handleyourshit | TLV Inbox

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

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."

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?"

"You know there's a fairy haunting the showers?" she returns, shaking her head, sipping her drink.

"It's a lot. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something."

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."

She raises an eyebrow at first, but in the end it's so unexpected that she just laughs.

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.

Hey there, little laugh. Roman's face draws up into a half-smile, too. There we go.

"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."

"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."

Someone's disenchanted.

That high, soft giggle is back.

"Gonna assume the admiral dragged you here against your will. M'I on the mark?"

"Considering that's literally half of the available possibilities, I'd say it would be difficult to miss," she drawls in return.

"What, he didn't you?"

"He very much the fuck did," Roman confirms, and that chair is back to getting balanced on two legs.

"Told me tough titties, I'm here anyway. Refused to go to my job for like, three months, too. You been keeping busy?"

"That's kind of what I've been getting. Tough titties."

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."

"My advice?" Rositsa didn't ask for it. Roman gives it anyway with the confidence of a rich white man.

"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."

"Oh, do you really think so?" she asks, artificially awed, batting her fucking eyelashes.

Then she rolls her eyes. "Fuck you. And fuck janitorial, as long as it's being run by that cabrón."

He can't help it. The fuck you gets a grin, another little high giggle.

Yeah, they're gonna get along fine.

"Try food inventory. Marginally less grating. Which one of janitorial are you beefing with?"

"I think I can figure out how to keep myself busy, thanks."

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."