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Fuck.
[ like, in general. fuck this taste, fuck this prank, fuck you amos, and fuck you alex!!!!! fuck....his life. that bulb is getting slammed back on the table and he is fumbling for whatever leftover coffee he had in a sad attempt to save himself. ]
Tell him he's fired. [ wait, also, ] And so are you.
[ this might be more convincing if he weren't guzzling that coffee and coughing, GOD HE HATES YOU. ]
[ like, in general. fuck this taste, fuck this prank, fuck you amos, and fuck you alex!!!!! fuck....his life. that bulb is getting slammed back on the table and he is fumbling for whatever leftover coffee he had in a sad attempt to save himself. ]
Tell him he's fired. [ wait, also, ] And so are you.
[ this might be more convincing if he weren't guzzling that coffee and coughing, GOD HE HATES YOU. ]
[Amos laughs, but doesn't put him in a headlock, because he's being respectful.]
Just keeping you grounded. C'mon, have some more. [But he tosses Holden a bulb of espresso, not more mystery substance.]
Just keeping you grounded. C'mon, have some more. [But he tosses Holden a bulb of espresso, not more mystery substance.]
Gideon shakes his head, an inscrutable, closed-mouth smile hitting his mouth.
He taps out a response before he grabs the whitener. The voice that comes from the hand terminal is emotionless, slightly accented, and nothing like what Gideon once sounded like. "Two thins out the coffee too much."
He taps out a response before he grabs the whitener. The voice that comes from the hand terminal is emotionless, slightly accented, and nothing like what Gideon once sounded like. "Two thins out the coffee too much."
Gideon's voice (as Amos thinks of it) is both easier and harder for Amos to deal with. On the one hand, being emotionless, it's comfortable. On the other hand, it means Amos has to pay extra attention to Gideon's expression.
But without that extra scrutiny, he's not sure he would have noticed how guarded some of Gideon's expressions are.
"Alex takes his with three. Think he'll start pouring cereal in it next." Amos picks up some extra parts, fixes them in place, pokes and prods, before, "shit, they got cereal on Mars?"
But without that extra scrutiny, he's not sure he would have noticed how guarded some of Gideon's expressions are.
"Alex takes his with three. Think he'll start pouring cereal in it next." Amos picks up some extra parts, fixes them in place, pokes and prods, before, "shit, they got cereal on Mars?"
"Gotta make good little Martians," Amos says. His tone is neither his approximation of amiable nor sarcastic. Another risk with Gideon: letting his voice drop into the emotionlessness of the machine.
"There's cereal on Earth, but I never had any. Space food's better. Holden'd disagree." But they're from very different parts of Earth, not that it's something Amos ever harps on.
"There's cereal on Earth, but I never had any. Space food's better. Holden'd disagree." But they're from very different parts of Earth, not that it's something Amos ever harps on.
He takes a seat near the coffee, watching Amos work with mild interest. There've been days when they've simply sat near each other, Amos working and Gideon reading, letting Amos' tools speak for both of them. Today, he seems more conversational, and Gideon's willing to answer in kind.
"I'll take your word for it." He's never had Earth food and doubts, at this point, he ever will. "The coffee, at least, seems very much the same to me, between Mars and space."
Never mind that he can only taste it when he swallows.
"I'll take your word for it." He's never had Earth food and doubts, at this point, he ever will. "The coffee, at least, seems very much the same to me, between Mars and space."
Never mind that he can only taste it when he swallows.
Amos doesn't comment on the tongue thing. It seems lewd, in a way he can't quite explain, even to himself. Luckily, it doesn't matter.
"We're on a Martian ship, teach," is what he does say. He fits another drill-head onto the spanner he's using, and lets it heat slowly, holding it under his bulb of coffee. "Pretty close to being in your element."
"We're on a Martian ship, teach," is what he does say. He fits another drill-head onto the spanner he's using, and lets it heat slowly, holding it under his bulb of coffee. "Pretty close to being in your element."
For Amos, Gideon suspects he'd answer questions about his tongue. It's a matter of hiding in plain sight: if he explains the things that don't matter, the pieces that do are more thoroughly concealed. That he doesn't is just as well, though--Amos doesn't tend to question when it doesn't seem to matter, at least not aloud. Sometimes there's something written in his brow, something that doesn't quite hit the point of speech.
(If there's a part of him that would rather speak honestly and openly--at least on some matters, to some people--he knows more than to let it rule him.)
"I'd think the coffee has been replaced in the meantime," Gideon points out, his expression reasonably light. "And these ships were never my element."
(If there's a part of him that would rather speak honestly and openly--at least on some matters, to some people--he knows more than to let it rule him.)
"I'd think the coffee has been replaced in the meantime," Gideon points out, his expression reasonably light. "And these ships were never my element."
The thing is, it's obvious. The shit that doesn't matter, how do you taste, what is it like, you can find out on the net in ten seconds if you aren't creative enough to think of it. Or maybe Amos just grew up with enough people who were missing parts of themselves to know the mechanical aspects don't matter, aren't interesting, aren't his business.
The only thing Amos would want to know is why, so he knows who to kill if they ever show up. And he hasn't figured out how to broach that yet. He might never. Somebody'll probably die first.
Gideon reminds Amos a little of a cartoon turtle (he's never seen the real kind), slow-moving and well-protected. Anything worth doing takes time.
"Oh, you never pretended to be a gunnery sergeant?" Amos chuckles amiably. "The serials fuckin' lied."
The only thing Amos would want to know is why, so he knows who to kill if they ever show up. And he hasn't figured out how to broach that yet. He might never. Somebody'll probably die first.
