I'm going to contain it, ward it, and take it to her. See what I can learn. If she wants it, I imagine the issue will arise when she realises she can't have it.
I'll reach out when it's over. If I don't, you'll know
[ In twenty minutes, Stephen will see him there. Quentin slides up to the bar as if he was built to fit, elbows square against the surface. He puts down his first drink quick, as if to prove that this is the reason for his being here. The worry is plain on his face, but the first beer washes it down. Temporarily at least.
[ Businesslike, Quentin tucks his chin and stretches his fingers before opening: ] Stephen. I trust you. I'm not gonna fight you on this. I'm not gonna...mope. But--in case.
I know I'm not gifted like you. But you taught me anyway. I know I'm not...smart. Or easy all the time. Or wise, or... [ His mouth shakes, and he presses his lips tight to shake the feeling away. He plods on. ] You're one of the only people here that's been--honest with me. Really honest, good and bad and ugly. You don't--quit when things go wrong. You don't coddle me. You don't torture me. You treat me like what I think matters.
[ Another wave of feeling twists from the cleft up his lip and up into his nose, and his hand knot together involuntarily, nail tip of one thumb digging against the nail bed of the other. He has to clear his throat, and it still comes out froggy: ]
I don't think of you--like that. But--but you're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong. [ Fuck, fucking christ. A steeling sniff, and he turns his wet, determined gaze on Stephen wholly. ] I'm not gonna be okay. Alright? So--so do it right.
He isn't expecting it. Something, maybe. Something, surely. But the first drink buys time. He watches Quentin work through it in sideways glances, in peeks over the rim of his own drink, watches him use the time and the liquid courage to wipe the worry from his face - and it lulls Stephen into a false sense of ease. Like they'll make it through this without him needing to hear a single reminder that Quentin's called him here because he's scared he's going to die. That this might be it.
And then, off the back of an on-ramp of steeling gestures that have him smirking fondly until they don't— there comes a speech. Wrangled taut, in spite of the slips that betray his feeling, by a determined young man who has given his word and plans to stick to it. And it is a speech. Planned, considered. Words delivered like he's not only mulled on them but put them in order, chosen which best fit. Like these sentiments have been with him for longer than just the last hour, even if he's only just now needed to give them shape.
By the time he's finished, it's Stephen's expression that's faltering. Brows furrowed just a little, jaw loose. He hadn't prepared himself for it... people are rarely so straightforward with him, vulnerability doesn't come your way often when your personality is hostile architecture. He's not sure when he built Quentin a space comfortable enough to sit, let alone stay a while, let alone begin to feel at home.
So Quentin tells him. Clearly and directly, with only trembling lips and twisting hands to threaten his throughline. His resolve never falters.
You're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong, I'm not gonna be okay.
He's already shot down one bid for him to spare his own life today. Takeshi had made that one easy, made it combat, made it here is what you're doing to yourself and let him choose not to hear the here is what you're doing to me. This, though. This would be harder. And he would find a way to turn it into anger, find fury in the weapon made of his own helpless heart, anything to push past, push through, do what needs to be done... except that isn't Quentin's aim.
I trust you, he'd opened with. Now, do it right.
A short, involuntary draw of breath, cut off in his throat, staccato. He's not sure if his own eyes are wet from what he's just heard or from the way he's barely blinking, transfixed— blinks now that he's noticed, once-twice, one-two-three times, drawing himself out of it. He lets the rest of that breath pull in slow, leave him slow. Finally, a nod of his head. ]
[ He nods. Doesn't grab ahold of Stephen, doesn't leave to run the conflict out of his head, doesn't plead for anything. Quentin nods, exhales hard, and taps the bar to ask for a refill. ]
Yeah. Yeah, anything. [ For you. ] I'll do what I can for Kovacs. What else do you need?
[ What else can Quentin do for him between now and what's next that he hasn't just done? The brief cast of Quentin's attention barward gives Stephen a second to compose himself, blow his own quick breath and all its captured feeling out through pursed lips. His own empty cup when he raises it to his mouth is full again - nervous need, where he might otherwise respect the establishment's capacity to do what they visit it for. ]
Just try to be as well as you are now when I see you next. [ As well as you are now. He's not going to start asking for miracles. Or imagining Quentin's well just because the face he's wearing is brave. And, as a dark little lightener of the mood - ] The way we left it, you're going to need more luck than I am.
