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.
He shudders again and shakes his head, rubbing his eyebrow as he actually goes and takes a step back. She's hit his limit -- not by mentioning the dream, but by saying it'll be something else. That presupposes that there might really be a day he won't be a Mountie at all, and if he's just about ready to admit to that fear, he's far from ready to entertain the possibility of it coming true in any real sense.
"No-- no, you know what?" he says in a tight, anxious voice. "You were right. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm on duty, in the end. After all, as I mentioned, I often wore the uniform to events even when they were outside the strict confines of my jurisdiction."
Of course, that isn't what she means, but she has no way of knowing that
he's misunderstood.
She has no way of knowing what she said to provoke this kind of reaction at
all, really, and she frowns down at the selection in her arms. There's
nothing in the pile that's so offensive that it's worth rejecting the whole
premise -- not even the sequined blazer -- so there must have been some
kind of strange logical leap in his mind.
Frost wants to shake him until he tells her what that leap is, what
she said, how he got from 'try these' to 'abort mission,' and her hair
flares white with the adrenaline spike that comes with her brief surge of
anger -- but it lasts just a wordless moment, cut off by Caitlin's own
logic. Anger and blame don't solve anything. It's not being a good warden
or a good friend.
"It is still an option," she agrees slowly. "And like I said, it does look
good on you."
Like it was made for him, which is probably part of the problem.
He gives a quick, stiff little nod. "Thank you. I like the way it looks, too."
But he saw that flash of white, picks up on her frustration, even if he misunderstands the reason for it just as badly. "I'm sorry to make you go to all the trouble," he says, holding out a hand to take the clothes from her. "I can hang them back up."
He's rather loathe to look through them now -- now that all he can think of them is that they're what he'll wear when he's forced to give up the uniform -- but if wearing the serge to the wedding is the lesser of two evils, so is throwing Caitlin a bone now rather than pick apart the reason he doesn't want to. He rifles through them quickly, taking them in with as brief a glance as possible.
"The, um, the brushed wool in the dark gray is... nice. As is the mahogany three-piece." And then he'll hang them up, along with the rest, in rapid order. But when he gets to the sequins, he does pause, and manages to deadpan: "And this one, of course."
She takes note of both the statements, and the cursory way he looks over
the selections, like he's not really looking at them at all. There's some
reason behind the quick change in his demeanor, and she's determined to get
to the bottom of it -- if not now, then eventually. It would, of course, be
easier if everyone else had the same kind of easy visual indicator of their
emotional state that she does, but they don't, and Fraser's even more
inscrutable than most, as far as she can tell.
"Of course," she echoes, and hangs up the last of the pieces that she'd
held onto, before the sequins catch her eyes. "You know ... you could
always try it on. Just for fun."
Outlandish as it is, it's not at all a threat the way the others are, and the suggestion works perfectly to diffuse some of the tension in him. He holds it out at arm's length and looks it over, chuckling softly. More importantly, relaxing. "I suppose I could," he allows.
In fact, why not? He takes off the leather jacket he has on, hangs it up neatly on the nearest curtain rod, and slips the Liberace cast-off off its hanger and onto his shoulders. "Well? What do you think?" he asks with a grin, holding his arms out to his sides.
It's even worse than she thought, and that's what makes it fantastic. She's
trying to hold her laughter in, but her smile's too wide, too easily split
with the amusement that comes from seeing him in something that seems so
patently ridiculous. "It's terrible," she assures him, still grinning wide.
"I love it. It's ..." She looks him over again, shaking her head. "You have
to keep it."
"To what end?" he asks with a soft, incredulous laugh. It's not like he's ever, ever, ever going to put it on again, and:
"What if someone wants it and comes looking for it?" He's seen the way some people here dress. There's definitely someone on board, or who was on board, or who will be on board, that this jacket was made for. "It would just be sitting in the back of my closet, neglected."
"It doesn't actually belong to anyone to begin with," she points out, but
even saying that, she can concede the point. People might well come looking
for things they'd previously come across.
She lets out a small sigh. "So this probably wasn't that much help. I'm
sorry about that."
