on the same side of that war, once the Covenant stepped in. Locus is still watching him intently, watching his fingers play over the guitar strings, debating.
Best way is bluntness, he decides.
"There was a little-known planet called Chorus. Has he mentioned it to you?"
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Might be true, might not, even if he's pretty sure it's true he's not gonna mention it to...anyone.
That'll bite him later. "That's way out in the boonies, innit?"
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Just state the facts. As unbiased as possible. He still can't quite see a reaction, but that shouldn't be long, now.
"My partner and I were hired to sustain an already bloody civil war among the native population, and retrieve what artifacts we could in the process. Agent Washington and his comrades landed in the middle of said war when their ship crashed on the planet."
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"And then?" New variables for the overall equation, an already murky pattern that he's having a hard time putting together but he knows, bone deep, it doesn't end anywhere good.
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And it had been months of brutal, bloody fighting, losses on both sides, and he had convinced himself that he didn't care. That it didn't matter. Soldiers died when ordered to, and those that survived earned that right. That was the way of it.
Until it wasn't.
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A lot of data missing here. A metric fuckton.
"And then?"
Because there's gotta be more if Wash was concerned but not so much that he'd warn York away or keep Locus from carting his ass off.
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It's as simple as that, as far as he's concerned. The details and motivation don't matter as much as the results. People died because of him. It explains well enough why Wash would be cautious leaving a teammate -- or former teammate -- in his charge.
He's no longer looking at York, not directly, his gaze focused on some point off to the side.
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Because as much (little) as he's been given? The impression he gets is this. "You fight in the war. Shit happens because hey, it's war, that's what happens. Somewhere between that ending and the past, I dunno, two, three years you get to a place where indirectly prompting genocide seems an appropriate request of an employer. Then you just decide to quit. Pack up, go home, come here and take the oath like the rest of us."
The one about protecting people and shit. The one about preventing Chronoblivion. "Is that entirely accurate? Because I feel like I'm missing shit here."
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That's the only thing that could be missing, surely. There's certainly no motivation that could explain away what he'd done, what he'd chosen to do, and the weight of that choice isn't one that's escaped York, if the emphasis on his words is any indication.
Nearly done, he thinks. Just follow through, answer his questions, wait for him to leave.
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Good on Locus for quitting before actually doing the thing but- "What happened that made figuratively glassing a planet ok to you? What made you change your mind? What happened that made wash think you wouldn't, I dunno, slit my throat in my sleep? Cuz you heaven even given me the basics here, man. What the hell."
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Press on. Focus. He took another quiet breath before continuing, tonelessly. "When I did question, my partner would...'reassure' is not the correct word. But it made sense. The strong survive, as their right. If they deserved to live, they would be strong enough to stop us."
"I wanted to continue as I had been, to be a soldier. And instead I became a monster. Washington...He had been where I was, but he had taken a different path. Chosen to find his purpose in people, rather than in orders. There was another way, provided I left everything behind."
And he had. A choice he still sometimes questions.
"It's too late to change what I did. But I can do some good here. I think he agrees, as much as it irks him to do so."
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There's more that's not being said but- even if locus recognizes having gone off the rails- he needs a minute. An hour. A few days. Without a word he tugs his guitar back up on his shoulder and stands, muttering. "This is not the reality check I needed, christ."
The door's right there and he starts walking till he hitsthe threshold and hesitates. "You ever feel like filling in the rest of the blanks, you know where to find me."
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This needed to happen, sooner rather than later. Washington had been correct in that respect, at least. He'll maintain his distance, find someone else to spar with. He doesn't look up again until he hears fading footsteps.
Find where it stings, he thinks, where it hurts, where you thought you might have had hope for something good, and push it down. Drown it. You'll survive without it.
He'll be fine without this.