[ Are jokes appropriate? Is this specific joke at Takeshi Kovacs' expense appropriate? The answer is no, and even less so than he's currently aware, but he can worry about the hit to his karma some other time. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I'll reach out when it's over. If I don't, you'll know
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knowing you're not alone
When are you doing this
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I'm sorry
As soon as I can get my hands on the thing. It's still with Gala for now
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the tavern, 20min?
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→ in person
[ Businesslike, Quentin tucks his chin and stretches his fingers before opening: ] Stephen. I trust you. I'm not gonna fight you on this. I'm not gonna...mope. But--in case.
I know I'm not gifted like you. But you taught me anyway. I know I'm not...smart. Or easy all the time. Or wise, or... [ His mouth shakes, and he presses his lips tight to shake the feeling away. He plods on. ] You're one of the only people here that's been--honest with me. Really honest, good and bad and ugly. You don't--quit when things go wrong. You don't coddle me. You don't torture me. You treat me like what I think matters.
[ Another wave of feeling twists from the cleft up his lip and up into his nose, and his hand knot together involuntarily, nail tip of one thumb digging against the nail bed of the other. He has to clear his throat, and it still comes out froggy: ]
I don't think of you--like that. But--but you're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong. [ Fuck, fucking christ. A steeling sniff, and he turns his wet, determined gaze on Stephen wholly. ] I'm not gonna be okay. Alright? So--so do it right.
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Oh.
He isn't expecting it. Something, maybe. Something, surely. But the first drink buys time. He watches Quentin work through it in sideways glances, in peeks over the rim of his own drink, watches him use the time and the liquid courage to wipe the worry from his face - and it lulls Stephen into a false sense of ease. Like they'll make it through this without him needing to hear a single reminder that Quentin's called him here because he's scared he's going to die. That this might be it.
And then, off the back of an on-ramp of steeling gestures that have him smirking fondly until they don't— there comes a speech. Wrangled taut, in spite of the slips that betray his feeling, by a determined young man who has given his word and plans to stick to it. And it is a speech. Planned, considered. Words delivered like he's not only mulled on them but put them in order, chosen which best fit. Like these sentiments have been with him for longer than just the last hour, even if he's only just now needed to give them shape.
By the time he's finished, it's Stephen's expression that's faltering. Brows furrowed just a little, jaw loose. He hadn't prepared himself for it... people are rarely so straightforward with him, vulnerability doesn't come your way often when your personality is hostile architecture. He's not sure when he built Quentin a space comfortable enough to sit, let alone stay a while, let alone begin to feel at home.
So Quentin tells him. Clearly and directly, with only trembling lips and twisting hands to threaten his throughline. His resolve never falters.
You're the closest thing I've had to a dad for years. If things go wrong, I'm not gonna be okay.
He's already shot down one bid for him to spare his own life today. Takeshi had made that one easy, made it combat, made it here is what you're doing to yourself and let him choose not to hear the here is what you're doing to me. This, though. This would be harder. And he would find a way to turn it into anger, find fury in the weapon made of his own helpless heart, anything to push past, push through, do what needs to be done... except that isn't Quentin's aim.
I trust you, he'd opened with. Now, do it right.
A short, involuntary draw of breath, cut off in his throat, staccato. He's not sure if his own eyes are wet from what he's just heard or from the way he's barely blinking, transfixed— blinks now that he's noticed, once-twice, one-two-three times, drawing himself out of it. He lets the rest of that breath pull in slow, leave him slow. Finally, a nod of his head. ]
Yeah. [ Yeah. ] Yeah, okay.
[ Okay. ]
... Thank you, Quentin.
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Yeah. Yeah, anything. [ For you. ] I'll do what I can for Kovacs. What else do you need?
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[ What else can Quentin do for him between now and what's next that he hasn't just done? The brief cast of Quentin's attention barward gives Stephen a second to compose himself, blow his own quick breath and all its captured feeling out through pursed lips. His own empty cup when he raises it to his mouth is full again - nervous need, where he might otherwise respect the establishment's capacity to do what they visit it for. ]
Just try to be as well as you are now when I see you next. [ As well as you are now. He's not going to start asking for miracles. Or imagining Quentin's well just because the face he's wearing is brave. And, as a dark little lightener of the mood - ] The way we left it, you're going to need more luck than I am.
[ Are jokes appropriate? Is this specific joke at Takeshi Kovacs' expense appropriate? The answer is no, and even less so than he's currently aware, but he can worry about the hit to his karma some other time. ]