[It's not an unusual thing to find a variety of people up at ridiculous hours for one reason or another. A good portion of the Barge has reasons not to sleep well. It does tend to be quieter overall, though, which is why Alexei often ends up on the Deck slowly working his way through a cigarette when he can't sleep.
There are others around, yes, but he's not exactly expecting company. His head tilts a little when he hears footsteps - light as they are - and he blows a stream of tobacco smoke casually over the side of the ship.
Faolan gets a glance from the young man casually positioned against the railing. In this light his eyes are so dark as to be black, the pupils entirely hidden, and his hair is a semi-wild mop that he idly pushes a hand through as he acknowledges the other man's presence. His voice is fairly distinct - crisp and slightly roughened by smoking, with a light accent.]
[Not being able to sleep is nothing new for Faolan. It is true that he is still adjusting to his new room — having a room of his own in the first for that matter - but he has slept in far worse places. Truthfully, it is his mind that will not let him settle, but that is a whole other matter entirely.
If he were at home — if home is what he is to call it — in White Hill, he might simply walk the halls of the fortress, check the perimeter, report in with the guards. Work, put his mind to task so it could not meander down the dark paths it was determined to seek out otherwise. But here, with his scheduled assignments and all his so called “freedoms”…
A prison is a prison, no matter how they dress it up, and Faolan is…struggling. Inside his own head. With his thoughts. His dreams. His demons. His chest is tight as he stumbles out into the deck, desperate for at least the illusion of fresh air. Tilting his head back to try and breathe, but the sky is wrong. It’s all wrong and—
His head snaps to the side at the sound of the other man’s voice, instantly on alert. He looks, frankly, like shit. Dark circles under his dark eyes, and his clothes hang too loose on his frame, like he has only just gotten over a long illness. (Or, as the case may be, out of a long stint in prison…)]
Fine. [An obvious lie.] Thought I could do with some brisk sea air. [A joke.]
[All feelings Alexei would entirely understand. Regardless of how relaxed he seems these days, there was a time when he jumped at every shadow and never felt safe, reacting to the sense of insecurity with anger and lashing out at anyone who looked at him the wrong way.
He won't say he doesn't still have a temper - it's part of his personality - but it is more managed now.
When the reply comes he studies Faolan for a moment or two, taking in his appearance and demeanour and the all too obvious lie.]
Mmh. [He replies softly, the noise light and held in the back of his throat. Like knows like - he recognises this kind of jumpiness - and there's another brief pause while he taps some ash off his cigarette.]
[Faolan watches the other man carefully for a long moment, before determining that he hasn’t interrupted anything too private here. The question swiftly clueing him into why he might be up here himself. The cigarette is unlike anything of Faolan’s time, but they do have pipes, and Faolan supposes the premise is the same.
He shakes his head at last. In his experience, smoking muddles your mind, and for all that he’d prefer to be able to simply relax, he needs to keep his head clear. He may not be on the job just now, but he can never allow himself to turn it off. Which means no drink. No drugs. It’s maddening really.]
Never got the taste for it. [Another white lie. Faolan steps up to lean against the rail, far enough away to be able to continue their conversation but still give the both of them some space to themselves.]
[For Alexei it is mostly a bad habit, though even he wouldn't deny he smokes a lot more when he's nervous or stressed. He leans against the railing again when Faolan seems content to join him, just watching the 'scenery' pass by for a minute.]
Hard to keep a sense of time here sometimes, don't you think?
[There's another little drag after he casually asks the question.]
[Faolan tips his head back to gaze up at the sky beyond, if sky is indeed what one would call it. He supposes that there are stars, but try as he might he cannot recognize any of them, and they seem to change positions, sometimes even within the same night. And there is hardly any light, not from above at least. For a man who measures life in turnings of the moon, it is nigh impossible.
Of course, he could hardly admit to such a weakness to a stranger. He could hardly admit it to a friend. So instead he replies:]
[What Faolan does say, coupled with how obviously rough he looks, tells more than enough of a story for the time being. Alexei doesn't press it because he would have hated that too.
Instead, he nods and hums thoughtfully.]
It sure does.
[No denying that. Even in the position he's in now, it still asks a lot. He's hardly comfortable with his 'status' or anything about it.]
[Faolan raises an eyebrow at the question, before offering the other man a shrug. He’s been running into a lot of issues like this lately, and it’s hard to explain that which you don’t understand in the first place.]
A turning of the moon. As opposed to that of the sun. It is how we measure time, where I am from. I know no other way of explaining myself.
[He leans more heavily against the rail.]
