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."
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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
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."
"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."
"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.
"Look, Teach," Amos says, staring out into the middle distance. His tone is impassive, bordering on friendly. Detatched. "I can think of a few reasons not to kill you right now. The crew'd get upset. We'd lose out on a contract. Bad for morale. Make me look untrustworthy."
He looks up at Gideon, an amiable smile on his face, meant to comfort. He doesn't know why it comforts, or why, at times, it seems to discomfort, but it's often the most solid choice in his arsenal.
"Without feeling. Yes, I know." Gideon's expression is level, however discomfiting Amos' smile is. Because he claims there's nothing behind it. How unutterably sad--and if anyone knows unutterable, it's Gideon--and yet understandable. He has lived in times and places when he closed his heart to others' suffering. He still could, should it be necessary.
"I have known other men to conduct their lives without feeling. They were--" There is a pause, but a thoughtful, expectant look on Gideon's face, looking for the kindest way to say it. "Less concerned for the harm they caused others."
Concerned. It's difficult to speak of without falling into the language of emotion.
"Yeah," Amos says, placidly cheerful. "Met those assholes. Difference between them and me... I dunno." Another sip. "Could become one real easy. Hopefully somebody'll take my ass out before that."
Gideon can think of some possibilities, the differences between them, but they're neither here nor there for the moment. He's a philosopher, not a psychotherapist--his opinion here would be grounded in opinion and a great fondness for Amos, one he knows is not unbiased. So he lets the subject go, the quiet settling between them again.
After a few minutes, though, after getting a second bulbful of coffee (and one more packet of whitener), he asks, "What would it look like if you 'gave a shit' when I lied?"
Amos drilled more in the meanwhile, rewired some external drivers, and is affixing selecting a new wrench for the next stage in his project. "You don't lie about shit that matters," he says, "if you did... then we'd talk."
"I might," he responds, his expression light but--admittedly--probing. This is a matter of some curiosity, worth investigating further; he's seen how well Amos reads people. "Perhaps I am a better liar than you give me credit for."
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(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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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"The stars are visible here," he types, after a long pause. "There is little else worth wanting."
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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."
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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.
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"Never about anything important," he says flatly, "so I don't really give a shit. But that stars thing was bull."
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A pause, as he takes another sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "They're a reminder. And a promise."
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"Ain't all it's cracked up to be."
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"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.
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He looks up at Gideon, an amiable smile on his face, meant to comfort. He doesn't know why it comforts, or why, at times, it seems to discomfort, but it's often the most solid choice in his arsenal.
"But those are all reasons, you know?"
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"I have known other men to conduct their lives without feeling. They were--" There is a pause, but a thoughtful, expectant look on Gideon's face, looking for the kindest way to say it. "Less concerned for the harm they caused others."
Concerned. It's difficult to speak of without falling into the language of emotion.
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After a few minutes, though, after getting a second bulbful of coffee (and one more packet of whitener), he asks, "What would it look like if you 'gave a shit' when I lied?"
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"You might," he allows, "but most people don't say 'perhaps' about shit they're trying to get away with."