Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven: Neil D & Lin A
Lin looked up at Neil as the dude thought on the flashbang series of questions, and he studied him, brown eyes moving fast over sharp Scottish features, and the boy had always been skilled at observing and at gathering information from the smallest slips, Sherlock Holmes-style. A lot of it was making leaps other people didn't, tangentially or laterally, jumping from thought to conclusion by way of educated guess. Not that he wasn't wrong sometimes, because, duh, he so was. But, more often than not, not to toot his own horn (cornustabation...? (cornu being horn in Latin, obvs; not a typo.) hornanism? lmao w/e)—he was right.—Of course, that wasn't always a blessing, because sometimes, like with Sam before, it made people shut down. It was too much or too close, and they couldn't deal with it, and he was too blasé about it. He'd fire it all off and they'd just be like, why? And he'd be like, bc I can. And they'd be like, asshole. And he'd be like, :\—He was better about it now than he was when he was a kid, but... still, sometimes being right became more important than others' feels, and that was when Lin ran into trouble.
But, here, with Neil, he wasn't thinking too much about that. He was kicking his feet, headphones still around his neck and the cord stretching and going lax with every swing of his legs, and he was blinking long, mascara'd eyelashes, as the man next to him shook his head and shrugged and generally used his body to communicate he had no idea. Lin let that silence settle without the neurotic need inside of him cropping up, telling him to pop it, and he drummed his fingers on the plush pew, the inch of blood red between his thigh and Neil's, some song that hadn't been created yet in the year of our Lord, 2002. Or 2001. (Because did the years even go by, since this was a door? He had no idea.)
"It's Sam, girl. Tell her whatever you want, if she gets it in her head she needs to fix something, she'll go all out or whatever, no matter wtf you say. She likes to fix shit. I think it's easier to focus on, all that external shit, rather than whatever the fuck's going on inside of her. Plus, she falls into that role a lot. People unload on her, they complain to her, and she doesn't ever really say much about her shit. Idk if you noticed. But, let me just say this. If you've been talking to her, and I get you're like "cool exes" who can be "friends" or "whatever"—don't talk to her about your shit with Meredith. Even if she wants you to. Don't talk to her about your shit, man. Like, the last thing Sam needs is that, I feel like, on top of all her business or whatev, with Louis, and blah, blah, blah. So your lives are ~intertwined~, which, I'ma just say, I call bullshit on, bc if you don't see how that could fuck with your new gf, you're a dumbass.—But, w/e, so your lives are hella intertwined and you want everything to be cool, since you're like emotionally exhausted, but it is just never, ever, ever a good idea to talk to your ex about your current, girl. Like, even if they say they're cool with it. Sam's human. The shit will still hurt her feelings and she'll keep measuring herself against the girl, whether she should or not. Because, again, hella human." Lin shrugged a blue shoulder. "Like, you're into this lady you're with now, right? Like, for real into?"