She's not surprised to find that he's already there. "Good morning," she
greets, with a small nod and a smile that she finds difficult to school
into a more neutral expression, and she opens the door for them both. "Have
you been to the wardrobe before?" She's guessing not.
"Oh, yes," he says with a nod, totally unaware of her assumption. "My very first week, as a matter of fact." He glances around as he steps inside, with a twinge of... not nostalgia, really, but something not entirely unlike it. That had been just two months ago, but in a lot of ways, it feels like much longer.
"Armitage Hux gave me a pair of boots," he remembers, his mouth quirking. "I didn't entirely understand that we were allowed, at first; I worried we were somehow shoplifting. I thought about asking his advice on this, but his style is rather... severe." He might not be sure what he does want, he thinks, with a flutter of that strange anxious feeling -- but he knows he doesn't want that.
"Oh, no," she agrees, shaking her head. "You don't want to ask him for
fashion advice. Though I imagine the boots were at least practical."
She steps in a little further, and pauses to look over at him with a long
glance that sweeps from head to toe and back, to get a better idea of what
sizes she should be looking for. The wardrobe itself is at least organized
moderately well, even if the contents themselves are a mish-mosh of
fashions from myriad port worlds and gifts from departed passengers. She
stops in front of a rack of suit jackets and starts sifting through them.
"I thought it felt like shoplifting, too, when I first got here," she says,
and glances up with a little smirk. "But that was why I liked it."
He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, even if it's not the way she might have looked him over before they were paired -- though he does shoot her a wry look at that last part. "And now, Caitlin?"
He knows he should be looking, too, so he starts rifling through another rack. It's a little like trying to read when overtired, though: it all sort of muddles together, nothing standing out in any way that particularly registers.
"Well, now I know it's not," she points out. "That compromises the test
results, doesn't it?" She pulls a jacket from the rack that's deep navy
blue, so dark it's almost black, and holds it up to him to gauge the fit,
hanger and all, then hands it to him. "See how that feels."
But without a word or a flinch, he takes it from her and puts it on, looks in the mirror, and likes it even less. He glances at her questioningly, not saying a word.
"... Oh." She takes that in and lets it sit for a moment, and then nods, as
it all clicks into place. "One of the first things I did when I got here
was trade in about half of the clothes I came here with for things that
were ... edgier. We're talking studded leather, vinyl pants, a bustier ..."
She shakes her head, somehow amused at how extreme she'd gone with her
choices. "Granted, I was still strictly Killer Frost at the time, so I felt
like I needed that to show on the outside, too -- even more than it already
does. It was so far in the opposite direction of how I'd been
dressing, back home, because that said something, even when no one here
knew who I was before I arrived."
And that's just a simple story. Nothing to do with finding him something
to wear.
His eyebrows just about go up into his hairline when she mentions the vinyl pants and bustier -- not because he judges, but because it's hard to imagine her in those things -- but he says absolutely nothing.
It's also hard to connect her words to himself at first, actually, and it's not like he doesn't know that's what she's doing. But even if he has been finding some solace in splitting his own mind, he hasn't done anything so extreme. Although-- Although it is true that the division in his mind runs more along the lines of Ben and Constable Fraser, and if that's the case, he supposes there is one side being presented a lot more than the other. And not necessarily the one he wants people to see more of, at that.
"I see," he says with a thoughtful frown, clasping his hands behind his back. "I think I take your meaning. But..." He glances around the closet again, his gaze alighting on a hat very much like the Stetson. "I'm not on duty. I'm not a Mountie right now. I don't..." This is starting to get vulnerable enough that he hesitates to share it with her, but deciding that train has already left the station, he sighs and admits: "I don't see how I could be, as an inmate."
" 'Inmate' doesn't mean the same thing here," she offers, just to get that
out of the way. "The connotation is slightly different from what we're used
to, working with or for law enforcement. It doesn't mean you're a
criminal." She pauses in her search through the racks; somehow everything
is either far too mundane or far too outlandish. Is this where the
Admiral's Russian court regalia all wound up? "But I think you're right in
saying that you're not on duty. You aren't required to do anything to
uphold the law -- especially since there aren't any laws here -- but not
being required to do something doesn't mean that you just refuse to do it,
right?"
