kore_logs | Apologies are difficult...

Entry tags:

Apologies are difficult...

Who: Meyer & Ned
What: Meyer has some apologies to make, given what happened during the week they were all not quite themselves. Apologies, needless to say, are difficult.
When: Forward dated to Day 67
Where: Ned's house.
Warnings: Swearing? Feelings? Definitely awkward apologies.

A very wise -- and very cunning -- man had once told Meyer that knowing when to apologize was more important than being right. It was also more important to apologize at the opportune moment than to simply do as your conscience dictated (if your conscience dictated anything at all.) The apology needed to sound genuine; it had multiple parts, all of which fit together in a specific way: it was a careful balance of humility and grace -- not too subservient, yet not grudging; not overly wordy, but eloquent and to the point.

Yet for everything Arnold Rothstein had taught him about apologies, there was no simple and straightforward phrasing to fall back on when your apology included seeking forgiveness for turning into a vampire and attacking a near stranger. No apology gift seemed to suffice, either. At home he might have offered a bottle of liquor or a wad of cash, but neither of those seemed quite right here.

Lost for a proper script, Meyer felt a little like he had as a child, when he was still learning the complex game of wriggling out of trouble. It was like going in front of an angry tribunal when the victim knew just as well as you did that you were guilty -- except as a child, the tribunal had been his mother, and in this case, the tribunal was Ned.

That was why, as he stood, hat in his hands, in front of Ned's house, he had to take a deep breath. It wasn't guilt that filled him so much as the queasy fear of losing a potential ally, but luckily, that feeling and guilt translated the same on his face: an unsure smile, a furrowed brow, an appropriately contrite expression all around.

He took one more deep breath, and knocked twice on Ned's door.

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"Most of those cliches sound pretty accurate to me," he says, laughing a little. The bootleggers part, especially, hits close to home, but he's not sure how anybody around here would take it if they knew the extent of his involvement in that particular business. From what he's gathered, alcohol is perfectly legal again for the majority of the people here, but that doesn't mean that he wasn't a criminal in his own time. Besides, he doesn't know how drug laws have changed, and bringing up the heroin business seems unwise, too.

"All I know for sure about the future is that you have a second World War. And you have something called cellphones." That's what he's managed to pick up from people so far, mostly because he hasn't been asking many questions, for fear of seeming ignorant. Of course, he couldn't logically be expected to know the future, but as someone who wants to know everything all the time, he doesn't like being at a disadvantage.

Ned realizes somewhere around the moment when Meyer says second World War that, actually, summarizing the events of the last century is hardly the kind of light conversation he was hoping for to distract him from their current situation. But he doesn't want to go back on his offer, just because the majority of human history seems to amount to horror and tragedy. He'll just try to balance it as much as he can with the good things.

So as he starts carefully layering the fruit into the pie crust, he talks. Picks up where he imagines Meyer left off, tells him about the end of Prohibition, about the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. He tells him about Pearl Harbor, WWII, D-Day. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Holocaust. Tells him about Communism and the Cold War, about spies and McCarthy and mutually assured destruction, Vietnam and Korea and puppet dictators across Latin America. Tells him about the collapse of the British Empire and independence movements all around the globe. Tells him about Watergate and the sexual revolution and hippies, the war on poverty, the war on drugs. Tells him about civil rights and women's rights and gay rights, the collapse of the Soviet Union.

At that point, he realizes that he's been talking for a very long time without pause, without even looking up from the pie which is now entirely filled. He glances over at Meyer, realizing he probably should have gone slower, given more context, found more evidence of human decency to mix in with all the rest.

Some of what Ned says makes sense, is the logical extension of things he's already seeing happening in his time: women's rights, civil rights, the end of Prohibition, the economic collapse, all of that has always struck him as something that will happen sooner or later. There are other things, however, that he can't begin to imagine, although he has no reason to believe Ned would lie to him, especially about future historical events (how strange it is, to think in terms like that -- it's history to Ned, but the future to him.)

When Ned finishes speaking, when he looks up from the pie, he'll see Meyer staring at the table, seemingly lost in thought. He's fiddling with a book of matches, clearly wishing he had a cigarette, needing something to do with his nervous energy. Maybe there's something sad on his face, but then, he's always had an unreadable face -- it could just as easily be deep thought, an attempt to process all of the events Ned has explained to him over a relatively brief amount of time.

