wont | CONTACT | on the tranquility

[ Back home, he wouldn't have offered to help if there wasn't any money involved. But back home, he had things to worry about, like keeping his promise to Manny, taking care of Pilar and the kids. He feels bad about that more than anything, being here and not there, hoping they're doing okay even without him. He hopes Brendan's heart and head are too soft to forget about them, even if he's got his own kids and wife to take care of first.

He shrugs his shoulders again now to let her know he doesn't mind. He's teaching Jenna already. It gives him something to do and something to occupy his head with and around here, that's kind of repayment in itself. ]

Nah, [ he says in answer to her question, scratching at his nose with the fingernail of his index finger. ] There ain't much back there worth missing. [ He pauses, sucks on his teeth. ] D'you?

[ Tommy shrugs. A coarse, boorish gesture and what that carries with it the implication that payment is not necessary. If Sansa were here, she would no doubt be eager to accept it — hungry for both Tommy's approval and whatever glean of favor may have come along with it. It was only right for a sister to want to see her brother made stronger and that is what Tommy now offered. But where Sansa would nod and bow and say thank you, Alayne allows her glance to linger (not wary or suspicious, but present). All things come at a cost; whether that cost is hidden or writ plain makes no difference, and although Tommy does not seem eager to deceive Alayne she does not speak the words of agreement that Sansa would no doubt say.

Turning back to the cabinets she withdraws a bowl, then two, before shutting it again. ] My homelands are afflicted. The war that rages through its veins has spread to every corner, like an unbidden sickness. My father and I have done all that we can to remain free its thrall, but— [ Alayne ducks her head. ] It would not grieve me to be here were he with me.

Edited 2012-04-12 03:17 (UTC)

[ Tommy's expression ripples for a moment, and Tommy feels himself do it but can't manage to keep it from happening, though whether Alayne manages to catch it in her moving about, he can't quite tell. He shouldn't be surprised that people make war wherever they go, and he's not, really. Just look at the ship itself. But he doesn't like that Alayne's had to see it and seen it close enough, whatever she says, to know how it spreads like a cough in a crowded room until it's everywhere . ]

Yeah, we got a war on too. [ He turns his head, looking at nothing particular on the wall to his right. ] I'm sure your pop will keep himself safe. While you're gone. [ Father's are good at that, at least, most of the time. ]

Edited 2012-04-13 14:37 (UTC)

[ Even with her face in profile and her head ducked low, Alayne catches that shift in Tommy's expression — from disgruntled to sad to disgruntled again, all the while couched in an air of discomfort (an uneasiness that Alayne associates with Tommy just as readily as the broadness of his shoulders, the rough manner in which he speaks.) ]

I've no worry for my father's safety, [ she says quietly, moving to brush the hair from her shoulders, baring them. ] He is a wise man and bright and knows how best to keep safe. [ It is my own safety I worry for. I know not where to step without his caution. ] I— [ She pauses in her work as she spoons out a modest portion of food into one bowl and then the next. ] —I would feel better, were I to have his counsel.

He would know what to do.

[ Tommy gets, logically, that some kids don't grow up in homes like his. That they have normal relationships with their pop and throw footballs and get grounded for failing math tests and grow up to talk to him sometimes, at least send an email on holidays and his birthday. Tommys gets that, but he can't help pressing his lips together anyway, skeptical. Maybe Alayne's father is everything she says he is and everything he appears to be, but Tommy thinks most likely not.

'Cause Tommy's dad was everything he appeared to be too, back when he was a kid, and look where that ended up. ]

Parent's aren't better at this shi-- stuff. They're just better at pretending to be. [ It sounds to harsh, even to his ears, so he adds, ] You're doing fine. [ For her age. For where she came from. For anyone, really. ]

[ It is a bitter sort of humor that blooms in Alayne's chest then. To pretend was to lie and in that way, yes, Alayne's father is better at pretending. Better than anyone Alayne has ever known, and that was a blessing, wasn't it?

She stops for a moment, considering. ] Perhaps, [ she says quietly and then resumes her work. There is a delicacy to the things that she does, a sliver of Sansa that shines through whatever seams exist in Alayne's otherwise perfected facade. Her hands, pale and white, dance from task to task and all the while remain clean, avoiding this stain and that effortlessly. (She is her father's daughter.) ] I think, perhaps, we are all pretending.

In one way or another, for own sakes. For each others.

[ All of a sudden, Tommy seems to remember that he's supposed to be here to get food. Maybe it's the talk of pretending that jolts something in his head and reminds him that he's supposed to be. He moves away from the fridge, so he can turn around, get it open, and try to find something inside that he's fine with eating.

While he does, she thinks more about what she said, about games he'd play with Brendan when they were kids (which were always a little too stupid for Brendan's age, maybe, but which he always went along with) and about how mom pretended everything was okay, up until she decided to stop. So maybe she has a point, even if Tommy's not sure how good he is at pretending these days. ]

That's what people want, right? They ask, "How are you?" and all you're ever supposed t'say is, "Fine."