"But I am a criminal," he says softly, morosely, but without hesitation. "Just because I was brought here before I could be arrested for my crimes -- or rather, I was arrested for crimes I didn't commit, but not the ones I did -- doesn't mean I'm not one."
So maybe he should learn to love this blue jacket. Or figure out who the hell he is without the RCMP. It's a daunting prospect. A terrifying one, really. "Although," he hedges, "you're right that I don't intend to continue breaking the law."
"Then you're already a step ahead of -- well, most inmates, probably," she
laughs. Herself included, when she had been one, but she knows that
this isn't about her, and that just telling stories of things that seem
relevant isn't going to actually push him to make more progress. She's
going to have to listen.
And that includes trying to read between the lines. "That jacket isn't
working for you," she says. "I thought it might, but it's all wrong. You
need something a little more ..." With a grin and a flourish, she pulls a
garishly sequined jacket off the wall, one that gleams silver and gold when
it catches the light.
It doesn't suit him at all and she knows it, but she still grins up
at him as though it's a very serious, very real suggestion that she's
terribly proud of.
"I know." She lets her smile broaden only when his does, and allows herself
to let out a laugh. Relief looks good on him. She drapes the sequined thing
over one arm, though, keeping it in the running only so that they can come
back to it as a reminder. "So what don't you like about the blue one? Is it
the color, the cut? Or just that it's unfamiliar?"
"I didn't say I don't like it," he insists without batting an eye. He still hasn't said anything about it, in fact, although he's also relieved to find she doesn't like it, either.
Anyway, he'd thought her dislike of it meant he didn't have to keep thinking about it; and his thoughts are now elsewhere. "What did you mean when you said not being required to do something doesn't mean I refuse to do it? I mean, of course not, but how does that apply to my status here?"
She gives him a look that says she doesn't believe him, but it passes
quickly, into the next thought. "Just that things aren't so binary," she
explains. "You're not on duty, but that doesn't mean you're not a Mountie,
does it?" She starts pulling some different suits from the racks: warm
grays and rich browns, one in a deep maroon with subtle black patterning.
"No," he says easily enough, but there's a troubled undercurrent beneath it. He licks his lips uncertainly and frowns, staring at that dark, dark red draped over her arm.
He has to be careful here, he thinks, even if he can't precisely articulate why, save that these are thoughts he hasn't even given voice to in his dreams. It's really not that he doesn't trust Caitlin; God knows he's grateful she hasn't brought up a single thing they'd done or seen together in the flood, however much she might have wanted to.
But that hadn't been in his control, and this is. Maybe that's what makes up the difference. He can control what he tells her here, and that means he has to consider its potential impact on her, on how she sees him. Is this something he wants her to know about him? That he has these doubts?
He stays quiet for a long, long moment, weighing all this up -- but then he says, softly: "Not as long as they'll have me." Because he is a criminal now. Will still be one when he returns to the world.
She lets him think, pretending to look through dress shirts while giving
him the space to sort out the rest of his answer. It's brief, when it
comes, but complicated; she can feel that there's a kind of weight dragging
at those soft words.
In the spirit of honesty, after a pause, he adds: "I think there was a brief period when I was about eight when I wanted to be an astronaut. That was the year you landed on the moon."
She laughs softly; at least he's willing to give her what's probably the
full truth, even though she already told him she only expects relevant
information or outright omissions.
She's never doubted her own course, either, only to find that not only is
she not anywhere near the infirmary on this boat, she also doesn't
want to be, not on a regular basis. She's something different now.
Something new. She started listening to the part of her that wanted a
different kind of excitement, and wanted to try new things, but at the end
of the day, she's still a doctor -- still a healer.
"I think ... there are some parts of ourselves that are always going to be
with us," she says slowly, carefully, like she's picking out each word on
purpose. "No matter what we do, or how we split ourselves up. I was always
asking questions. For you, it'll be something else. But you're going to
have to figure out what it is that both parts of you have in common."
It's the only thing she'll say about what she learned in the flood.