"I see," he says, and his voice is flat. His brain is stuck somewhere between World War II and the Cold War, trying to unravel what he's just heard. He swallows hard before he speaks again. "And people think the '20s were odd."

"Oh."

Ned can tell he's miscalculated. Meyer might not be saying much or doing much, but there's something in his stillness, his distraction, that bodes ill. In their interactions up to this point he'd been so attentive - polite, but also watchful. Now that focus seems to be turned inward, or elsewhere. The tonelessness of his voice, the fidgeting with his hands: Ned picks up on these cues without quite realizing he's doing it and knows that he's made a mistake.

And he should have known better. These aren't just things out of a book, for Meyer. They are things that might - probably will - happen to people he knows. His family and friends and neighbors. The thought that he might have depressed or perturbed Meyer is a painful one. Ned chews on the inside of his lip, wonders if he should apologize. He decides against it. Apologizing would mean admitting that he can tell Meyer is upset, and it's probably more polite to pretend he doesn't notice.

"There are people here from thousands of years later than either of us. Like River. She was living in a spaceship, before she was brought here. Can you imagine?"

It's a fairly obvious ploy, but Ned hopes it will be an effective one. If worst comes to worst he can always give Meyer another slice of pie. That would make the atrocities of the next few generations a bit more bearable, right?

Meyer knows that Ned is attempting to take his mind off of the load of information that he's just had dumped in his lap, and although it doesn't work, not exactly, he appreciates the effort enough to look up and smile that charming and glossy smile. "It's fine. I was going to find out sooner or later, about all of that stuff. Better I should find out from a guy like you, right?"

What he means is a guy who's not using that kind of information against him, who's not gleeful about what he's had to say but who looks genuinely remorseful for having had to say it -- a guy who's willing to try to distract him by moving the conversation on to something else so that he doesn't have to dwell on it. He doesn't even call attention to Meyer's discomfort, which a less thoughtful individual might. Meyer's not sure he believes in true kindness anymore (or maybe he never has) but he thinks that as far as these things go, Ned's probably what most people would call a pretty nice guy.

"River seems like the kind of person who'd be living in a spaceship," he says, that smile still in place. "I don't mean that in a derogatory way. She just thinks differently than the rest of us."

Ned matches that smile with a very small one of his own - not so charming, and not so glossy. For all Meyer's politeness, he knows he could have delivered a lot of that news more sensitively than he had. If he ever comes across a situation like again, he thinks he'll know better.

But for now it seems that Meyer is pulling himself together, and Ned is more than happy to take his cues from him. Talking about the distant future is easier, he expects, for the both of them. Spaceships aren't real, somehow, the way the rest of it is.

"I think that's more to do with being a telepath and less to do with living in the future." And, of course, Ned knows a good deal of the way she thinks is due to what she'd been put through, but that's not his information to give out. Even if it were, he hardly needs to add that straw to the already-strained camel's back. It is disgusting, though. How little the human race seems to change.

There's a fondness that comes into Ned's smile as he admits, "She absolutely terrified me, when I first arrived. Jumped off a roof to say hi and nearly gave me a heart attack."

Edited 2013-04-29 02:58 (UTC)

"And now she's like family to you," he says, nodding a little. Although he and River hadn't necessarily started their relationship on the right foot -- nor had he and Ned, for that matter -- he found that he liked her, and perhaps even more significantly, could tell that she and Ned cared deeply for each other. It was strange to observe; a relationship that had been formed within the bounds of this tiny town, a relationship that hadn't existed and never would have existed had they not both been brought here.

"You married back home? Have kids?" He wants to get some idea of what Ned left behind, what his idea of family is like. It strikes him as odd, somehow, that someone could find themselves so close to another prisoner of this town so relatively quickly, although it's not a bad thing, simply an unfamiliar thing. He can't imagine considering someone family except in very special circumstances -- although perhaps being stuck here was special circumstance enough.

There's more to the question than simple curiosity, though. Ned seems like a family man, the kind of person who forms connections to other people, but he can't tell whether that impression was formed because Ned has been kind and seemingly caring throughout their interactions together, or because Ned is impressively good at putting on some kind of polite and solicitous veneer, much like himself. Meyer has never trusted pure, unadulterated goodness. There must be something else there, something dark.

"Yeah, she is." He thinks about how she took care of him, when Jesse was dead. Talked him out of the worst of his despair, made him take care of himself, eat and sleep and keep going. It's still such a foreign idea to him, having a family.

