"Last time I saw you, monsters hadn't just been roaming the hallway," she points out, as she puts her glass down.
"A lot of people died, Ricki. I'm not going to hide the fact that I have a weapon in a situation like that."
And her head is up a notch, which she thinks might be because she lets it go to its natural place. She's no longer as inclined to play the innocent housewife, not after months of being here. She can show some teeth.
Of course she knew all of this, she's read about this, she's read whatever communication they'd left behind- which wasn't a lot. But she manages to look suitably pleased for him, sips her whiskey.
And the nice thing about this story is that all of it, they kept ridiculously private from the network, after Bill Haydon's nasty little visit, so his news is real news.
"You probably know those sorts of inclinations weren't taken lightly."
She looks just as interested as she would have been otherwise, but there's that special thrill that comes from finding information undercover.
"No, I guess they weren't. But now it doesn't matter anymore?" She can't imagine it doesn't matter at all: two men raising a child would be hard to imagine in her own time, in West, and they weren't living there either.
Seeing him tap his glass against his bottom lip somehow makes her
crave a cigarette. So she reaches to the inside of her jacket pocket
and takes out a pack, a lighter, and offers him one.
The joke gets a genuine, surprised laugh out of her. "Aren't you still,
Mister Tarr?"
"I would've let you graduate me in a week," she agrees, looking up at him from over her cigarette, the cherry just lighting her eyes up a little bit more.
She inhales, hands him the lighter, and slowly exhales. Like this she looks like a woman out of a movie, something noir, something mysterious. She knows it, too, but it isn't a hard effect for her to cultivate.
"What do you think is wrong with me, then? An experienced man like you?"
Of course, the phrase makes her blood simmer in her veins. Not that he's saying it because he knows who she is, what she is, but the condescension is just so typical.
"Well, feel free to keep that belief," she invites him, as she crosses her legs and picks her glass back up. It's not more improbable than the cover she's invented here, anyway.
She looks at him for a while, and normally she doesn't respond to these
kinds of challenges-- but there's something about being cooped up here that
just makes her vibrate, want to spill over, every little indignity growing
until she wants to scream.
She doesn't. She puts her glass down, taps some ash off the end of her
cigarette and considers him.
"I regret not reconciling with my partner more than I regret not saying
goodbye to my children, before I came here."
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"Different how?"
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That, he thinks, is what he's responding to.
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"A lot of people died, Ricki. I'm not going to hide the fact that I have a weapon in a situation like that."
And her head is up a notch, which she thinks might be because she lets it go to its natural place. She's no longer as inclined to play the innocent housewife, not after months of being here. She can show some teeth.
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He promises her, very sincerely.
"You're- a contender, suddenly. And now you're footloose and warden-free... going to cause any trouble?"
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Not that she'd mind. He may not be American, but he worked for the Brits. He shares those feelings, she knows.
She shakes her head to that question. "I don't need to cause trouble for trouble's sake. No powder bombs from me."
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He still can't bring himself to regret it.
"I had a lovely time, and it was incredibly romantic."
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Which is a big relief.
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"Did the two of you meet here?"
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And the nice thing about this story is that all of it, they kept ridiculously private from the network, after Bill Haydon's nasty little visit, so his news is real news.
"You probably know those sorts of inclinations weren't taken lightly."
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"No, I guess they weren't. But now it doesn't matter anymore?" She can't imagine it doesn't matter at all: two men raising a child would be hard to imagine in her own time, in West, and they weren't living there either.
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He admits, with a laugh.
"Now that I'm out of the game, everything is easier."
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"Do you miss any of it?"
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He admits, of course, tapping the edge of his glass against his bottom lip, adding;
"The seduction, too. Not the sex, but- I was a charming bastard."
He still is, of course.
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Seeing him tap his glass against his bottom lip somehow makes her crave a cigarette. So she reaches to the inside of her jacket pocket and takes out a pack, a lighter, and offers him one.
The joke gets a genuine, surprised laugh out of her. "Aren't you still, Mister Tarr?"
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"So my luck, I landed an inmate immune to charm."
But it's probably good for him, honestly.
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He has to point out, as he lights his own cigarette.
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"What do you think is wrong with me, then? An experienced man like you?"
Of course, the phrase makes her blood simmer in her veins. Not that he's saying it because he knows who she is, what she is, but the condescension is just so typical.
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He wonders, eyebrows lifting up playfully. He can make a few other guesses. All of them fun, really.
"Rob a lawfirm then run off to a small outskirt motel."
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"Why an ex-husband? Make it my much richer, much older husband, and it was for the inheritance money."
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He agrees, with a sensible nod.
"It's a effective, point a to point b plan, that's all I'm saying."
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Eyebrows lifting, ever so slightly.
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She looks at him for a while, and normally she doesn't respond to these kinds of challenges-- but there's something about being cooped up here that just makes her vibrate, want to spill over, every little indignity growing until she wants to scream.
She doesn't. She puts her glass down, taps some ash off the end of her cigarette and considers him.
"I regret not reconciling with my partner more than I regret not saying goodbye to my children, before I came here."
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