Gideon reminds Amos a little of a cartoon turtle (he's never seen the real kind), slow-moving and well-protected. Anything worth doing takes time.
"Oh, you never pretended to be a gunnery sergeant?" Amos chuckles amiably. "The serials fuckin' lied."
Gideon raises his brows, mouth curving around the lip of his bulb of coffee. It hangs there before him when he lets go of it to type his response. "I did nothing of any real interest in the MMC, I'm sure."
It's one of those moments when the sound of the app's voice lacks anything close to a suitable tone; the dark irony of it only lives in Gideon's eyes and the angle of his mouth. There's no value in dredging up the past in any real detail, only in acknowledging that it could be done and won't be.
A pause, and he adds, "This isn't my first experience off-planet, but it's shaping up to be my longest."
It's one of those moments when the sound of the app's voice lacks anything close to a suitable tone; the dark irony of it only lives in Gideon's eyes and the angle of his mouth. There's no value in dredging up the past in any real detail, only in acknowledging that it could be done and won't be.
A pause, and he adds, "This isn't my first experience off-planet, but it's shaping up to be my longest."
Amos laughs anyway, because he gets it. Paying special attention to Gideon's face pays off. The smile is worth it. Amos smiles back, pulls out some laughter, to let Gideon know it's appreciated.
He sips his coffee to cool off it, letting the smile fade in his best approximation of 'naturally'.
"D'you miss it?" Some guys get stir crazy on ships. It's worth looking out for.
He sips his coffee to cool off it, letting the smile fade in his best approximation of 'naturally'.
"D'you miss it?" Some guys get stir crazy on ships. It's worth looking out for.
"Really?" That's an interesting answer. And obviously a lie. "I guess so. Seems like a small perk."
Which is just honesty. If he wanted to edge Gideon out of his bullshit, he'd do it.
He sets the coffee aside-- it floats in the air-- before leaning back and drilling a new cord onto the auxiliary base. It takes about fifteen minutes to get it up to standard. Then he sits up, and begins the process of changing the drill-head again, after wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're lucky I don't give a shit when you lie, Teach."
Which is just honesty. If he wanted to edge Gideon out of his bullshit, he'd do it.
He sets the coffee aside-- it floats in the air-- before leaning back and drilling a new cord onto the auxiliary base. It takes about fifteen minutes to get it up to standard. Then he sits up, and begins the process of changing the drill-head again, after wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're lucky I don't give a shit when you lie, Teach."
While Amos works, Gideon reads, jotting notes into the file with a stylus. It's a familiar routine, at this point: they don't spend every day, or even most days, like this, but there have been enough that the sound of drills and ratchets has become an oddly pleasant overture to study by.
He's absorbed in picking apart an argument by way of marginalia when Amos next speaks. Brow rising, he glances up. "Have I lied to you?"
Undoubtedly, yes. Many times. In this conversation, too, he'll own--but he wants Amos' answer.
He's absorbed in picking apart an argument by way of marginalia when Amos next speaks. Brow rising, he glances up. "Have I lied to you?"
Undoubtedly, yes. Many times. In this conversation, too, he'll own--but he wants Amos' answer.
Amos lets the drill rehead his coffee once more. He stares at that, not at Gideon's face, which is... not a good mood. But some instinct tells him not to look at Gideon's face, so he doesn't.
"Never about anything important," he says flatly, "so I don't really give a shit. But that stars thing was bull."
"Never about anything important," he says flatly, "so I don't really give a shit. But that stars thing was bull."
"Consider the stars," Gideon responds, after a thoughtful moment. It's an old line, one he doesn't think he's recited for Amos before. Typing it out lacks the comfort of forming the words himself, but they still ring true--at least to him. "Among them are no passions, no wars. They know neither love nor hatred. Did man but emulate the stars, would not his soul become clear and radiant, as they are? But man's spirit draws him like a moth to the ephemera of this world, and in their heat he is consumed entire."
A pause, as he takes another sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "They're a reminder. And a promise."
A pause, as he takes another sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "They're a reminder. And a promise."
Amos frowns at that, like being asked to swallow a bad pill. He remembers something Alex said, once.
"Ain't all it's cracked up to be."
"Ain't all it's cracked up to be."
"The 'no passions' shit." He says with a rolling shrug, one shoulder and a wince.
"Why do you think so?" It's a question that benefit's from the machine's speech, though it wouldn't sound terribly different coming from Gideon's own mouth. There's neither rancor nor defensiveness in his face, only curiosity. Discussing philosophy with Amos is never dull.
Amos shrugs dispassionately. This is easier to say to Gideon than Alex, and it was easy to say to Alex. "Haven't felt fear since I was five. Haven't felt anything."
Gideon gives that the consideration it's due, his dark eyes on Amos all the while. Amos would not be the first man to play-act emotions--but if he does, he's quite skilled. A given, if he's been doing it for decades. And yet--
"Do you miss it?" he types out. The obvious answer might be no: without emotion, what could one feel of longing? But the definitions of mental states aren't hard-edged, and Gideon doesn't know Amos' personal lexicon intimately enough to guess where the boundaries of thought and feeling lie.
"Do you miss it?" he types out. The obvious answer might be no: without emotion, what could one feel of longing? But the definitions of mental states aren't hard-edged, and Gideon doesn't know Amos' personal lexicon intimately enough to guess where the boundaries of thought and feeling lie.
Amos takes his bulb of coffee from the air before him, taking a sip. "Don't remember it."
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