The next set of questions turns his smile a touch wistful. "No, it was just me." No family, no friends, no lovers. He doesn't come out and say it outright, but he's never been good at deception, and the loneliness of that existence makes itself known in his short sentence.

"What about you?" Only polite to turn the question around. Twenty-one seems a bit young for a wife and kids according to his standards, but it's not impossible. He knows plenty of people here have left a lot behind them.

"No, just me."

And Charlie, his mind said, but he rarely said the majority of what came into his mind, and this was no exception. Explaining his relationship with Charlie was difficult, if he were to attempt to be truly honest about it, and it was best left at "business partners," or, with someone he felt slightly more comfortable with, the addition of the fact that they'd known each other for quite awhile.

He wonders if, from Ned's tone of voice, he'd like there to be someone. Perhaps he's lonely, having it just be him and his pies. His second question is seemingly unrelated, but nothing is unrelated in his mind, and besides, he'd divulged his own age to Ned, so it seems only fair to pose the obvious question as well: "How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine." Ned slides the bright green pie into the oven, sets about wiping off the various kitchen surfaces. He wonders, for the first time, what is driving these questions of Meyer's. Is he perhaps wondering how a man of his age ends up with no connections to speak of? It certainly doesn't reflect well, he knows that. Has a bit of a serial killer-ish vibe to it. Lived alone, kept to himself, never would have suspected...

He's still full of productive energy, doesn't want to stop working, so he washes his paring knife and comes to join Meyer with a clean glass mixing bowl and, a moment later, a rather large basket of perfectly ripe strawberries. He sits down and starts trimming off the stems and cutting them into quarters, the movements as practiced and effortless as ever.

"Why do I get the weird feeling you're about to try to set me up with someone?" he jokes. He knows that in actuality Meyer intends nothing of the kind.

It's not necessarily that it reflects poorly -- he knows plenty of people who have very few connections to speak of. He imagines that, unless something drastic in his life changes, he'll be one of those people at twenty nine, as well. However, most of the people he knows with no connections have something hidden in their pasts that they don't care to discuss. It doesn't necessarily speak ill of Ned's character, but perhaps of his experiences. He'd like to know about those experiences, but he knows better than to charge ahead with deeply personal questions without testing the waters, so to speak, as he's doing now.

Ned reads as though he's an open book, the kind of person who will answer questions honestly and guilelessly, but these are the easy questions, and nobody's truly an open book, not when it comes to certain matters. He's interested in seeing how much he can glean from Ned before that open book slams shut, so to speak.

He laughs at Ned's comment, watching as he begins cutting the strawberries. "Don't worry, I'm not the matchmaking type. You ever want to meet someone, though? The way I see it, you'd make a pretty good impression with the pies."

"Haven't really given it much thought." Ned's tone says otherwise, though. It's all a bit of a muddle, now more than ever before in his life. He'd given up on romance, before he came here. It was always so messy, so disappointing and difficult. He'd tried dating, in his younger years. Girls, at first, because he'd thought that was what was expected of him. Guys, once or twice, because they'd asked, and because things had gone so badly with the girls. Being gay would have been a simple explanation for a problem he knew, deep down, was a lot more difficult to define. When that hadn't worked, he'd called it quits. Resigned himself to a bachelor's life. Simpler that way.

But now he isn't so sure. Things have changed so much for him, since he got here. He has friends, now. A kind of family, in River. And of course, with what had happened between him and Daneel... perhaps it isn't impossible for him, after all.

A shy smile is twitching at the corner of his mouth, and even though he doesn't need to, he's looking at the strawberries he's cutting as if the process requires every ounce of his attention. That's probably not a faint blush on his cheeks - probably just the light reflecting off the very ripe red fruit.

Edited 2013-04-29 04:05 (UTC)

He can't help but notice the smile -- and the blush, although that's a little harder to pick up on -- and comment on it. "Looks like you might be giving it some thought right now," he says, smiling a little to show that he's not judging Ned for it by any means, nor mocking him in any way.

On one hand, he finds it slightly amusing, how intently Ned is staring at the strawberries, as though that will change his tone of voice or get rid of that shy smile. On the other hand, he finds it intriguing; if Ned has considered it, if attachment of some kind is something he wants, whether familial or romantic, why hasn't he had it before now? There's nothing wrong with his looks, objectively speaking, and he seems perfectly nice, so perhaps there's something else, something about his personal life he doesn't want people to know.

