If you could've gone in on your own you're welcome to. Apparently I am as just as twitchy about security when I'm older as I am now- strict protocols have been programmed into the biome. You're on the 'always acceptable' list.
[ It's a short list, but he's right up there on the top. ]
[ Taylor levers himself off the railing and motions for Sam to follow; it's just a short walk, which he prefers over the whole flying business. Too weird.
Soon as they hit the cool east texan air he's a little more relaxed. This is familiar, this is safe, and he's got good company. ]
[ Sam trails, observing the lay of the land. This is where Taylor feels most at home. A replica of his own home. His own area is far less inviting, on the whole.
Why is that, he wonders? Why didn't he also think of home when offered somewhere to call his own? ]
That you're introverted but not entirely antisocial, you like music, your cat, don't much care for beer, green's a color that you prefer or gravitate too, you're warm, favor your right side for leaning into a grapple when we're sparring, prefer latin cuisine if I get up the guff to cook, actually have a dry sense of humor contrary to popular belief, and have more patience with my quirks than most.
[ A thorough rundown of what he could recall as he lets Sam inside, flicking on the lights. Warm. Cozy. The guitar's propped up next to the sofa, waiting to be played. ]
[ It's startling to hear, even if he'd asked, exactly how much detail Taylor put into remembering him. But surprising? No. He's not surprised. Not really. Taylor had said they were friends, and Sam trusted that fact wholly and utterly. ]
Now I feel a little foolish for not having left myself a list.
[ With a shy quirk of his lips, he lets himself in, instinctively moving towards a spot on the couch that feels like 'his'. ]
It also has listed that you were among the first to change so- maybe you didn't get a chance to before people got wise about this happening? IF you want you can do like me and leave your future self a letter.
[ Seriously, he needs to be more professional in his correspondence if he's gonna write it up like a damn briefing. ]
Comfy? [ He puts a pot of coffee on for himself but it'll be brewed soon enough. Locus/Sam's sofa has a green throw- something York had knit on a whim a month or so ago. All neat lines in geometric shapes in soothing shades of green and grey. Taylor shifts himself to pull up the guitar, fingers finding the frets like keys to a lock. ] Got any requests?
[ And he just shakes his head again, hand reaching up to smooth his hair back out of his face. Clipped to the shoulders, it's somehow harder to keep out of his face, constantly being swept back behind an ear. ]
You tend to play whatever comes to mind. I like being surprised.
[ In this regard, at least. His teeth needle his lower lip gently before he seems to relax into the throw. His throw. His little corner of Taylor's home, the space that he occupied in his life, regardless what stage of it he happened to be living.
He'd still made sure that Sam had a place. That warmed something in his chest significantly, made it grow a little tighter as he tipped his head, waiting for those first few notes. ]
[ Somehow that's endearing- it softens the angles of his face, brings out the wide grey of his eyes. Not that Taylor often finds such things endearing, and yet? Having a space for Locus in what is apparently his home, something he'd made to make him feel like he has a place here? Half of him wonders if they are 'just friends' or if his older self doesn't have something more intimate tucked away in secret in mind for them.
THat is, of course, giving himself too much credit.
Taylor focuses on the warmth of the wood in his hands, muscle memory taking over as he starts strumming out a vague melody. All low and lazy and twangy, no particular rhyme or reason or meter to it. Just. Noodling around and letting his mind unwind. ]
[ He always seems to unwind in the same way. Mouth first, a little slack to his lips as he considers the notes, then shoulders, then finally the creases around his eyes. However many there happen to be, in a given moment.
Sam stares a little too long, perhaps, but he wants to take in the details. To know him as well as Taylor seems to know him. What would he write to himself to describe Taylor?
Kind? Yes. Honest, if only because he's terrible at lying. Needs something to do with his hands or his mind, something to occupy his busy mind. Doesn't laugh often, but smirks, makes light even when that humor doesn't quite reach his eyes. Friend, he's a friend, and he...
He likes him. Feels this strange tug in his chest around him that he isn't quite sure what to do with, other than quietly press back down again, in favor of this comfortable silence between them. ]
Sporting breeds need stimulation. Crave it. Without they tear themselves or their surroundings apart. Taylor's always needed something to do with his hands, a project to tick through- but it's left it hard for him to find a way to stop when that becomes overwhelming. Music is-
Not entirely effortless, but potentially mindless in the way his fingers tick around the neck till he finds a tune that's familiar enough for him to pick his way through without too much focus. Slow and lazy, something he knows well enough to hum along with under his breath. Classical music is always an easy way to let go of stress and being misplaced like this? Is stressful. Less so with this quiet space and a friend he seems to have made while here.
Someone to check in on, someone to lean on, someone that leans on him. There's a balance to it he can appreciate. No need to be the one in charge or the authority, none of the pressure. Just...simple companionship.
He doesn't really give thought to what the song is or any associations with it. He's too busy watching the play of his fingers and the way he seems to zone into the music, there but drifting.