No moon, no recognizable stars, no sun. No earth, no water, no trees save the ones growing inside the ship. It does not make sense.
[Nope, still doesn't make any sense. He's also not entirely sure if Faolan is being obstinate about it on purpose, or he really doesn't understand what is being asked.
It's not really worth the argument, he supposes. If the guy hasn't figured out how to measure time on the Barge yet then he's clearly not been here for long either way.]
Y'know, where I'm from, we have huge ships that fly through space. Like this. [A gesture to the stars slipping by in front of them.] And this place is still weird as hell to me.
[Space. An equally strange and new concept to Faolan. He tilts his head back to look up at the stars above them, whatever constellations they may be, trying to picture it. Flight on the whole.]
If it were not for the fact that we find ourselves exactly in the situation you describe, I would think you were mad. As it is...
[He takes in another breath, letting it out slowly. By the gods, he is tired, but sleep will not come easily, not even at the best of times.]
It is myself I am questioning most, these days.
[Though if he's being honest with himself, he would have dreamt himself a far worse prison into existence, so he supposes this is the lesser of two evils, all things considered.
But enough about him. This has already been far too much for his comfort as it is. He turns to he man at his side once more, with a studying eye.]
I assume it has been longer for you. [He quirks a smile.] Despite the circumstances we both find ourselves in, at present.
[Out on the deck, in the middle of the night. Unable to sleep. Both in escape, or perhaps in search of something yet unfound.]
[And while he knows many people who have been here longer than that, it still feels as if it's been more than long enough. He leans against the railing as well, finally finishing off his cigarette and idly putting it out.]
Was actually set to leave a few months ago, but... things changed, I guess. [A small sniff.] Doesn't mean I like it here any better. Place is fucking awful.
[Faolan’s eyebrows furrow slightly at that combination of words, before he raises one at the other man again.]
You hate it here, and yet you chose to stay.
[There is a question in Faolan’s words. And a story in the other man’s explanation, he would assume. Something must have kept him here, and Faolan doubts it is anything so flimsy as a whim, if he had been given the chance of escape.]
[The lesser of two evils. Faolan supposes he understands that sort of a choice, although it is unfortunate. If he were offered a choice to go home…
Well, that would mean that he had done something to earn it in the first place. Or something to seek it out. He dislikes this place greatly yes, but because it has removed his choice. And his choice had been at the time to cease to exist entirely, so…
He does understand. He offers the other man a nod after a moment.]
Which finds us both here on the deck in the middle of the night, I suppose.
Steve is often the first one to arrive for dinner prep, and tonight is no exception. It's still just him in the kitchen by the time Faolan arrives; he's got his sleeves rolled up and is cutting vegetables, offering over a smile as the door swings open and he sees who it is.
"Hey, it might just be you and me tonight. How do you feel about rolling dough? Unless you'd rather cut these." He motions to the vegetables on the cutting board.
Faolan has adjusted well enough to working here in the kitchen on dinner shift. He comes from a time and place when, although there had been kitchen staff at places like White Hill, when he'd been traveling half the time he'd had to cook for himself (and scavenge and hunt for himself at that as well). He could have been ornery and refused to come to work, but the truth is that he needs routine, and it's something to take his mind off of... Well, everything. It's part of the reason he was married to his job back at home -- even if they are very different positions, the principle is still the same. Keep your head down. Work hard. Focus on the task at hand.
Having a supervisor is new for him as well. It doesn't rankle quite as much as having a Warden assigned to him, but the effect is still the same, and as such, he's still more than a little bit difficult and stand-offish about the whole thing.
As such, he raises an eyebrow at Steve's question (and his knife), replying, "Are you sure you're allowed to trust me with that, as an Inmate?"
((ooc: sorry for the delay, this weekend was crazy busy!))
Steve certainly can't blame anyone for not coming into work; he'd certainly skipped it enough when he'd been an inmate, for so many reasons, that he doesn't choose to call someone out on it now. He might check on someone if they've been gone a few days, but that's different. And Faolan hasn't needed that, anyway. He's been a reliable worker since he started, if maybe a little unimpressed by, you know. The whole situation.
Who can blame him?
Steve shrugs; it feels a little like his conversation with Ellie when he says, "I say what I'm allowed to do, and I figure the actually relevant question is, should I trust you with it as a person? Which, I mean, you've had plenty of chances to do me in before and haven't. I'm just gonna make sure you give it back when you're done, because it belongs in the kitchen."
