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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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Yes.

We gonna have a problem?

no
jesus
i was going to ask you if you wanted to get a drink and meet up

I'm Rosita.

[Ha. Ha.]

Is that like, the thing to do?

fuck if i know
but im not going to barge into your cabin like i own the place
and all the booze in my place is Mine capital M full offense
so the lounge seemed like the best option

im roman btw

I guessed.

Don't barge into my cabin at all, full offense.

I can meet you in the lounge later.

im definitely going to do that now thanks
do we even do contraband in here
if we do im taking it for myself

meet up in an hour?

If you do just know I won't feel bad after I stab you.

Give me two.

fine

Great.

[She's not entirely sure if he's kidding or not about the cabin and the contraband, but she needed to go back anyway to change clothes.

She does turn up a bit before the two hour mark though, dressed in functional layers and boots and looking like she was asked to show up to a flogging. She's clearly familiar with the room already because she doesn't hesitate to head for a glass.

[ Roman, in turn, is all corporate: his hair isn't slicked back today but his flop of bangs are parted to the side, a distinct lack of blazer or tie on his person. His clothes are extremely expensive and well tailored, even if he has his dress shirt's sleeves rolled up and the top button down. The five o'clock shadow fills out the 'trying too hard to look like he doesn't care' sort of vibe. Roman Roy's natural state.

He clocks her immediately waving her over to a table when her drink is ordered. ]

Gotta be honest. [ He's got a nasally, high voice, but there's too much confidence in there for it to matter. He's holding a tumbler of whiskey. ] Really thought you were gonna make me wait.

She hates pretty much everything about this immediately, but then, that's been most of her reaction since day one: love the shower, love the food, hate everything else.

But this man reminds her of a time before the virus, when men like him would look at a woman like her, call her sweetheart if they called her anything at all, and send her for their coffee orders. Turns out corporate Dallas is every bit as stereotypical as anyone could dream.

She ignores the wave, already well aware of him - he's distinctive in a public space after all - but brings her cocktail over with her when she has it. She shrugs.

"It's a small boat. Sooner we get this going, sooner we can stop. What do you want?"

"You have such a way with words," Roman all but bats his eyelashes like a girl, though it's accompanied by a genuine, if high pitched incredibly effeminate laugh shortly after as he leans back.

"I wanna know you. What's your story, morning glory?"

"Well, often in life we have to learn to work through disappointment," she answers without hesitation.

"Does that usually work for you? What do you want that might actually happen?"

Roman's shrug takes up his whole body, shoulders past his eat and arm in half a flail, not looking too put off by the abrasiveness. If anything, he seems to appreciate it.

"Honestly? I don't really give a shit. I'm doing my job, so, if you wanna be Mrs. 'I'm-so-tough' than you can go right ahead. Worst case scenario I have a nice drink. Best case scenario we don't hate each other."

He tilts his head to the side.

"I mean, how long have you been here? Not long, right? You know Malcolm?"

There's a point, it's just dependent on the answer.

Similarly, she's not terribly put off by his dismissiveness. There are a lot of social contracts that apocalypse scenarios simply erase the need for, and she's adapted thoroughly to that environment. She no longer cares at all if she's liked, or about other people's opinions of her, or about whatever roles they assign themselves.

"Not long," she agrees, and then her dark eyes narrow. She knows Malcolm.

"What about him?"

"Sheehan? Maggie?"

He leans back, giving her a clear and pointed Look. He clicks his tongue, gesturing with his hands.

"C'mon. You seem like a smart girl. You wanna spend all month with those sugary sweet sensitive fucks lining up to talk about your pwecious feewings, or do you wanna shoot the shit and have a drink? Do the math."

He leans back. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, raising her eyebrows.

"And why would those sugary sweet sensitive fucks line up to talk about my feelings now? Malcolm finally took the hint to get fucked, and the other two haven't cared a bit that I'm here. So I'll take neither, thank you."

Roman laughs. It's a high, effeminate giggle, tilting his head to the side. Hard to tell if it's aimed at anything in particular, but he grabs his drink with one hand to hold it since he's borerline about to start tipping his chair back to balance it on two legs.

"All I'm saying is that this is probably the lesser of evils in terms of warden-inmate pairings and actually having to do something. For you and for me. Unfortunately for both of us, since I'm newly graduated I have to at least pretend I give a shit and be on my best behaviour, yadda yadda yadda."

He takes a sip.

"So you seem fun."

"Unfortunately for you I don't like people who lie because it's the popular thing to do, do if that's what you insist on doing, this isn't going to be a fun month for either of us."

She's not sure why he's laughing, and she's not entirely sure she cares. She leans forward, he leans back. She can work with that.

She traces her finger around the rim of her glass.

"Do I?"

The chair does raise courtesy of Roman balancing it, nodding confidently as he takes a sip.

"Well, a 'tell me about yourself' was met with the conversational equivalent of 'ooh look at these keys little baby, they're so shiny, dangle dangle dangle dangle,' so that's neat."

Another half-giggle. There's still a surprising lack of judgement in his voice.

"It's crunchy without being too on-the-pot. A fuckin' flashbang so you can get outta the dodge. I like it."

"A tell you about myself was met with me declining to do so," she points out.

"I don't know why you're describing it like it's a yogurt cup, but okay. That's something to know about me: I don't give a shit what you or anyone thinks they're owed. You weren't talking to me before some random all powerful jackoff said our names together, and I don't think you'd be talking to me now if he hadn't. So."

She shrugs.

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."