the warrant npcs. (spaceboss) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-26 00:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | npc: killian, npc: lloyd |
never again is what you swore the time before.
WHO: Killian & Lloyd
WHAT: The unseen episode: a Christmas argument.
WHEN: Late-ish last night.
WHERE: HQ, the Christmas party.
WARNINGS: swearing, talk of trauma.
Killian Stracke was not a hard person to find, and an easier person to come across by chance. Headquarters wasn't small by any measure, not when the reporting officers' offices were on the higher floors away from the docking bay, and Lloyd couldn't, for the life of him, understand how the younger man was as familiar a sight to him as Jo. They didn't have the same position, or run with the same crowds. He didn't believe in karma, but something frustrating was at work here. Ignoring Killian would have been the safest, most logical route. They only ever bickered and pressed each other's buttons and left the other feeling, Lloyd was sure, like nothing had been resolved by any of it. Seven years of this back and forth, and he was tired. (He didn't have to look at the reporting officer for long to know that he was, too.) Up on the patio in the seclusion of moonlight, dark hair and darker shirt a smear against the backdrop, Killian seemed an ill-fitting piece. These soirées were as much his thing as they were Lloyd's. They didn't do ties and cuffs. They didn't do small talk. They didn't do holidays. Their social skills were passable at best. Maybe that was what drew him to the younger man to where he was leaned against the railing, an unlit cigarette balanced in hand. Maybe he thought Killian looked lonely, and he did. Maybe it was time to sort through the sheer clusterfuck of their long-damaged relationship. "Need a light?" His voice carried in the breeze. Awkward, forced. He was trying. There was no turn, no immediate acknowledgement of Lloyd's presence. Until Killian turned the cigarette in hand again, tilted his head back, sighed into the night. "You don't smoke." "Uh, no, but," he slipped a hand into one pocket, producing a Zippo. "Jo never remembers hers. I carry it around in case she needs it. She usually does. She's a smart girl, but she forgets the most simple things, sometimes." Bright blues shifted to him abruptly; he paused, hand hovering midair. Whatever potential there had been for friendliness fell underfoot to be crushed as Killian stared him down. He shifted in place, uncertainly palming the Zippo. "Do you want something, Hiddleston?" Knife-sharp, but not yet hostile. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. There had been no speech prepared. Nothing, not a single comeback. The truth was the most viable option outside of turning on a heel and leaving before this escalated. The engineer bit the bullet. "Killian," he tried, automatically reaching for the bridge of his glasses, only to remember that Jo had encouraged him to wear contacts for the night. His eyes burned suddenly at the memory. "Can we... talk about this? Without yelling at each other, for a... for a second. I don't want to yell. I know you don't, either." Despite the both of them standing just below six feet tall (Lloyd was a hair taller, but that was irrelevant), the reporting officer seemed so much taller as he faced him, his expression shifting. Understanding it was only the weight of their relationship and not (entirely) intimidation, Lloyd held his breath, awaiting the inevitable. It came, as anticipated. "Do you? What do you know, Hiddleston, really?" He adjusted the lighter in hand, grateful for something to anxiously fiddle with while Killian's eyes bore into him, full of so much— everything. "I— know that seven years is a long time. And I know that nothing that I say or do will bring Gareth back, but—" "Don't," Killian cut in, like a razor. "Don't say his fucking name." "—but," he continued, the liquid courage in his system the only reason why he dared to, "I'm sorry, alright?" Even though it hadn't been his fault; even though the responsibility he'd taken was out of guilt, out of pressure. His exhale was ragged. "If I'm all that you can— channel this with, if it helps, then— okay. And I know we can't be friends, and I don't expect us to, but I've seen what this did to you, Killian. Wouldn't... stopping this help you? Wouldn't it help you get— move on?" As the words spilled out, he watched the younger man's expression grow progressively darker. It had been a bad idea to come. It had been a bad idea not to simply take the lighter and run. And Lloyd knew he'd said the wrong thing. "If you were about to say 'get over it'," something cracking there, composure falling, "then fuck you." (Never had those words been so hotly, genuinely delivered. They burned.) Killian's hands shot out, slamming into his shoulders once. Not for a fist fight, not here. "Gareth wasn't a pet fish or a fucking hamster. He wasn't a bad grade. He was all that I had." Tensely, "I— no, I know, that's not what I—" The laugh struck him at the core. "Not what you meant? Then let me tell you what I mean, just so we're clear here." Killian didn't shove at him again, but he seemed to want to. "Every time I look at you, I see him. I remember that I didn't get to say goodbye to him before the ship took him from me." He stepped in closer; Lloyd's heart hammered. "And now the last person that I care about is on that ship, so if anything, a single fucking thing, happens to him—" Here came the hand, hitting him sharp between his lungs. "You will be sorry. I'll personally make sure of it." There was no room for doubt in that threat, that promise. Numbness assaulted him from all directions as Killian slid past him, bristling almost audibly, his cigarette laying forgotten on the patio paneling beneath them. The engineer sucked in a breath, laughing shakily toward the moon once the other man had disappeared from earshot. So much for that. |