Could it be the powers Ned had admitted to? If so, what about them might make him reluctant to be close to people? Surely they were useful powers, though odd ones. Meyer now sees Ned as some kind of puzzle, albeit a fairly benign one. With a brain that never sits still for long, he's already coming up with plausible scenarios about what deep, dark secrets Ned has. After all, everyone has them.

Is he really that obvious? Ned can definitely feel his face going hot, now, and settles for a simple, "It's complicated." He isn't exactly averse to the idea of gossiping about his love life, but for all that Meyer seems like a nice guy, he is a relative stranger. Happy as he is to answer questions, Meyer isn't getting anything more out of him on this matter for the moment. Besides, everything has been so hectic, recently. He hasn't had much time to think about the good things, in the midst of all the bad. Even he isn't sure what he thinks or wants or feels.

He knows when not to push a topic, and that's as clear a sign as any to back off, so he does. There are many things he'd like to know about Ned, including inquiring more about his abilities, or powers, or whatever he wants to call them, but he gets the sense he has to tread carefully.

"Yeah," he agrees, "Most things are complicated in one way or another." And that's the end of that discussion. It's not so much about Ned's love life as it is about figuring out just who Ned is, what makes him tick, whether or not he could be useful in some way. He's not adverse to the idea of making friends with him, assuming Ned's forgiveness was genuine -- and it seems to be.

"Do you ever bake bread?" It's a completely unrelated question, but it's not without it's own purpose. Ned has some useful skills with this whole cooking and baking thing. Maybe Meyer can benefit from those skills, or at least attempt to learn some of them.

"Yes. Not since I got here, though. Would have to go looking for yeast." There might be some, in one of the houses, or else the storage area with the extra food. Ned's been a little preoccupied, however, with just staying alive.

Meyer, he's starting to understand, is a very curious sort of person. Ned finds it almost charming, the way he keeps asking questions without ever seeming to get bored. He's more than happy to ramble on about his life, if that's what Meyer wants. "Did you... want bread?"

Meyer wants to know everything about everyone, and Ned is no exception. It helps when he actually finds someone interesting, as opposed to the people he ends up regretting he ever learned anything about, and he does find Ned interesting.

He smiles a little, shaking his head, "I'm not asking you to make me bread, you understand, although if I were, I'd of course pay you for the favor. I'm asking if you might be amenable to teaching me how to make bread. If you could find the ingredients."

Yes, he's very curious, in just about every way. If there's something he wants to learn, he does, and he finds that he wants to learn most things.

"I'd be happy to." He clearly means it, as well. Not just willing to teach him, but actually happy. "Bread's easy. You'll learn it in no time. I'll ask around tomorrow, see if I can get my hands on the right ingredients. Any particular kind of bread you want to learn to make? Our options might be limited by what's available, but if there's something in particular you're fond of, I can keep that in mind while I'm looking."

"Challah, maybe, if you can teach that," he says, after a long moment of thinking. He likes all bread, pretty much, just like he likes all sweet things, but he figures he'd pick something that seems a little harder to make -- not that he knows, he's never really tried -- so that he can get the maximum benefit from Ned's teaching. Then, maybe, he can teach himself to make other things.

Not being able to just go down the street and buy the food he wants has been a strange adjustment, and he's not sure he likes it. Learning how to do something productive might take his mind off being stuck here, at least for awhile. He and Charlie's nascent business plans are one thing, but feeding himself is important, too.

"Challah it is." There have to be some packets of yeast around town, he thinks. Somewhere. If there are, he'll find them. And then, because he's curious, and they're sharing things about themselves, he asks, "Are you Jewish?" He doesn't want to make assumptions one way or another, after all.

"Is it just making bread in general you're interested in?" Ned asks, head tilting to the side in curiosity. He isn't sure Meyer's precise motivation: if he's merely bored, or else trying to learn something while he's stuck here, or else having a particular desire to learn to bake bread alone. "I'm going to be making all this into preserves, if you'd like me to teach you that, as well." He doesn't want any of the fruit he'd grown over that last week to go to waste.

"Yeah, I am," he says, looking almost surprised -- people rarely ask him that, they simply assume (correctly), and often approach it in a derogatory way. He's used to it, and it doesn't bother him, not anymore, but the fact that Ned simply seems curious rather than judgmental strikes him as interesting. "Are you?" Maybe that's why Ned is asking; maybe he's looking for some kind of shared connection.