And maybe some part of the music plucks at him, too, but he holds his tongue. He settles for listening quietly and appreciatively, letting Taylor resettle into his own skin in the ways he knows best.
The song draws to a close around the same time the neat little ping in the kitchen sings out that coffee is ready. A little fancy for simple black drip but, okay. Taylor sets his guitar aside, rolling to his feet with a glance in Sam's direction. "Cream or sugar in your coffee?"
Whichever the answer he fixes it as best he can when he reaches the kitchen. Black and sweet for him and however Sam likes his in a mug that, apparently, is also his. Something about how the handle is larger to better accommodate someone with broader palms clues him in. There's a quiet moment between pouring and stirring and actually walking back out- the why is obvious soon enough. The eye's milky again, scars settled back in place. Taylor as he was when Sam met him. As he is in the present in Legion World. "So."
Eloquent as always as he sets down the coffee mugs. "That, uh. That was a trip."
Black, as ever, is how he prefers his coffee. It makes it easier to fix as well, though his focus is not on the coffee as Taylor rounds into sight. The change is noticeable immediately, and there's a concerned furrow of his brow as he reaches for his own mug.
"Are you alright?"
He doesn't look harmed, but...well. He wants to be sure.
"I'm fine. Just- uh. Disoriented? I remember...all that." He gestures to the walk up, the note he'd left himself just in case. "Like a neat little slice between when I was and where I go afterward in my own damn timeline."
It's odd. It's- not the strangest thing to happen to him here, but still. Pretty damn strange. He massages his temples for a moment before sipping his coffee, settled back in his own skin. "Glad you got Sergeant Murray, though. Any younger and I'm kind of a tragedy. Any older and I'm an asshole."
Obvious shying away from cursing is obvious, though it doesn't appear to impact his sense of conviction as he shifts forward on the couch seat. "What do you mean, a 'tragedy'?" he finally continues, a wrinkle appearing in his brow.
"I am a jackass. I've just mellowed, trust me." Still it's kind of Sam to say and god, thinking of his Basic, Uni, or Teenaged years? Has him snorting with laughter into his mug. "Man- Delta can you bring up some holograms or something?"
Soothing green code flickers along the bottom corner of a nearbye screen before a full color hologram blinks into life. Skinny, gangly would be the right word, eyes too big for his face, mouth too big for anything, awkward in his skin, hair just long enough to be a bitch to style. "Behold: my larval state."
Sam stares, and yes. The edges of Taylor are there. A few years or five, a ton of muscle and scars, and like a pup with paws too big, he'd grow into it all.
We could have been friends, if we'd met back then. It wouldn't have been so bad. Teeth worry his lower lip before he glances back at the real thing.
"We all kind of look that way at some point, you realize."
"They are awkward teenage years for a reason. Pretty sure I tried to have a mowhawk at some point and that was just. Sad." So damn sad. Delta kindly does not provide any evidence of that stage in his trying too damn hard to fit in with the cool kids life. "But you can't really get the whole tragic mess from a photo. I was awkward, man. Too smart for school and had no real social skills to make it less obvious."
A problem with being the only kid of two brilliant people.
"Didn't feel like it at the time. Now? Yeah. There are worse ways to be." Oblivious, in over his head, inadvertently evil. Manipulative or cruel or- yeah. He puts those thoughts aside, shrugging. "But, yeah. Older me? A real jackass. Lets hope you don't meet him. I got both eyes but am so goddamn blind it's stupid."
"...should I take some kind of precaution if I meet this Mr Hyde of yours?"
Hey look. Jokes. Although Taylor has him mildly concerned now, leaning forward slightly where he's perched on the couch's edge. He finally ventures another sip of coffee, however. Better to get to it before it cools.
"Keep me away from liquor and green eyes." He snorts a soft laugh, leaning forward enough to bump their knees together. Poking fun at his past self is...easy. All the sharper edges sanded down by time. Back then? They were as raw and ragged as the hole blown through him when he lost...everything. "I uh- it's after my time in the marines. I lose my squad and don't really take it well so. I hide it."
And he is. He isn't hardened yet, hasn't felt that loss so keenly just yet. He can allow himself to feel that twinge of regret for Taylor, regardless of when the loss occurred.
He shouldn't have had to feel that. Shouldn't have had to try and hide it. He can understand why he would, but even so.
"I grew up hearing Spanish and picked it up around school- but I really learned it and scraps of French and German and Russian to talk to my boys." The mug's set on the table as he massages the bridge of his nose, shoulders slumped. "...They'd like you. Now you and grown you, I think."
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[ It's a short list, but he's right up there on the top. ]
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[ But the revelation clearly pleases him, as he straightens slightly.
But he still hesitates, still subtly waiting​ to follow York's lead. ]
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Soon as they hit the cool east texan air he's a little more relaxed. This is familiar, this is safe, and he's got good company. ]
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Why is that, he wonders? Why didn't he also think of home when offered somewhere to call his own? ]
Did your notes...say anything else about me?