Faolan knows he could continue this conversation and question him further on the matter. How it makes little to no sense trusting an assassin with a blade, how he could palm any number of instruments in here and he doubts Steve would truly be able to keep an eye on all of them. But the truth of the matter is that Faolan's heart isn't in it. The bickering or, frankly, acting out in any shape or form.
There's a persistent tired grief that has plagued him ever since he arrived here on the Barge that he hasn't managed to shake yet. As if he is in mourning for... Well. His own life, at that. There's too much to touch on there, though, and therefore he's doing his best not to think about any of it at all.
After a long moment, Faolan holds out a hand to Steve for the knife, sighing.
"Trust me when I say that I'm far better with a blade than I ever will be with anything resembling baking," he tells him. Is there a hint of humor in his words and manner there? Blink and you might miss it.
Steve is definitely familiar with the crushing fatigue that comes from being an inmate. He thinks he can see some of it in the line of Faolan's shoulders, but of course he can't be sure. He doesn't know the man well. The most he can do, he thinks, is try not to add to it, if that's what it is.
He offers Faolan a grin and hands over the knife without hesitation, handle first. "Then you're on chopping duty until further notice. I admit, I'm definitely better - or at least, more practiced - with the baking, so that works out."
He makes sure the other man is set up with all the vegetables that will need chopping, then gets himself over to where he's set up the ingredients to get started on the dough. "I guess I've always been better with just using my hands." Or at least mote comfortable. "Much to my knuckles' complaint."
It's not Steve's fault that he doesn't know Faolan well yet. Faolan is still new to the Barge, and beyond that, he's not the most sociable of people, even when he's not going through a crisis. Which, as it turns out, dying (or, in Faolan's case, ending one's life) only to find yourself brought back to life in a place like this -- that certainly qualifies as a crisis if ever there was one. It may not be nearly as obvious to those around him (especially those who don't know him well like Steve) but Faolan has been Struggling, and every little bit of normalcy, like a routine and a job, however ill-suiting, is helping him hold on by a string.
Thus, he ignores much of the other man's fussing over setting up his workstation in favor of just being allowed this much. He's just setting himself to work with the chopping when he realizes that -- yes, Steve is looking for conversation. Normally there would be others here to help buffer this, but since it's just the two of them...
He glances up across at the other man, mindful of his fingers.
"I'm no baker, but if your knuckles are hurting then it sounds as if you're going a little too hard on that bread," he quips, understanding that Steve had meant his hands were his weapon of choice, as blades are Faolan's own.
Steve had indeed meant as his weapon of choice, but he chuckles softly at the comeback. "That's a fair point. But there isn't a whole lot else to punch around here, so maybe I do take it out on the bread a little."
That much is true, too - Steve's always found it more than a little frustrating that he can't just punch a problem to fix it around here. It would certainly make things a hell of a lot simpler.
And he is looking for conversation, though far be it from him to make someone uncomfortable while at their job. He just hasn't gotten a chance to know Faolan well, and maybe that's intentional on the other's part, but maybe it's not. He's not always the most tactful, though he tries to be mindful of whether the other wants him to just shut up and back the hell off.
He hasn't quite gotten that vibe just yet, though, so he ventures on: "I didn't know a thing about baking until I got here. It's actually more relaxing than I would've thought. Although anything repetitive can be relaxing."
Including cutting vegetables... or punching a bag.
Faolan doesn't mind the chopping. It is somewhat soothing. And he is somewhat used to being talked at, although doing the talking back takes a little bit more effort on his part. He isn't exactly what one would describe as an easy conversationalist, at the best of times. Still, he does his best to make an effort when he needs to, as he does now, for Steve's sake.
"I'm sure there's plenty around for you to punch, and plenty who would have earned it for that matter, but I suppose it's for the best that you know where to focus your aggressions," Faolan returns.
He flashes the other man the quirk of a smile to indicate that he is only being facetious before continuing, "What did you do to relax before baking, then?"
"Not as much as I'd like," Steve admits, sounding just a little rueful. "Punching solves a lot fewer things here than out in the rest of the universe."
It would be nice if things were simpler, but it's the Barge. Nothing is simple. He's learned that.
He doesn't have to consider the question long before he admits, "Not much, really. I'm not actually very good at relaxing," he laughs, self-deprecating. "I mostly just get restless and rougher around the edges than usual, if I have to sit on my hands too long. What about you?"
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deck, 3am
There are others around, yes, but he's not exactly expecting company. His head tilts a little when he hears footsteps - light as they are - and he blows a stream of tobacco smoke casually over the side of the ship.
