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Simon Tam (can_swear) wrote in silverage,

Simon glanced up when someone paused by the table and commented on his reading material. He shook his head to the question, his lips moving silently for a moment before his brain caught up with what he wanted to say.

"Nothing in particular. I was just ... familiarizing myself with the ... standards of today's medicine," he replied. There may have been an edge of bitter sarcasm to his voice, but he wasn't trying to be antagonistic. It was just difficult to comprehend. At least he hadn't been thrust back further in time. He'd go mad if he had to try to deal with fourteenth century medicine or something like it.

"Just so I know what I'm getting into ... at work." It felt so odd to say that, and his expression reflected it. Work. A job. Here. All he wanted was to get home, but people seemed of the mind that was an impossibility. So his options were adapt or starve, and he guessed he preferred adapting to death.

He gestured for her to have a seat and join him if she was inclined, because he wouldn't mind talking to someone other than himself for a bit.