[ He looks away for the first time when she says okay. Her question gets a huff of laughter, wry rather than amused. ]
It's a pre-emptive measure. Somebody threatens to hit you, you sucker punch them first.
[ His glasses reflect his phone screen as he taps out a message, his eyes invisible for the next few seconds. There's no use in pretending what he's asking her for is anything other than what it is, so he doesn't bother with a lie — he's never been mean (cold, maybe), but his work is, through and through. The phone disappears back into his pocket as the waitress comes back around.
Stamper shrugs, looking back across the table. Again, not a question: ] I'm buying.
[ A shrug. Maybe Curie didn't care after all, the reasons for it. (Later, when the investigation piles up, it's easier to deny. I didn't know anything. It makes sense to them.) Addison pockets the spiral notebook inside the jacket of her jacket, smiling briefly at the waitress as points at something on the menu. It's a place without prices. Addison's so used to laminated plastic menus. That's one good thing about anywhere that isn't DC. ]
A beer? Whatever's on tap. And this pasta thing.
[ Alcohol with lunch. It would have been better to go for something stronger and more expensive, but it's still lunch.
She wonders, sort of suddenly, whether this waitress knows who the man sitting at her table actually is. Later, when she walks away, Curie clears her throat. ]
You know, there's a reason eye for an eye doesn't work out so well. Everybody ends up blind. Something like that.
[ He doesn't order anything to drink besides the coffee and water he already has. (The strongest thing she's ever seen him order is a seltzer.) A salad, too — the waitress makes a joke about dieting and Stamper laughs like he actually finds it funny. It's an affectation, the sort of thing he's turned off around Curie.
She'd seen through it, anyway. ]
You really believe that?
[ There's nothing like disbelief in his tone; the question isn't meant as argument or mockery. ]
[ He's a guy in DC, and maybe part of that has to do with staying sharp, but you don't run around galas and fundraisers and drink seltzer all the time. He's an asshole in the right way to this town. Curie, she figures it's not her business. It'd be hypocritical otherwise. She's never said anything kind about it either. No off-hand mention.
He'd see through it, anyway. ]
I guess, [ she says, and it's not convincing. More like she's seen what happens when you get caught at it. How it's hard to convince anyone else that it was worth it, because that's what pain is. Isolating. Cruel.
There's a thread unravelling at the end of her jacket, and she picks at it for a little while. ]
Must be one hell of a playing field. That's what people say, right?
[ That's the thing, at the end of the day. Was it worth it? Yes, unquestionably yes, but it's hard to imagine that anybody else would stand in his shoes and say the same. (Maybe she would, but she never asks and he never tells.) It's difficult to explain suffering not for the sake of one's own martyrdom but for someone else's.
That's what pain is. The only pictures (two, maybe three) in his house are of his brother's children. ]
Well, they're not far off the mark.
[ He doesn't move, but his attention does, tracking her fingertips at her sleeve. ]
Not what they said it'd be on Schoolhouse Rock, anyway.
[ She laughs. It's not a huff, more a whipcrack, like the noise been startled out of her. It's loud more than cute. ]
I bet.
[ The thread at her sleeve unravels. Pulls at it too long, too fast, until she winds it tight around her finger. Taut. Curie stares at it for a moment, how quickly the end of her finger turns bloated-red. It's the same with any person, really. Any throat. Any child, too.
She tugs. The thread snaps. Curie shrugs. Their drinks come, one beer and the waitress tops up their glasses of water. ]
You don't have to do this, [ she says. ] I mean, you've already asked me to do it. You could just leave.
[ He shrugs, looking at her across the table. His expression is blank at best — callous, maybe. He's fully aware that it's not an explanation, but to be fair, she hasn't asked for one. (It saves him the trouble of lying, anyway.) ]
I haven't eaten yet.
[ By contrast, he doesn't fidget. He doesn't, anymore. It's a habit he's left behind along with the one that he doesn't discuss (my name is Doug, and I'm an alcoholic); he's as cold with himself as he is with everyone else. ]
No. [ She looks annoyed at herself, but only momentarily. A distraction, now, because Curie takes a pull from her beer, ends up picking at the label on the front of the bottle instead of pouring it into the empty glass that came with the order. ]
[ It's not (obviously, maybe, but less so among people who tell half-truths for a living) a contradiction. He has to work but he has to take care of himself to some degree — eating, sleeping, the bare minimum — and if he can combine the two, then all the better.
