Re: quicklog: atticus/matt
Sure. But he likes people who're hard to like. [That was present tense. Where ever Steve was now, he was present for Matt. He might have let go of the hollow, knowing his friend was alive and gone, but he hadn't entirely let go of the idea of him. As for Janus:] I know him. [Not for the same reasons as Steve, of course.] Janus saw some shit. [Appreciative, in its way. Not of the suffering, or of the sacrifice, but of the shared experience, only.]
I'll have to ask him. [And he would. He'd only spoken to Janus a little, just a little. How one more old soldier wound up here, one more man, meant to be dead - that was a question he'd like to get answered. He tapped his thumb on Atticus' chest again.] You think about it like a yes or a no. You are a hero or you're not, and being a hero doesn't mean you're a villain. [He shook his head.] I don't see it that way. I see people who do things you can tally, mostly good or mostly bad. [He smiled faintly, conceding:] If anybody's a hero, though, it's Steve.
[He read that lazy, buzzed smile, and he wondered at how much Atticus saw when he was barely even awake. Reiterating, slowly:] Steve was the hero. I was just the sniper. Now, I'm an asset. Like a screwdriver. Or a knife.
[Matt didn't usually slide into bitterness when thinking about himself or what he'd been through, but he did then. His affect was usually so even that it was hard to believe, judging purely from his character, that this was the man who had once been the scourge of the intelligence community, responsible for toppling regimes and flaunting the will of the electorate in countless nations. A little bit of bitterness might even have been a good sign.
He slid his left arm back into the sleeve of his shirt, tugging the collar up to force the broad hand through the sleeve. The range of motion and naturalness of the arm were uncanny. It wasn't difficult to see why the Germans, and then the Russians, had spent so much time and money on the person who happened to be attached to it.
Matt made no move to push Atticus away.] Write something. [The command had no threat attached to it, but he felt strongly that Atticus was the sort of person who shouldn't ever fall as idle as he was right now, even out of old habit. He didn't look good. He'd been a prisoner, even if just for a little while (comparatively). He should do something. Writing might be a good start.] Write something. And I'll read your book. [He tapped the cover of the book on the night table, a firm rap of metal on book cover.]
Write about that. [About being a sick kid, about the port scar, about being touched? He didn't clarify.] Me either. [An admission. It had been a long while since anyone had come close enough to give it a shot, and he would have pulled away from it, in most cases. It depended on the person, on the touch, on the intention. Some could still spark a frisson of discomfort down his spine, a phantom pain for a punishment that didn't exist. The vampire. He looked at Atticus with a flicker of understanding.] I don't. Thanks. [For the comment that it was a good story, seemingly.] You ever think you see him? [He glanced away, toward the steps to the first floor. The farmhouse might be small, but this room felt too big to really sleep in. He knew he would see ghosts if he did, and he wondered if Atticus was the same way. Or if anyone had bothered to ask him about it.
His hand was still resting on Atticus's chest, and the other man's hand was on his leg. There weren't many people who could look him dead in the eye for too long, and Atticus was one of those people.
He thought about it. There was no mistaking it. That pause between the question and the answer was him tallying.
He lifted his hand from Atticus' chest] Your pulse is good, but you haven't eaten anything, and you haven't slept. [He pushed himself up from the bed, but he took Atticus' hand as he did so, as it slipped from his leg.] You sleep. Sober up. [He picked up a blanket from the end of the bed beside Atticus', and he slung it across his feet. The night was bound to get cold.]
Tomorrow, when you wake up. [He inclined his head down toward Atticus on the bed, and his hair swung forward across his face.] I'll still be here.