She hands over the stack of clothing that she's been collecting as they've
been talking: warm tones, with classic styles that seem like they're pulled
from a hodgepodge of different eras, but do at least seem to be limited to
Earth. "Try these," she suggests.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: [text, backdated to the day before the wedding]
Then it sounds like we'll have to find you something to wear. Would you be available to meet me at the wardrobe in about fifteen minutes?
-> [spam]
Of course he's there in exactly fifteen minutes -- though he feels oddly, unaccountably nervous, for reasons he can't quite pin down.
Re: -> [spam]
She's not surprised to find that he's already there. "Good morning," she greets, with a small nod and a smile that she finds difficult to school into a more neutral expression, and she opens the door for them both. "Have you been to the wardrobe before?" She's guessing not.
no subject
"Armitage Hux gave me a pair of boots," he remembers, his mouth quirking. "I didn't entirely understand that we were allowed, at first; I worried we were somehow shoplifting. I thought about asking his advice on this, but his style is rather... severe." He might not be sure what he does want, he thinks, with a flutter of that strange anxious feeling -- but he knows he doesn't want that.
no subject
"Oh, no," she agrees, shaking her head. "You don't want to ask him for fashion advice. Though I imagine the boots were at least practical."
She steps in a little further, and pauses to look over at him with a long glance that sweeps from head to toe and back, to get a better idea of what sizes she should be looking for. The wardrobe itself is at least organized moderately well, even if the contents themselves are a mish-mosh of fashions from myriad port worlds and gifts from departed passengers. She stops in front of a rack of suit jackets and starts sifting through them. "I thought it felt like shoplifting, too, when I first got here," she says, and glances up with a little smirk. "But that was why I liked it."
no subject
He knows he should be looking, too, so he starts rifling through another rack. It's a little like trying to read when overtired, though: it all sort of muddles together, nothing standing out in any way that particularly registers.
no subject
"Well, now I know it's not," she points out. "That compromises the test results, doesn't it?" She pulls a jacket from the rack that's deep navy blue, so dark it's almost black, and holds it up to him to gauge the fit, hanger and all, then hands it to him. "See how that feels."
no subject
He knows, instantly, that he doesn't like it.
But without a word or a flinch, he takes it from her and puts it on, looks in the mirror, and likes it even less. He glances at her questioningly, not saying a word.
no subject
She looks at his impassive reflection in the mirror, then back to him.
It'll look better with the whole suit, Snow insists.
Take it off, Frost chants, with a smirk.
"Why don't we see what else is around here?" Caitlin suggests. "What do you usually wear to events that don't call for the uniform?"
no subject
You see his dilemma, Caitlin?
no subject
"... Oh." She takes that in and lets it sit for a moment, and then nods, as it all clicks into place. "One of the first things I did when I got here was trade in about half of the clothes I came here with for things that were ... edgier. We're talking studded leather, vinyl pants, a bustier ..." She shakes her head, somehow amused at how extreme she'd gone with her choices. "Granted, I was still strictly Killer Frost at the time, so I felt like I needed that to show on the outside, too -- even more than it already does. It was so far in the opposite direction of how I'd been dressing, back home, because that said something, even when no one here knew who I was before I arrived."
And that's just a simple story. Nothing to do with finding him something to wear.
no subject
It's also hard to connect her words to himself at first, actually, and it's not like he doesn't know that's what she's doing. But even if he has been finding some solace in splitting his own mind, he hasn't done anything so extreme. Although-- Although it is true that the division in his mind runs more along the lines of Ben and Constable Fraser, and if that's the case, he supposes there is one side being presented a lot more than the other. And not necessarily the one he wants people to see more of, at that.
"I see," he says with a thoughtful frown, clasping his hands behind his back. "I think I take your meaning. But..." He glances around the closet again, his gaze alighting on a hat very much like the Stetson. "I'm not on duty. I'm not a Mountie right now. I don't..." This is starting to get vulnerable enough that he hesitates to share it with her, but deciding that train has already left the station, he sighs and admits: "I don't see how I could be, as an inmate."
no subject
" 'Inmate' doesn't mean the same thing here," she offers, just to get that out of the way. "The connotation is slightly different from what we're used to, working with or for law enforcement. It doesn't mean you're a criminal." She pauses in her search through the racks; somehow everything is either far too mundane or far too outlandish. Is this where the Admiral's Russian court regalia all wound up? "But I think you're right in saying that you're not on duty. You aren't required to do anything to uphold the law -- especially since there aren't any laws here -- but not being required to do something doesn't mean that you just refuse to do it, right?"
