Martin yields to that, allows his hand to slide off. Seems to sink in the way Tim shifts closer. "It's not even... I don't hate this place, really, you know?" His voice drops. "I hate that I'm- that I'm bad at being a Warden. But I like the people. I like them a lot. Not all of them, obviously, but most of them. Don't know I've ever really felt a sense of- community like this before."
Tim looks tired, and Martin reaches up to sort of stroke his head, to sweep down the back of his neck.
"But don't say that. Jon's... figuring out his own worth more, I think. The way he makes friends here... it was foolish to think I could keep up. I guess I should have seen this coming."
"Well, maybe you could stand to keep improving your own a bit more, too." It's light, a suggestion and not a stab. "Find something better than just 'don't hate it' to settle into. Where you can thrive for being you, not for... something you're trying to keep up with."
That will get Martin to lean back, wrinkling his nose at Tim.
"Okay. Mr. Bloody Idealist, let's not get carried away with ourselves here. But - sure. Best case scenario, I go back to a world where I'm alive and still gainfully employed, I'll go join a book club."
It's Tim's turn to laugh, at the way Martin crinkles his nose at the mere suggestion.
"How d'you think you'd fit 'travelled cross-country through the apocalypse' on a resume, then? Since apparently I'm just a bloody idealist, and- do you hear how weird that sounds too?"
Martin holds up one hand, looking defensive. "Excuse me, Tim, I only put lies on my CVs. And anyway, it sounds like you're saying you don't think I can support myself on poetry income alone."
He still hurts so bad it's physical. His teeth and gums ache with his own stupid grief, over losing Jon, over giving up the Barge. But the laughter in his voice, as faint as it is, is utterly sincere.
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corkscrewed) wrote2017-11-05 04:46 pm
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Tim looks tired, and Martin reaches up to sort of stroke his head, to sweep down the back of his neck.
"But don't say that. Jon's... figuring out his own worth more, I think. The way he makes friends here... it was foolish to think I could keep up. I guess I should have seen this coming."
no subject
no subject
"Okay. Mr. Bloody Idealist, let's not get carried away with ourselves here. But - sure. Best case scenario, I go back to a world where I'm alive and still gainfully employed, I'll go join a book club."
no subject
"How d'you think you'd fit 'travelled cross-country through the apocalypse' on a resume, then? Since apparently I'm just a bloody idealist, and- do you hear how weird that sounds too?"
no subject
He still hurts so bad it's physical. His teeth and gums ache with his own stupid grief, over losing Jon, over giving up the Barge. But the laughter in his voice, as faint as it is, is utterly sincere.