Faolan gets a glance from the young man casually positioned against the railing. In this light his eyes are so dark as to be black, the pupils entirely hidden, and his hair is a semi-wild mop that he idly pushes a hand through as he acknowledges the other man's presence. His voice is fairly distinct - crisp and slightly roughened by smoking, with a light accent.]
You okay?
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If he were at home — if home is what he is to call it — in White Hill, he might simply walk the halls of the fortress, check the perimeter, report in with the guards. Work, put his mind to task so it could not meander down the dark paths it was determined to seek out otherwise. But here, with his scheduled assignments and all his so called “freedoms”…
A prison is a prison, no matter how they dress it up, and Faolan is…struggling. Inside his own head. With his thoughts. His dreams. His demons. His chest is tight as he stumbles out into the deck, desperate for at least the illusion of fresh air. Tilting his head back to try and breathe, but the sky is wrong. It’s all wrong and—
His head snaps to the side at the sound of the other man’s voice, instantly on alert. He looks, frankly, like shit. Dark circles under his dark eyes, and his clothes hang too loose on his frame, like he has only just gotten over a long illness. (Or, as the case may be, out of a long stint in prison…)]
Fine. [An obvious lie.] Thought I could do with some brisk sea air. [A joke.]
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He won't say he doesn't still have a temper - it's part of his personality - but it is more managed now.
When the reply comes he studies Faolan for a moment or two, taking in his appearance and demeanour and the all too obvious lie.]
Mmh. [He replies softly, the noise light and held in the back of his throat. Like knows like - he recognises this kind of jumpiness - and there's another brief pause while he taps some ash off his cigarette.]
You smoke?
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He shakes his head at last. In his experience, smoking muddles your mind, and for all that he’d prefer to be able to simply relax, he needs to keep his head clear. He may not be on the job just now, but he can never allow himself to turn it off. Which means no drink. No drugs. It’s maddening really.]
Never got the taste for it. [Another white lie. Faolan steps up to lean against the rail, far enough away to be able to continue their conversation but still give the both of them some space to themselves.]
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[For Alexei it is mostly a bad habit, though even he wouldn't deny he smokes a lot more when he's nervous or stressed. He leans against the railing again when Faolan seems content to join him, just watching the 'scenery' pass by for a minute.]
Hard to keep a sense of time here sometimes, don't you think?
[There's another little drag after he casually asks the question.]
Never really liked that about it.
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Of course, he could hardly admit to such a weakness to a stranger. He could hardly admit it to a friend. So instead he replies:]
This place asks quite a lot of us in general.
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Instead, he nods and hums thoughtfully.]
It sure does.
[No denying that. Even in the position he's in now, it still asks a lot. He's hardly comfortable with his 'status' or anything about it.]
Haven't been here long, have you?
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Can’t imagine where you might have gotten that impression.
[Faolan lets out a soft sigh.]
As you said, it is difficult to measure time here. But it has not been long, no. No more than the turning of the moon, by my estimate.
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[An equally dry smile in return. Small talk is stupid but often a necessary part of conversation, and he's not always great at it.]
I'm gonna take a guess that you mean a month, but how long is that for you?
[There is a good chance they are not even from the same planet, after all.]
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A turning of the moon. As opposed to that of the sun. It is how we measure time, where I am from. I know no other way of explaining myself.
[He leans more heavily against the rail.]
No moon, no recognizable stars, no sun. No earth, no water, no trees save the ones growing inside the ship. It does not make sense.
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It's not really worth the argument, he supposes. If the guy hasn't figured out how to measure time on the Barge yet then he's clearly not been here for long either way.]
Y'know, where I'm from, we have huge ships that fly through space. Like this. [A gesture to the stars slipping by in front of them.] And this place is still weird as hell to me.
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If it were not for the fact that we find ourselves exactly in the situation you describe, I would think you were mad. As it is...
[He takes in another breath, letting it out slowly. By the gods, he is tired, but sleep will not come easily, not even at the best of times.]
It is myself I am questioning most, these days.
[Though if he's being honest with himself, he would have dreamt himself a far worse prison into existence, so he supposes this is the lesser of two evils, all things considered.
But enough about him. This has already been far too much for his comfort as it is. He turns to he man at his side once more, with a studying eye.]
I assume it has been longer for you. [He quirks a smile.] Despite the circumstances we both find ourselves in, at present.
[Out on the deck, in the middle of the night. Unable to sleep. Both in escape, or perhaps in search of something yet unfound.]
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Over a year.
[And while he knows many people who have been here longer than that, it still feels as if it's been more than long enough. He leans against the railing as well, finally finishing off his cigarette and idly putting it out.]
