greatoldjohn | TLV Inbox

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[in a rather deep voice] "This is John Doe. Please leave your message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I may respond in text if I'm currently with Arthur. Apologies."

Now Moved To: Inbox: Act II - please tag in there!

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He's quiet for a moment.

"I think that felt unfair," he says slowly, working through it himself, "because I didn't feel like you had treated me like a team mate. So asking me to work with you as a team meant I had to do the work of a team mate, but I wasn't getting the consideration of one. All the disadvantages, and none of the benefits."

A pause.

"I don't think you meant it to be, but it felt exploitative."

"Well, that's kind of what Pagan said," she says. "But I think caring enough to want to rehash it all with you was consideration."

That's the first time he's going to say-

"I would disagree," he says, but his tone stays quiet, as much for Misty as Natalie, "I feel caring should be the baseline requirement for friendship. That's what makes it friendship, instead of two people existing in the same space. You don't get special points for caring. In this case especially, I was the one giving you more consideration, because you're the one who was shitty to me and hurt my- hurt us."

Edited 2022-12-13 14:04 (UTC)

"Well, in my case, it does feel special."

She takes another long sip of broth.

"I don't feel that way about many people. It's not a baseline for me."

"So there's friends you have that you don't care about?" More disconnects. Some part of him knew this but it all seems so anathema to someone who cares so intensely about some people.

"What makes them friends?"

"No, I mean... how many friends do you think I have, John?"

She suspects his guess is much higher than the actual number!

"I don't know," he admits, "I know there's Natalie, and Pagan. The rest of your team. You haven't told me about anyone else."

"There's a few others here. But my point is, compared to all the people on the Barge, or in the world? I'm not exactly overflowing with caring feelings towards people."

"Why not?"

A pause before-

"I know there are plenty of assholes in the world. But mostly, people are just trying to be happy and they fuck up or get lost on the way or lash out because they're upset and they don't realize what they're doing."

"That has not been my experience with people," she says simply.

"How so?"

He pauses for a moment.

"It's not a test. I'm just trying to understand."

"In my experience, people are cruel," she says, lacing her fingers together over her soup bowl. "They're dismissive, they're judgmental. They're exclusionary."

"Oh," he says thoughtfully to that, watching her fingers.

"Here too?"

"Fewer here than at home. But for the most part, yes, here too."

"Do I act like that?"

It's an honest question.

"Sometimes." She pauses, then adds, "When you're cruel, it's usually more pointed."

Which, honestly, she thinks she prefers. If he can say or do something that she reads as pointedly cruel, then it means that, in theory, he knows her enough to know what will hurt - and you don't get to that point through apathy.

"You're not wrong," he agrees with her. He considers it.

"Is that why you're exclusionary? To kick people out before they kick you out?"

"I'm not exclusionary," she says, her eyebrow jumping. "That's ridiculous. I just-- I told you about most people feeling like cardboard to me, right?"

He's not really a nodder but the affirmative is in his voice.

"Yes. You told me that most people feel like cardboard. You don't think of them as people. You exclude them from mattering."

It doesn't sound like an accusation. It just sounds like he's answering her.

"Okay, but it's not a choice. It's just how I feel. How, I think... my experiences have made me feel."

What bonds could compare with those forged in horror and trauma and the fight for survival?

"If your experiences have made you feel that way, then new experiences could make you feel differently, if you choose to let them," he points out, matter-of-fact.

"I used to feel that way too. I felt that way about all of humanity. You can change it if you want to."

"It's not that simple, John," she says with a sigh. "It's not a switch in my brain that I can flip."

"I didn't say that," which he keeps sounding matter-of-fact, and not aggravated, "and it wouldn't matter as much if you could. Do you want to change it?"

"-- Only if I could be sure that it would work," she says, after a brief moment's hesitation. It's not something she feels at all willing to take a leap of faith on.

"That... you could do it or that it would work out for you to be positive?"

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