Ohio makes a face at the joke, like a kid whose aunt just told him he's growing up to be so handsome. "Don't make me laugh, York," he says. "I don't do that anymore. Ruins the image."
...Which is carefully avoiding that York has called himself a tragedy. Given that he's lost Delta and (apparently) any of the luck that would've kept him off this boat, that's a joke that's probably not far off from truth.
Ohio is used to being a resident of fuckup town, but it's a little weird that York has come to visit dressed in full local flavor. York was one of the best of them, and that image of him still lives in Ohio's memory. Maybe they were all a mess in various ways and he can only see that now, but damn if it didn't seem like some of them had their shit together.
Then again, being better on the board hasn't seemed to matter anywhere else now that it's over.
"It's... usually worse circumstances than this when I run into anyone," he admits.
"Same." Though he's tried to not run into anyone until there was no one left to run into- or so he thought. Now there's suddenly Ohio and the other two off somewhere safe. Him here with two sim Troopers working for Control and...he should go. But he needs somewhere to stay just for a little longer.
Till he's gotten a chance to sleep properly. Till he's gotten something in him that's more than the barest dregs of a few cans he hadn't been able to sell. Till he's something close to human again. Then he'll...figure something out. Make his way like he's always managed to do. But this time it'll be alone and he's not sure how much longer he could possibly swing it. But for now it's only a few days. Maybe a week. Just till they get somewhere else.
Ohio's finished with his soup and his coffee. He gets up and takes his dishes with him. "Here's to the fucking good old days," he says as he dumps them in the sanitizer to worry about later.
He needs to go hassle the boys and be evidently alive at them. He can't hold back a weary exhale at the thought. That priority didn't go away just because someone came back from the dead.
"I need to go check my team. You need anything, ask Reti. Stay out of the hold and anywhere that'd make him nervous."
He's almost across the threshold when he realizes that maybe there's something else he should say, it's an impulse more than anything. He pauses, but doesn't turn.
"And York?" Ohio says, "Glad you're alive."
It's best to say something real as a parting shot without a backward glance. Too easy to dwell otherwise.
There's a bitter twist to Ohio's voice that every aching fiber of York? Echos. Even past the pasted thin smile and too casual slant of his shoulders, past the fact that he's never actually had either his bad eye or his back to Ohio at any point in the conversation. Whatever they'd been? Might be enough to keep him from being shot instantly.
But there are people out there that want him dead- or would if they knew he wasn't.
As much of a relief as it is to finally have somewhere to rest trusting it is...it's not going to happen. Even if it's mobile and secure. There's no one to bounce off his predictions anymore, every word echoing in the void; the empty nest of wires and code that used to house Delta. Empty rattling of hollow shells in an ammunition tin; no fire. No support.
All he's got is his gut and his gut gets him shot plenty.
"...Same." Is all he can offer in return because- it feels a little like an accusation. It can't possibly be sincere no matter how much he wants it to be. Still.
Coffee- another mug should be okay, right? Right. A shower. Scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. Peeking into the hold anyway out of spite has it's appeal but he stifles the desire; sleep calling him. Or. Something close to it.
Tucked up in a corner, sidearm loaded and at hand, helmet on- he dozes. It's as good as it'll get for him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
...Which is carefully avoiding that York has called himself a tragedy. Given that he's lost Delta and (apparently) any of the luck that would've kept him off this boat, that's a joke that's probably not far off from truth.
Ohio is used to being a resident of fuckup town, but it's a little weird that York has come to visit dressed in full local flavor. York was one of the best of them, and that image of him still lives in Ohio's memory. Maybe they were all a mess in various ways and he can only see that now, but damn if it didn't seem like some of them had their shit together.
Then again, being better on the board hasn't seemed to matter anywhere else now that it's over.
"It's... usually worse circumstances than this when I run into anyone," he admits.
no subject
Till he's gotten a chance to sleep properly. Till he's gotten something in him that's more than the barest dregs of a few cans he hadn't been able to sell. Till he's something close to human again. Then he'll...figure something out. Make his way like he's always managed to do. But this time it'll be alone and he's not sure how much longer he could possibly swing it. But for now it's only a few days. Maybe a week. Just till they get somewhere else.
no subject
He needs to go hassle the boys and be evidently alive at them. He can't hold back a weary exhale at the thought. That priority didn't go away just because someone came back from the dead.
"I need to go check my team. You need anything, ask Reti. Stay out of the hold and anywhere that'd make him nervous."
He's almost across the threshold when he realizes that maybe there's something else he should say, it's an impulse more than anything. He pauses, but doesn't turn.
"And York?" Ohio says, "Glad you're alive."
It's best to say something real as a parting shot without a backward glance. Too easy to dwell otherwise.
no subject
But there are people out there that want him dead- or would if they knew he wasn't.
As much of a relief as it is to finally have somewhere to rest trusting it is...it's not going to happen. Even if it's mobile and secure. There's no one to bounce off his predictions anymore, every word echoing in the void; the empty nest of wires and code that used to house Delta. Empty rattling of hollow shells in an ammunition tin; no fire. No support.
All he's got is his gut and his gut gets him shot plenty.
"...Same." Is all he can offer in return because- it feels a little like an accusation. It can't possibly be sincere no matter how much he wants it to be. Still.
Coffee- another mug should be okay, right? Right. A shower. Scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. Peeking into the hold anyway out of spite has it's appeal but he stifles the desire; sleep calling him. Or. Something close to it.
Tucked up in a corner, sidearm loaded and at hand, helmet on- he dozes. It's as good as it'll get for him.