"No, it was," he promises as he takes the jacket off and hangs it back up, puts his own back on.
"After all, I asked you for advice on what to wear to the wedding, and now I know what I'll be wearing to the wedding. So, in fact, it was a very effective trip." One in which he tried on one (1) item of clothing, confessed one (1) deep-seated fear, and made no (0) substantive decisions of note. But at least he's coming around to the idea that he can wear his uniform without actively feeling like he doesn't deserve to.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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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."
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"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?"
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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?"
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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.
no subject
"No-- no, you know what?" he says in a tight, anxious voice. "You were right. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm on duty, in the end. After all, as I mentioned, I often wore the uniform to events even when they were outside the strict confines of my jurisdiction."
no subject
Of course, that isn't what she means, but she has no way of knowing that he's misunderstood.
She has no way of knowing what she said to provoke this kind of reaction at all, really, and she frowns down at the selection in her arms. There's nothing in the pile that's so offensive that it's worth rejecting the whole premise -- not even the sequined blazer -- so there must have been some kind of strange logical leap in his mind.
Frost wants to shake him until he tells her what that leap is, what she said, how he got from 'try these' to 'abort mission,' and her hair flares white with the adrenaline spike that comes with her brief surge of anger -- but it lasts just a wordless moment, cut off by Caitlin's own logic. Anger and blame don't solve anything. It's not being a good warden or a good friend.
"It is still an option," she agrees slowly. "And like I said, it does look good on you."
Like it was made for him, which is probably part of the problem.
no subject
But he saw that flash of white, picks up on her frustration, even if he misunderstands the reason for it just as badly. "I'm sorry to make you go to all the trouble," he says, holding out a hand to take the clothes from her. "I can hang them back up."
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She should make him do it, because she's his warden and she's frustrated at him.
But she also shouldn't, because that's what he wants her to do.
Hell, he's probably just as frustrated at himself.
"It's okay," she says, and hands over about half the stack. "But just for future reference ... do you like any of these?"
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"The, um, the brushed wool in the dark gray is... nice. As is the mahogany three-piece." And then he'll hang them up, along with the rest, in rapid order. But when he gets to the sequins, he does pause, and manages to deadpan: "And this one, of course."
no subject
She takes note of both the statements, and the cursory way he looks over the selections, like he's not really looking at them at all. There's some reason behind the quick change in his demeanor, and she's determined to get to the bottom of it -- if not now, then eventually. It would, of course, be easier if everyone else had the same kind of easy visual indicator of their emotional state that she does, but they don't, and Fraser's even more inscrutable than most, as far as she can tell.
"Of course," she echoes, and hangs up the last of the pieces that she'd held onto, before the sequins catch her eyes. "You know ... you could always try it on. Just for fun."
no subject
In fact, why not? He takes off the leather jacket he has on, hangs it up neatly on the nearest curtain rod, and slips the Liberace cast-off off its hanger and onto his shoulders. "Well? What do you think?" he asks with a grin, holding his arms out to his sides.
no subject
It's even worse than she thought, and that's what makes it fantastic. She's trying to hold her laughter in, but her smile's too wide, too easily split with the amusement that comes from seeing him in something that seems so patently ridiculous. "It's terrible," she assures him, still grinning wide. "I love it. It's ..." She looks him over again, shaking her head. "You have to keep it."
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"What if someone wants it and comes looking for it?" He's seen the way some people here dress. There's definitely someone on board, or who was on board, or who will be on board, that this jacket was made for. "It would just be sitting in the back of my closet, neglected."
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"It doesn't actually belong to anyone to begin with," she points out, but even saying that, she can concede the point. People might well come looking for things they'd previously come across.
She lets out a small sigh. "So this probably wasn't that much help. I'm sorry about that."
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"After all, I asked you for advice on what to wear to the wedding, and now I know what I'll be wearing to the wedding. So, in fact, it was a very effective trip." One in which he tried on one (1) item of clothing, confessed one (1) deep-seated fear, and made no (0) substantive decisions of note. But at least he's coming around to the idea that he can wear his uniform without actively feeling like he doesn't deserve to.
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