[ Two bowls, each apportioned with food ready enough to eat for both herself and Bran. Alayne inspects them one last time and then goes about setting them upon a tray before turning to Tommy again, making a motion with her hands as if to ask may I help. It is not something Sansa would have ever asked, but Alayne should be modest and reminds herself that things such as offering oneself was the means to this end.

Her eyebrows are still lifted in silent inquiry when she asks: ] And how are you, Tommy?

Yes, please, thank you, [ Tommy says, an instant, engrained response to her offer of help. For a moment, his eyes go slightly wide, and it's not pretending exactly, but it's a remainder of what his mom taught him long ago when he was a person who doesn't have a lot in common with the person he is now. He steps back, giving her better access to the fridge, and the moment passes.

He resists the urge to frown at her question. He can't quite tell if it's meant genuinely or as a snappy retort. But either way, his answer wouldn't change much anyway. ]

I'm alive. I've got stuff to eat and somewhere to sleep. Could be worse.

[ In truth, Alayne does not expect Tommy to accept the offer of assistance. He is a grown man, a warrior of sorts by his own admission and rough about the edges (and unapologetic of that fact). And yet, somehow, he allows her to provide what meager portion of help she can offer. Her eyebrows lifts in genuine surprise before quieting down again, her expression smoothing.

As he steps out of the way, she fills the space left empty with both herself and her skirts. A quick re-estimation of the coolbox's contents later, Alayne is straightening again, another unmarked container held between her hands. She looks at Tommy over the held-open door for a moment before offering it to him. ]

We are all 'fine', then, when measured by such meager estimations. Just as there are degrees between bad and worse, there those that exist between fine and good.

[ Left to his own devices, Tommy will eat just about anything. He's mostly kept to his diet -- as much as possible in the circumstances -- more because the routine is reassuring and it gives him something to think about when he doesn't want to think about other things than because he actually cares.

When he takes the box from Alayne, he gives the contents a quick check and then nods his head in a half-thank you and half-acknowledgement that her choice works for him. He takes a step back to try to find something other than his fingers to eat with (and that, honestly, is just because she's there watching). ]

Yeah, well. When you've been worse, better than worse feels like fine. [ He looks down sullenly at his feet. ]

[ When Tommy withdraws, she does as well, stepping back to shut the door upon the cold and to stop the swirling eddies about her feet. As he goes about looking for a utensil now, Alayne does not try to hide her gaze as she studies him openly, as if it were somehow possible for her to guess just the limits of how bad 'worse' had been for him.

It is a useless exercise, ultimately, because where Tommy is wholly readable in certain places, he is closed off and distant in others. Perhaps the answer lay in the words exchanged until now, but they over no help upon second perusal. Had it been the war that raged through Tommy's world? Or perhaps he had had a parent — a mother or a father — who'd pretended too well.

Regardless, Alayne knows that Tommy is write. Absently she wonders what this says about her, what truth that would reveal about herself upon reflection. But she abandons those thoughts before they see themselves all the way through.

Folding her hands in front of her, she waits until he has foraged himself a fork to ask: ] Are we friends, Tommy? You and I.

[ He finds a kind of fork not long after he starts looking -- only so many drawers to sift through and cutlery's still sort of where he expects it, even here in the future -- and digs in. A moment later, he's glad he did because it gives him something to furrow his eyebrows at when she asks her question.

His gut's first impulse is that he hasn't had a friend since Manny died. It's his gut's second impulse too, actually, a one-two punch that makes his jaw tighten and the food he's eating suddenly that much less appealing. His third impulse, though, is that maybe that ain't so true anymore. Tyke and Jenna and Dean and Jim. And Alayne. There are people here he doesn't mind being around so much, and maybe that's what friendship is for him these days.

He doesn't think he'd tell any of the others that, but Alayne's young, and he can't bring himself to shrug her off the way he'd shrug other people off. He stirs the cotents of his container around. ]

Sure. We're friends, [ he says. ] Why you askin'?

[ It is a harmless enough question, or at least it appears to be. No question is harmless, truly harmless, for each begs an answer to provide illumination (and so many secrets are loathe to have themselves be shown in the light). Though it is not her intention to deceive any further than is necessary, Alayne's question is perhaps misleading. She has yet to decide whether or not she and the brute with the courtesy whose name is Tommy are friends (there is part of her that would like to be, but that part of her is starved and unruly and Alayne knows better than to allow it much counsel).

She watches silently as he stirs his food. Alayne thinks, if she were to leave the conversation there, he may stare into that modest container indefinitely in an attempt to avoid her gaze. A moment passes, then two, then: ] Then I would never wish for you to pretend for my sake— [ I pretend enough for us both already. ] —friend.

CONTACT | on the tranquility

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