no subject
So maybe he should learn to love this blue jacket. Or figure out who the hell he is without the RCMP. It's a daunting prospect. A terrifying one, really. "Although," he hedges, "you're right that I don't intend to continue breaking the law."
no subject
"Then you're already a step ahead of -- well, most inmates, probably," she laughs. Herself included, when she had been one, but she knows that this isn't about her, and that just telling stories of things that seem relevant isn't going to actually push him to make more progress. She's going to have to listen.
And that includes trying to read between the lines. "That jacket isn't working for you," she says. "I thought it might, but it's all wrong. You need something a little more ..." With a grin and a flourish, she pulls a garishly sequined jacket off the wall, one that gleams silver and gold when it catches the light.
It doesn't suit him at all and she knows it, but she still grins up at him as though it's a very serious, very real suggestion that she's terribly proud of.
no subject
Then he looks at her face, catches something tiny in the corner of her eye, and relaxes, relents, going so far as to grin with relief. "Very funny."
no subject
"I know." She lets her smile broaden only when his does, and allows herself to let out a laugh. Relief looks good on him. She drapes the sequined thing over one arm, though, keeping it in the running only so that they can come back to it as a reminder. "So what don't you like about the blue one? Is it the color, the cut? Or just that it's unfamiliar?"
no subject
Anyway, he'd thought her dislike of it meant he didn't have to keep thinking about it; and his thoughts are now elsewhere. "What did you mean when you said not being required to do something doesn't mean I refuse to do it? I mean, of course not, but how does that apply to my status here?"
no subject
She gives him a look that says she doesn't believe him, but it passes quickly, into the next thought. "Just that things aren't so binary," she explains. "You're not on duty, but that doesn't mean you're not a Mountie, does it?" She starts pulling some different suits from the racks: warm grays and rich browns, one in a deep maroon with subtle black patterning.
no subject
He has to be careful here, he thinks, even if he can't precisely articulate why, save that these are thoughts he hasn't even given voice to in his dreams. It's really not that he doesn't trust Caitlin; God knows he's grateful she hasn't brought up a single thing they'd done or seen together in the flood, however much she might have wanted to.
But that hadn't been in his control, and this is. Maybe that's what makes up the difference. He can control what he tells her here, and that means he has to consider its potential impact on her, on how she sees him. Is this something he wants her to know about him? That he has these doubts?
He stays quiet for a long, long moment, weighing all this up -- but then he says, softly: "Not as long as they'll have me." Because he is a criminal now. Will still be one when he returns to the world.
no subject
She lets him think, pretending to look through dress shirts while giving him the space to sort out the rest of his answer. It's brief, when it comes, but complicated; she can feel that there's a kind of weight dragging at those soft words.
"And if they won't?"
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"I don't know."
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She shifts the weight of the clothes on her arm, but keeps her hands to herself.
"You've never wanted to be anything else, have you?"
no subject
In the spirit of honesty, after a pause, he adds: "I think there was a brief period when I was about eight when I wanted to be an astronaut. That was the year you landed on the moon."
no subject
She laughs softly; at least he's willing to give her what's probably the full truth, even though she already told him she only expects relevant information or outright omissions.
She's never doubted her own course, either, only to find that not only is she not anywhere near the infirmary on this boat, she also doesn't want to be, not on a regular basis. She's something different now. Something new. She started listening to the part of her that wanted a different kind of excitement, and wanted to try new things, but at the end of the day, she's still a doctor -- still a healer.
"I think ... there are some parts of ourselves that are always going to be with us," she says slowly, carefully, like she's picking out each word on purpose. "No matter what we do, or how we split ourselves up. I was always asking questions. For you, it'll be something else. But you're going to have to figure out what it is that both parts of you have in common."
It's the only thing she'll say about what she learned in the flood.
She hands over the stack of clothing that she's been collecting as they've been talking: warm tones, with classic styles that seem like they're pulled from a hodgepodge of different eras, but do at least seem to be limited to Earth. "Try these," she suggests.
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