Roman's lips curl--gross, he's a sensitive delicate rich boy--but he otherwise decides it's probably a stupid idea to comment on it. That's what this sort of shit is--a delicate give-and-take, all that jazz. Don't want to overdo it just yet.
Thanks, Raylan, for that advice.
"My extremely pathetic brother," he says, and that doesn't sound right either, but he's going with the motions.
She's torn her gaze away from the window to fix that lip curl with a hard, long look - hard enough to prove that whatever she was when they first met was not unfriendly. This is the very definition of a warning not to push it, not to push her on this, and she is very, very still while he considers his next words.
He chooses to answer her question instead of asking anymore of his own, and she returns her attention to a city that isn't there, takes another sip of her drink, shoulders still square and tense.
"Well if that isn't the definition of extremely pathetic. He up now?"
The warning gets a bright, warm smile. Messaged received, instructions clear. Whether or not he'll obey? 50/50. But he wants to play nice, he just likes to know what buttons he can push.
"Yeah, shambling about like the walk--"
Better but the zombie jokes. Roman moves from the window to a nearby pristine couch, calibrates as nessecary.
"Yeah. But fuck him right now--he's not important. You are."
Rosita's skin is fairly thick; inappropriate humor is as good a coping mechanism as anything, really. She's just not prepared to listen to it from people who have no idea what they're talking about when she lived it.
She turns away from the window when he moves away, stays nominally facing him, but she's still largely paying more attention out the window. Until he says that anyway and she snorts, looking over at him.
"How'd you figure?" It's not as hostile as it could be. If that's his opening line, she'll consider considering it.
Roman shrugs. "Temp inmate," he reminds her. He's also trying to desperately push the events he'd learned about as far down into his mind as possible, shut it out a little. He sits on the back of the couch, not the actual couch itself, bird-like and bendy but looking extremely comfortable. He glances at the window, smirks softly.
There's something else, something way more interesting than 'I can pretend.' Roman's eyes have narrowed slightly, curious as he reaches out to take the empty glass.
"Pull the fucking 'I'm a warden and you're my inmate and that's why we're even talking' card. Like that's the most relevant detail about me when no one can even tell me why the fuck I get one label and Fucknuts McBigDick gets another."
She's not the angriest she could be about it, but she is definitely willing to argue about it if Roman pushes on it, and she makes no secret of it now.
Roman's brows lift, looking for a brief moment like a schoolboy chided, and decides a mock salute is probably pushing it. He likes Rosita enough that while he can't resist pushing a button or five, he'd rather not get smacked in the face or for her to leave.
Trying to be a good person, and all that.
"Gotcha," he says simply, tabling the word and putting 'temp inmate' in his mental rolodex of 'naughty words.' Maybe Rosita's craving an actual connection instead of being shuffled around. He can get that. He's seen it. Just because he got lucky with Raylan as his warden early on doesn't mean other people don't.
"Fucknuts McBigDick is pretty good," he confesses. "I may have to steal that."
She looks in the moment before he answers like she might smack him one, like she might just leave; she's tired of so much, and this was setting up to be something semi promising, but she's not interested in putting up with one for the other.
And then he just... lets it go. She's suspicious, of course, and doesn't bother hiding her wariness as she eyes him, but she does nod slowly. Yes, it is pretty good.
"I accept royalty payments with proof ratings," she answers, dropping arms that she'd folded.
"Or, you know. Just not adding yourself to the Fucknuts list."
"Oh, I draw up a sick IP contract. You should see my copyright law. Iron clad. There'll be a little crater where your Fucknut word users that aren't me or you stand. You're welcome in advance."
There's that giggle again, high and pleased.
"I could also try not to be an asshole. I guess. Pretty hard for me, though."
"Don't strain yourself," she snorts, though. "I can handle assholes just fine."
And she does, honestly, believe that he has a special focus on keeping the things he considers his out of the hands of someone else - whether or not it's strictly ethical, strictly necessary. She knows the type, and he definitely seems like the type.
She follows him to the door this time. She's willing, anyway, to give it a bit longer.
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Thanks, Raylan, for that advice.
"My extremely pathetic brother," he says, and that doesn't sound right either, but he's going with the motions.
"Poor bastard's been in a two-month coma."
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He chooses to answer her question instead of asking anymore of his own, and she returns her attention to a city that isn't there, takes another sip of her drink, shoulders still square and tense.
"Well if that isn't the definition of extremely pathetic. He up now?"
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"Yeah, shambling about like the walk--"
Better but the zombie jokes. Roman moves from the window to a nearby pristine couch, calibrates as nessecary.
"Yeah. But fuck him right now--he's not important. You are."
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She turns away from the window when he moves away, stays nominally facing him, but she's still largely paying more attention out the window. Until he says that anyway and she snorts, looking over at him.
"How'd you figure?" It's not as hostile as it could be. If that's his opening line, she'll consider considering it.
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"You been to the Enclosure yet?"
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She hates how people pretend to fucking care because they're calling themselves one thing and her another. For whatever their definition of care is.
She nods. "But if you like, I can pretend to be wide-eyed and naive so you can show me around."
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"Don't fucking do what?"
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She's not the angriest she could be about it, but she is definitely willing to argue about it if Roman pushes on it, and she makes no secret of it now.
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Trying to be a good person, and all that.
"Gotcha," he says simply, tabling the word and putting 'temp inmate' in his mental rolodex of 'naughty words.' Maybe Rosita's craving an actual connection instead of being shuffled around. He can get that. He's seen it. Just because he got lucky with Raylan as his warden early on doesn't mean other people don't.
"Fucknuts McBigDick is pretty good," he confesses. "I may have to steal that."
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And then he just... lets it go. She's suspicious, of course, and doesn't bother hiding her wariness as she eyes him, but she does nod slowly. Yes, it is pretty good.
"I accept royalty payments with proof ratings," she answers, dropping arms that she'd folded.
"Or, you know. Just not adding yourself to the Fucknuts list."
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There's that giggle again, high and pleased.
"I could also try not to be an asshole. I guess. Pretty hard for me, though."
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And she does, honestly, believe that he has a special focus on keeping the things he considers his out of the hands of someone else - whether or not it's strictly ethical, strictly necessary. She knows the type, and he definitely seems like the type.
She follows him to the door this time. She's willing, anyway, to give it a bit longer.