ukan | IC CONTACT

"Exactly. It's what this place is," he tells him. "Practice for the real world, isn't it? Giving us time to think about what our next move should be. Punishment for speaking wrong, doing wrong, but oh, it's just a slap on the wrist. Because the real world will be worse. But this place can't be the real world, can it? Can't have real world consequences because we've already fucked that up." He laughs.

"This is nursery school, my boy." He stirs the oats. "And I - appreciate it now. Having been here."

"It's endless practice. It's a thousand opportunities to learn something you would never have the time to master at home." He peers at the oats, takes a spoon, steals a bit. It's hot, though, so he doesn't put it in his mouth right away.

"I try not to say any of that to anyone here. But I'm glad," so, so glad, "that you see it, too."

There is nothing more frustrating than wanting to dissect events for lessons--not ones given by the Admiral but ones found through intuition--and having no one at all to discuss it with.

"Oh, I've known that for a while," he says dismissively, spooning a bit of the oats into a bowl with the chopped apples. "Try it with that. And be less impatient so you don't burn your mouth like a damn child."

He shakes his head.

"I have never been called impatient in- ow," yes, it is still very hot, and yes, Lark ate it anyway.

"It's good," he says, in the muffled way anyone who has just burned the roof of his mouth might.

He's very notably more patient now. "Hey, do you have a razor?" He hasn't had a chance to shave since he woke up, and he has a nice two week beard. It's where he's gone most grey, as it happens. "I hid mine from Alec but I'm pretty sure he found it and hid it from me."

He watches this happen just the same way as he would a child.

Because that's exactly what's happening.

"Hm," he says, clearing his throat and making a gesture towards the bathroom. "Everything's in there." Pagan has moved in. Once it was clear that Lark was not waking up in a matter of a day or so, he brought in all of his things for a long stay. Clothes. Blankets. A pillow.

He takes the time to shave, and then to make sure everything is exactly as where Pagan put it. Then he takes his bowl of oatmeal, which is still warm but won't burn, and devours it in perhaps five or six bites.

Pagan just watches him with a laugh from his spot at the table. "There's plenty. That's the thing with oatmeal. Now, I assume you'll want to get back into the mess of this place and I can get back to my life."

Does he sound sad about that?

Maybe.

He has another bowl, but he sits at the couch and beckons Pagan to join him. It's a fairly clear sign he's in no hurry to get them out the door. "How has the mess been? Anything I'd be sorry I missed?"

He turns the television on mute and joins him, shrugging. "Would you believe me if I said I haven't been paying attention?" he asks. "I - well, it's so cyclical. He kills, she kills, we kill, and then we're back at the beginning. I'd rather watch my dramas." He gestures to the television.

"Good." A long sigh. "Nothing is ever going to change the violence that goes on around here, but you not being involved is...good. I'm glad. I think it's even a good sign of progress." Even if it's only coming from a place of exhaustion.

"Progress?" he asks with a laugh. "Sure, Lark. I'm making tons of progress here."

He doesn't sound convinced.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm just standing still here."

"That makes it sound like you have some idea of where you want to be headed," he says, quietly, wanting to let Pagan think. "I don't mean just 'off the ship'. Who do you see yourself becoming that makes this version of yourself feel stagnant?"

"Oh don't go so deeply!" Pagan tells him automatically, shutting down from that conversation.

"No, no, we're coming back to that," Lark insists. "When I can get my head out of a coma fog. So until then: pick a movie to watch."

"Fine," he huffs, finding a comedy he doesn't have to think too deeply about.

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