He doesn't drink just yet, instead running a finger along the bottom of his glass where water has begun to condense. ]
[ He'd laugh, if he were the type to. As it stands, he manages a smile, half-wry and half— pained, maybe. Like it's not something he particularly enjoys sharing, if not something he's choosing to keep turned to his vest, either. ]
I used to drink. [ A pause. The implications — at least the way he lets them hang in the air — speak for themselves. There's no emphasis on any one single word; she's smart enough to figure it out. ] I made a couple of mistakes I shouldn't have, the Underwoods saw fit to give me a second chance.
[ It's the most transparent he's been about himself since they met. ]
![[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
It's a pre-emptive measure. Somebody threatens to hit you, you sucker punch them first.
[ His glasses reflect his phone screen as he taps out a message, his eyes invisible for the next few seconds. There's no use in pretending what he's asking her for is anything other than what it is, so he doesn't bother with a lie — he's never been mean (cold, maybe), but his work is, through and through. The phone disappears back into his pocket as the waitress comes back around.
Stamper shrugs, looking back across the table. Again, not a question: ] I'm buying.
no subject
A beer? Whatever's on tap. And this pasta thing.
[ Alcohol with lunch. It would have been better to go for something stronger and more expensive, but it's still lunch.
She wonders, sort of suddenly, whether this waitress knows who the man sitting at her table actually is. Later, when she walks away, Curie clears her throat. ]
You know, there's a reason eye for an eye doesn't work out so well. Everybody ends up blind. Something like that.
no subject
She'd seen through it, anyway. ]
You really believe that?
[ There's nothing like disbelief in his tone; the question isn't meant as argument or mockery. ]
At least it levels the playing field.
no subject
He'd see through it, anyway. ]
I guess, [ she says, and it's not convincing. More like she's seen what happens when you get caught at it. How it's hard to convince anyone else that it was worth it, because that's what pain is. Isolating. Cruel.
There's a thread unravelling at the end of her jacket, and she picks at it for a little while. ]
Must be one hell of a playing field. That's what people say, right?
no subject
That's what pain is. The only pictures (two, maybe three) in his house are of his brother's children. ]
Well, they're not far off the mark.
[ He doesn't move, but his attention does, tracking her fingertips at her sleeve. ]
Not what they said it'd be on Schoolhouse Rock, anyway.
no subject
I bet.
[ The thread at her sleeve unravels. Pulls at it too long, too fast, until she winds it tight around her finger. Taut. Curie stares at it for a moment, how quickly the end of her finger turns bloated-red. It's the same with any person, really. Any throat. Any child, too.
She tugs. The thread snaps. Curie shrugs. Their drinks come, one beer and the waitress tops up their glasses of water. ]
You don't have to do this, [ she says. ] I mean, you've already asked me to do it. You could just leave.
no subject
I haven't eaten yet.
[ By contrast, he doesn't fidget. He doesn't, anymore. It's a habit he's left behind along with the one that he doesn't discuss (my name is Doug, and I'm an alcoholic); he's as cold with himself as he is with everyone else. ]
Don't mind, do you?
no subject
I don't really know what to talk about.
[ She admits. Her brows lift. ]
I thought you'd want to be expedient.
no subject
[ It's not (obviously, maybe, but less so among people who tell half-truths for a living) a contradiction. He has to work but he has to take care of himself to some degree — eating, sleeping, the bare minimum — and if he can combine the two, then all the better.
He doesn't drink just yet, instead running a finger along the bottom of his glass where water has begun to condense. ]
What would you talk about with anyone else?
no subject
Work.
[ It's funny, in a way. There's a brief pause, and:— ]
Their seltzer habit.
[ Easy to chalk up to a character thing, but Addison knows whose pocket she lives in. It's the only way to wake up in the morning. ]
no subject
I used to drink. [ A pause. The implications — at least the way he lets them hang in the air — speak for themselves. There's no emphasis on any one single word; she's smart enough to figure it out. ] I made a couple of mistakes I shouldn't have, the Underwoods saw fit to give me a second chance.
[ It's the most transparent he's been about himself since they met. ]
It's better I stick with seltzer, now.