He didn't mind when she called him Evan. And hell, at this point, everyone knew his name because the Administration had plastered it up on their stupid job lists. But he could still appreciate that she respected it. Even if he didn't want it to apply to her. He almost told her, but coming right out and saying that felt a little too vulnerable. And after having quite a few instances already tonight where he was leaning in wrong directions, he figured that was a stupid thing to do at best.
"Is it fucked up that I have pretty conflicting reactions to you saying that?" he asked, resisting the urge to lean back in her direction. "Not the part about being a joyless asshole that's pretty accurate, really." he said, clarifying things. "That last part. You say that, and part of me thinks it's good, because we're in here with people we don't know, we're all criminals, and who the fuck knows who's hiding what. I'd like you to be at least aware that there might be rattlesnakes in the grass so to speak. And another part just kind of wishes I'd shut the fuck up about shit like that, and you didn't have to think about anything like it. That you wouldn't be as paranoid as I am. Or even close to it."
His first question got a lighter smile from Mojo, one that came with the realization that Evan had returned her favor: she’d gotten his mind off of heavier moments, and he’d pulled hers away from the rare self-awareness that had hit with questions about Mojo’s scar. “It’s not fucked up,” she assured him then. “I don’t want to walk into trouble any more than you want me to, that’s why I know I need to keep my eyes open and come to terms about where we are and who’s in here with us. But I get it, I do... I only saw a little bit of horrible stuff in prison, and I still wouldn’t talk about it to most people. For their sakes, not mine. You don’t want to explain how vicious this world is, but you know that sometimes you have to.”