"It's not just bread, it's cooking in general; I'd like to learn to do something useful. I like to have something to keep me busy. This seemed like a more productive interest than many."

Keeping his hands busy also keeps him from reaching for his cigarettes, and with not much of the pack he'd arrived with left, he doesn't want to smoke unless he absolutely has to.

Ned may be less deliberate about it, but he, too, is building a picture of Meyer in his mind. This newest detail slots into place with the rest. Just now, he remembers Meyer speaking to Charlie in another language, when they'd been tying him to the radiator. In hindsight, yes, that had been Yiddish, hadn't it? He'd been focused on other things at the time. Like being terrified out of his wits.

He shakes his head in response to Meyer's question. "Catholic. Sort of. Used to be, anyway." There's clearly more of a story there, but Ned isn't going to be diving into it just now.

He thinks he can understand that desire; it's easier for him when he keeps busy, too. So, without delay, he gets up and finds another knife and bowl and sets them in front of Meyer, pushing the basket of strawberries within reach.

"If you want to keep busy, I'm happy to delegate. You gonna teach me to count cards, in exchange?" He's only kidding. Mostly.

"Charlie's sort of Catholic, too," he says, nodding. He doesn't know many people who are actually Catholic, just a lot of people who were born that way and aren't anymore -- or at least, are "sort of" Catholic, and seem to possess some kind of lapsed Catholic guilt about it, though he can't tell if Ned does. It must be a pretty common occurrence.

He reaches for the knife and the basket of strawberries, starts cutting them the way he'd seen Ned doing before, into quarters. He obviously has some kind of skill with a knife, or at least an ability to do things very precisely; he's certainly not cutting the strawberries as quickly and effortlessly as Ned was, but if he pays attention to what he's doing, the pieces of each strawberry are precise and symmetrical.

"I could teach you how to count cards, yeah," he says, half-joking, "But maybe it'd be better if you just learned to play poker first. You learn how, you challenge people to some games, maybe you can win some ingredients for your cooking." And then Ned would be another potential customer at the game he and Charlie were planning on setting up.

He's not all that surprised by that information about Charlie, but he files it away nonetheless.

Ned's one experience with gambling hadn't exactly been a good one, but perhaps it's time he tried again. This time, he'll make sure he isn't gambling anything he'd be unwilling to lose. The risk, the danger - those elements of the game are never going to appeal to him. But if he finds a way to make it as safe as possible, it could be a good bit of entertainment.

"I know the rules," he insists, "I guess I just haven't played in a few years. Maybe we could practice, sometime-"

He reaches for another strawberry from the basket, not paying any attention to what he's doing. This particular piece of fruit seems to have ripened faster than the others - is overripe enough, in fact, to qualify as dead according to whatever cosmic force directs Ned's power. There is a small but audible sound of electricity and the fruit glows faintly gold, just for a millisecond, before becoming full and ripe once more.

"Oh!" Ned says, dropping the fruit in surprise and quickly touching it again by reflex. The noise repeats, and it goes back to being a few shades too dark and a few degrees too soft to eat. He tosses it in the pile with the stems, suddenly not meeting Meyers' eyes. It's not something he's used to, having someone see him do that. The secret hasn't been out that long, and for most of that time, he didn't even have his regular powers around. It's going to take some getting used to. He's so used to hiding it, fanatically. Of being ashamed of it.

"Oops." He hopes that Meyer isn't too freaked out. He's really starting to like him, and he wouldn't want to frighten or disgust him.

"Sure, I'd be happy to practice with you. The first thing we'll work on is your poker face, and..."

He never gets a chance to finish the rest of his sentence, nor disparage Ned's ability to lie any further -- although it's meant to be an amusing comment, not an insulting one. When Ned picks up the strawberry and it seems to spring back to life, his eyes widen, and when Ned touches it again and it goes back to being overripe and, well, apparently dead, his eyes widen even further. He barely notices that the knife he's holding as he slices the strawberries has slipped and nicked his finger slightly in his surprise.

Still, he's not frightened, and he's not disgusted. He had known about part of Ned's powers, it seems, but not everything. Ned hadn't been as forthcoming on that public confession about his powers as Meyer had thought -- he hadn't mentioned, to Meyer at least, the fact that he can apparently kill things with his touch, too.

"So," Meyer says casually, his face back to its friendly, neutral expression, finally noticing the cut on his finger and shaking his head a little, "you can give life, and then you can take it away."

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