Roman stops giggling, if only because the woman's said something he finds a spike of interest in. He still looks like he's not taking anything seriously, which--well, par for the course with him--but he cants his head to the side just for a second.
Alright. This is a tough girl. A badass bitch. Whatever it is, Roman can calibrate accordingly. This is just a negotiation.
"You're probably right. I'm in five gallons of bullshit I don't want to deal with, a brother who's on ice so thin he's going to fall under any five minutes, and my track record with this warden thing? Not so great. So that leaves us--where, exactly?" He raises a brow. "Enduring each other for a month, however will we cope, or, like I've been saying, we could just have a fucking drink. You hate my guts, don't wanna spill yours, that's fine. You can leave after the last swig and I'll just hover around until my shitty little warden item tells me you died or some shit, but I'd like to--" he rolls his eyes for this. He hates admitting vulnerability. "Try. Deal?"
She raises an eyebrow. That, at least, sounds something like honest. That, at least, she can believe.
She's still not interested in spilling her guts. She's still not interested in this warden-inmate song and dance. But she can drink and she can let him talk.
"We'll do without the hovering," she decides. "What do you need to consider yourself having tried?"
Roman's eyes roll so far in the back of his head he has to tilt his head back like the chair he's currently balancing on. It's a fair question Rosita's asking: it's also one Roman doesn't have an answer for, and that irritates him, so an eye roll it is since he's incapable of gesturing like a normal person and he doesn't feel like berating himself out loud.
"I don't fucking know. For you to not die, maybe. That would be a swell start." It's almost a whine. Almost.
"Oh, God, and if you have any cosmic fucking powers, tell me. There's so many weird people on this rustbucket sometimes I think I'm going insane."
He rolls his eyes back. She straightens her leg under the table and taps the front leg of the chair with her boot, not enough to tip him straight over backwards unless his balance is really terrible, but enough to wobble.
"I don't have any more plans to die," she comments drily.
"And no cosmic fucking powers, unless you count sex. Which." She shrugs. It may have been said, though she's not offering either.
"Just plain old human, trying to get by like a human does."
He's pretty good at bonelessly sitting on things, perching--it's his MO, but that tap doesn't go unnoticed. One brow arches but he otherwise says nothing, and when Rosita's done talking then he sets the chair down properly.
Principals, and all that.
"Thank God. I never thought I'd be happy to be a fucking normo before now, but Jesus Christ. You know there's Peter Pan and Captain Hook running around here?"
That high-pitched, effeminate giggle is back at the mention of a fairy, a half a grin floating on Roman's face.
"It's my job to sell shit. This? This is a package I'm not sure I can push through to the rest of the board. 'Oooohhh, let's just grab people who need to do better for extremely arbitrary reasons and shove them on a boat in space, that's gonna definitely turn a profit, 'hoodeeheedeehoo.'" Another laugh.
"It's fucking bullshit. This whole thing? Bullshit."
"A lot of things work that are bullshit," she agrees.
"It just depends what side of them you're on. Participating willingly? Eh, it can be rationalized. Press ganged into it? Shut up and get with the program."
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Alright. This is a tough girl. A badass bitch. Whatever it is, Roman can calibrate accordingly. This is just a negotiation.
"You're probably right. I'm in five gallons of bullshit I don't want to deal with, a brother who's on ice so thin he's going to fall under any five minutes, and my track record with this warden thing? Not so great. So that leaves us--where, exactly?" He raises a brow. "Enduring each other for a month, however will we cope, or, like I've been saying, we could just have a fucking drink. You hate my guts, don't wanna spill yours, that's fine. You can leave after the last swig and I'll just hover around until my shitty little warden item tells me you died or some shit, but I'd like to--" he rolls his eyes for this. He hates admitting vulnerability. "Try. Deal?"
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She's still not interested in spilling her guts. She's still not interested in this warden-inmate song and dance. But she can drink and she can let him talk.
"We'll do without the hovering," she decides. "What do you need to consider yourself having tried?"
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"I don't fucking know. For you to not die, maybe. That would be a swell start." It's almost a whine. Almost.
"Oh, God, and if you have any cosmic fucking powers, tell me. There's so many weird people on this rustbucket sometimes I think I'm going insane."
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"I don't have any more plans to die," she comments drily.
"And no cosmic fucking powers, unless you count sex. Which." She shrugs. It may have been said, though she's not offering either.
"Just plain old human, trying to get by like a human does."
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Principals, and all that.
"Thank God. I never thought I'd be happy to be a fucking normo before now, but Jesus Christ. You know there's Peter Pan and Captain Hook running around here?"
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"It's a lot. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something."
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"It's my job to sell shit. This? This is a package I'm not sure I can push through to the rest of the board. 'Oooohhh, let's just grab people who need to do better for extremely arbitrary reasons and shove them on a boat in space, that's gonna definitely turn a profit, 'hoodeeheedeehoo.'" Another laugh.
"It's fucking bullshit. This whole thing? Bullshit."
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It's short, it's dry, it's a bit more like a bark, but it's laughter nonetheless.
"That's not a very wardenly stance," she points out, relaxing a bit for the first time.
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"Yeah," Roman agrees, "but I'm right." And he means it.
"Just because it works doesn't mean the whole thing isn't fucking dumb."
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"It just depends what side of them you're on. Participating willingly? Eh, it can be rationalized. Press ganged into it? Shut up and get with the program."
Someone's disenchanted.
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"Gonna assume the admiral dragged you here against your will. M'I on the mark?"
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"What, he didn't you?"
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"Told me tough titties, I'm here anyway. Refused to go to my job for like, three months, too. You been keeping busy?"
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She shakes her head, glances away for a brief moment and then back again.
"I didn't know I had a job, although apparently I got signed up for one. And no. I'm not."
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"Get the fuck out of janitorial and find the one thing you can tolerate. Holing up in your room's gonna kill you more than scrubbing toilets."
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Then she rolls her eyes. "Fuck you. And fuck janitorial, as long as it's being run by that cabrón."
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Yeah, they're gonna get along fine.
"Try food inventory. Marginally less grating. Which one of janitorial are you beefing with?"
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And she doesn't feel like explaining how after spending every day working to make it to the next in a very real way, nothing here even feels real.
"The one that looks and acts like he was rejected by a 90s boy band."