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[ A thorough rundown of what he could recall as he lets Sam inside, flicking on the lights. Warm. Cozy. The guitar's propped up next to the sofa, waiting to be played. ]
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Now I feel a little foolish for not having left myself a list.
[ With a shy quirk of his lips, he lets himself in, instinctively moving towards a spot on the couch that feels like 'his'. ]
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[ Seriously, he needs to be more professional in his correspondence if he's gonna write it up like a damn briefing. ]
Comfy? [ He puts a pot of coffee on for himself but it'll be brewed soon enough. Locus/Sam's sofa has a green throw- something York had knit on a whim a month or so ago. All neat lines in geometric shapes in soothing shades of green and grey. Taylor shifts himself to pull up the guitar, fingers finding the frets like keys to a lock. ] Got any requests?
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You tend to play whatever comes to mind. I like being surprised.
[ In this regard, at least. His teeth needle his lower lip gently before he seems to relax into the throw. His throw. His little corner of Taylor's home, the space that he occupied in his life, regardless what stage of it he happened to be living.
He'd still made sure that Sam had a place. That warmed something in his chest significantly, made it grow a little tighter as he tipped his head, waiting for those first few notes. ]
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THat is, of course, giving himself too much credit.
Taylor focuses on the warmth of the wood in his hands, muscle memory taking over as he starts strumming out a vague melody. All low and lazy and twangy, no particular rhyme or reason or meter to it. Just. Noodling around and letting his mind unwind. ]
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Sam stares a little too long, perhaps, but he wants to take in the details. To know him as well as Taylor seems to know him. What would he write to himself to describe Taylor?
Kind? Yes. Honest, if only because he's terrible at lying. Needs something to do with his hands or his mind, something to occupy his busy mind. Doesn't laugh often, but smirks, makes light even when that humor doesn't quite reach his eyes. Friend, he's a friend, and he...
He likes him. Feels this strange tug in his chest around him that he isn't quite sure what to do with, other than quietly press back down again, in favor of this comfortable silence between them. ]
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Not entirely effortless, but potentially mindless in the way his fingers tick around the neck till he finds a tune that's familiar enough for him to pick his way through without too much focus. Slow and lazy, something he knows well enough to hum along with under his breath. Classical music is always an easy way to let go of stress and being misplaced like this? Is stressful. Less so with this quiet space and a friend he seems to have made while here.
Someone to check in on, someone to lean on, someone that leans on him. There's a balance to it he can appreciate. No need to be the one in charge or the authority, none of the pressure. Just...simple companionship.
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And maybe some part of the music plucks at him, too, but he holds his tongue. He settles for listening quietly and appreciatively, letting Taylor resettle into his own skin in the ways he knows best.
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Whichever the answer he fixes it as best he can when he reaches the kitchen. Black and sweet for him and however Sam likes his in a mug that, apparently, is also his. Something about how the handle is larger to better accommodate someone with broader palms clues him in. There's a quiet moment between pouring and stirring and actually walking back out- the why is obvious soon enough. The eye's milky again, scars settled back in place. Taylor as he was when Sam met him. As he is in the present in Legion World. "So."
Eloquent as always as he sets down the coffee mugs. "That, uh. That was a trip."
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"Are you alright?"
He doesn't look harmed, but...well. He wants to be sure.
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It's odd. It's- not the strangest thing to happen to him here, but still. Pretty damn strange. He massages his temples for a moment before sipping his coffee, settled back in his own skin. "Glad you got Sergeant Murray, though. Any younger and I'm kind of a tragedy. Any older and I'm an asshole."
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Obvious shying away from cursing is obvious, though it doesn't appear to impact his sense of conviction as he shifts forward on the couch seat. "What do you mean, a 'tragedy'?" he finally continues, a wrinkle appearing in his brow.
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Soothing green code flickers along the bottom corner of a nearbye screen before a full color hologram blinks into life. Skinny, gangly would be the right word, eyes too big for his face, mouth too big for anything, awkward in his skin, hair just long enough to be a bitch to style. "Behold: my larval state."
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We could have been friends, if we'd met back then. It wouldn't have been so bad. Teeth worry his lower lip before he glances back at the real thing.
"We all kind of look that way at some point, you realize."
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A problem with being the only kid of two brilliant people.
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Sam squints at him. Ever so slightly. He does realize who he's talking to, yes?
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Hey look. Jokes. Although Taylor has him mildly concerned now, leaning forward slightly where he's perched on the couch's edge. He finally ventures another sip of coffee, however. Better to get to it before it cools.
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And he is. He isn't hardened yet, hasn't felt that loss so keenly just yet. He can allow himself to feel that twinge of regret for Taylor, regardless of when the loss occurred.
He shouldn't have had to feel that. Shouldn't have had to try and hide it. He can understand why he would, but even so.
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