Was actually set to leave a few months ago, but... things changed, I guess. [A small sniff.] Doesn't mean I like it here any better. Place is fucking awful.
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You hate it here, and yet you chose to stay.
[There is a question in Faolan’s words. And a story in the other man’s explanation, he would assume. Something must have kept him here, and Faolan doubts it is anything so flimsy as a whim, if he had been given the chance of escape.]
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[He knows how it sounds, but he also knows he is by far not the only person who feels that way and is still here regardless.
His shoulder lifts in a shrug.]
Bad as it can get here... Bad as it is... It's still better for me here right now than going home.
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Well, that would mean that he had done something to earn it in the first place. Or something to seek it out. He dislikes this place greatly yes, but because it has removed his choice. And his choice had been at the time to cease to exist entirely, so…
He does understand. He offers the other man a nod after a moment.]
Which finds us both here on the deck in the middle of the night, I suppose.
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dinner shift
"Hey, it might just be you and me tonight. How do you feel about rolling dough? Unless you'd rather cut these." He motions to the vegetables on the cutting board.
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Having a supervisor is new for him as well. It doesn't rankle quite as much as having a Warden assigned to him, but the effect is still the same, and as such, he's still more than a little bit difficult and stand-offish about the whole thing.
As such, he raises an eyebrow at Steve's question (and his knife), replying, "Are you sure you're allowed to trust me with that, as an Inmate?"
((ooc: sorry for the delay, this weekend was crazy busy!))
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Who can blame him?
Steve shrugs; it feels a little like his conversation with Ellie when he says, "I say what I'm allowed to do, and I figure the actually relevant question is, should I trust you with it as a person? Which, I mean, you've had plenty of chances to do me in before and haven't. I'm just gonna make sure you give it back when you're done, because it belongs in the kitchen."
[ooc: Noooo worries, I feel you!]
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There's a persistent tired grief that has plagued him ever since he arrived here on the Barge that he hasn't managed to shake yet. As if he is in mourning for... Well. His own life, at that. There's too much to touch on there, though, and therefore he's doing his best not to think about any of it at all.
After a long moment, Faolan holds out a hand to Steve for the knife, sighing.
"Trust me when I say that I'm far better with a blade than I ever will be with anything resembling baking," he tells him. Is there a hint of humor in his words and manner there? Blink and you might miss it.
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He offers Faolan a grin and hands over the knife without hesitation, handle first. "Then you're on chopping duty until further notice. I admit, I'm definitely better - or at least, more practiced - with the baking, so that works out."
He makes sure the other man is set up with all the vegetables that will need chopping, then gets himself over to where he's set up the ingredients to get started on the dough. "I guess I've always been better with just using my hands." Or at least mote comfortable. "Much to my knuckles' complaint."
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Thus, he ignores much of the other man's fussing over setting up his workstation in favor of just being allowed this much. He's just setting himself to work with the chopping when he realizes that -- yes, Steve is looking for conversation. Normally there would be others here to help buffer this, but since it's just the two of them...
He glances up across at the other man, mindful of his fingers.
"I'm no baker, but if your knuckles are hurting then it sounds as if you're going a little too hard on that bread," he quips, understanding that Steve had meant his hands were his weapon of choice, as blades are Faolan's own.
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That much is true, too - Steve's always found it more than a little frustrating that he can't just punch a problem to fix it around here. It would certainly make things a hell of a lot simpler.
And he is looking for conversation, though far be it from him to make someone uncomfortable while at their job. He just hasn't gotten a chance to know Faolan well, and maybe that's intentional on the other's part, but maybe it's not. He's not always the most tactful, though he tries to be mindful of whether the other wants him to just shut up and back the hell off.
He hasn't quite gotten that vibe just yet, though, so he ventures on: "I didn't know a thing about baking until I got here. It's actually more relaxing than I would've thought. Although anything repetitive can be relaxing."
Including cutting vegetables... or punching a bag.
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"I'm sure there's plenty around for you to punch, and plenty who would have earned it for that matter, but I suppose it's for the best that you know where to focus your aggressions," Faolan returns.
He flashes the other man the quirk of a smile to indicate that he is only being facetious before continuing, "What did you do to relax before baking, then?"
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It would be nice if things were simpler, but it's the Barge. Nothing is simple. He's learned that.
He doesn't have to consider the question long before he admits, "Not much, really. I'm not actually very good at relaxing," he laughs, self-deprecating. "I mostly just get restless and rougher around the edges than usual, if I have to sit on my hands too long. What about you?"