Luka
“You cannot, in all good conscience, believe it didn’t go on longer than necessary,” Rowan said with a sneer. “Even you can’t have that bad an opinion.”
“Okay, first off,” I said, pointing at him with the remainder of the crust from my sandwich, “my opinions also include that you are actually a decent person, a fun person, and a person worth knowing. So think about that before you start judging.”
“Was that meant to convince me to trust your opinions more?” he asked wryly. “Because that was not the selling point you thought it was.”
“Oh, so instead I’m supposed to listen to the man who’s willing to sell himself short?” I asked wryly, popping the crust into my mouth and reaching for the remainder of my now lukewarm chocolate. “That’s not the selling point you thought it was.”
Rowan snorted derisively. “The man gets laid and is confident enough to determine what and who he should or shouldn’t listen to.”
“A good dicking is the perfect way to get a clear head that masturbation will never achieve,” I told him as I drained my mug.
We were both wearing loose pants as he sat in a chair, probably because of his back, and I sprawled in a half-sitting position that made him shake his head when he saw it.
I suspected it was because, with his back problems, he was envious, or maybe it had nothing to do with that, and he just thought it was the most undignified position he’d ever seen.
He wasn’t wrong; it wasn’t going to win any awards from Miss Manners, that was for sure.
“And it was a good dicking, for the record.”
“Mmm, naturally,” he said with a confidence that was too smooth and casual to be arrogant, but.
..I thought I saw a twinkle of amusement and pleasure in his eyes.
I couldn’t be sure, but I wanted to say I had made him preen.
It wasn’t easy to tell because he wasn’t the most expressive of people, but I definitely thought I had, even if just a little.
“But now we’ve established that you have questionable taste and views, something that does not speak well for your abilities as a Guide—”
“Oh, har har,” I said with a roll of my eyes as I eyed the bag of chips I had brought with the sandwiches. “Just because I think the show didn’t flop by the end doesn’t mean I have bad opinions, just a different one.”
“You are allowed to be wrong,” he said with a snort. “But fifteen seasons where they end up fighting God of all things was the height of absurdity. It should have ended at seven. By the time they reached double digits, they’d completely lost the plot.”
I sighed. “You can’t tell me the ending wasn’t impactful, you really can’t. It hit.”
“The bottom of a trash can, maybe,” he said with a wrinkle of his nose. “At the very least, they could have found a way to kill one or both off several seasons before and ended it that way. At least then we could have avoided the entire mess that the show quickly devolved into.”
“You know, I thought you said you stopped watching at the beginning of season ten. How do you even know about all that?”
“There is this wonderful invention...the internet.”
“Oh, aren’t you just the height of wit?” I asked sourly.
“But you’re telling me you’re going to judge the last seasons you didn’t watch based on what.
..a synopsis? Where’s all your precious pathos in reading a few paragraphs per season?
Where’s the ability to see the acting and feel the emotions they’re trying to show?
They’re nowhere in those words, I can tell you that. ”
He snatched the bag of chips I’d been eyeing and smirked when he saw my disappointed frown.
“I also saw a few of the clips you were so eager to defend.
That includes the final episode's last bit, and I cannot say I was moved in the slightest. However, I will give you that their performances were good. Yet even good acting cannot make up for poor writing. Even the best actors fall short if the writing is poor, but good writing can save a poor performance.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, sitting upright so I could snatch the bag of chips.
..unsuccessfully because the asshole jerked it out of my reach, and if I wanted them, I would have to get off the bed, which was insanely comfortable.
“An excellent performance will take shitty writing to a whole new level. That human element is what makes it better.”
“And there’s no human element to writing?”
I stopped short and glared at him. “Alright, smart ass. We’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
He shot me a smug look, wiggling the bag of chips to taunt me. “That’s something people say when they know they’ve lost the debate but want to slink away with some dignity intact.”
I raised a brow and darted forward, snatching the chips and flopping back onto the bed with a grunt. “If I were worried about dignity, I wouldn’t have gotten very far in life.”
“Mmm,” he said thoughtfully, though whether that was to what I said or because I had grabbed the chips and he was plotting revenge, I didn’t know. “And why is that?”
“Why wouldn’t I have made it far in life?” I asked.
“Correct.”
“Oh.” I suddenly felt uncomfortable now the topic had swung to the chaos that was my life rather than the merits of a TV show that hadn’t aired in years.
“I, uh, I don’t know. I’ve never been...
stable, I guess is the word. I’ve jumped around jobs, lived all over the place, met all sorts of people, but I never chose to stay anywhere for long, I guess. ”
“Where have you lived?”
“Jesus, all over the country. I’ve mostly stuck to big cities because there’s a lot going on, obviously, and it’s easier to find work. People are always coming and going from jobs, and sometimes you can get lucky and be hired on the spot, even if it’s only for a few weeks.”
He took hold of his mug and stared down with a frown that told me it was empty. “So you’ve led a fairly unmoored, nomadic life then.”
“That makes it sound a lot more...I don’t know, romantic than it actually is,” I said with a snort. “I’ve just been...I was never able to find somewhere that worked for me. Every time I stuck around too long, I just got restless.”
“Restless,” Rowan repeated, unnecessarily in my opinion.
“Yes, restless,” I said with a frown. “You might not be familiar with it, but yes, I got restless.”
He scoffed. “I was surprised. You haven’t struck me as restless by nature.”
“Really? I mean, I know you’ve never said you were the best at reading people, but I would have thought that was pretty obvious.” I snorted, popping a chip into my mouth and chewing noisily. “It’s not like I give off the feeling of being in control of my life or stable.”
Rowan frowned. “Is that what you think?”
I stared at him for a moment. “What is it you think?”
He watched me before shrugging. “You’re certainly not completely stable or confident in yourself and your life, but considering this is a new job or possibly, a career, that would make sense.
It’s common to enter a new job or career nervously, looking to find one's way without looking like a fool. You have been dedicated to making sure you’re doing your job well, even if you are unsure, and nothing you or anyone else has said led me to believe you were so. ..unmoored.”
“Hmm,” I hummed thoughtfully. “I guess there’s that. Kind of hard for people to know your past when you try not to let it follow you everywhere.”
“That is true,” he said in amusement.
I sighed. “Well, I guess, surprise? I’ve never settled down anywhere, or with anyone.”
“So, no friends to speak of?”
“I have people I still talk to now and then, exchange cards, maybe meet up once in a while when I’m in town, stuff like that.”
“Family?”
“Foster kid since I was eight.”
“I...oh.”
I wrinkled my nose at the shift in his tone. “Jesus, tell me that isn’t what’s going to make you soften up and try to be nicer to me.”
Rowan cocked his head. “Would you prefer I didn’t show sympathy?”
“Weren’t you the one who said you hated the idea of someone pitying you?” I asked with a laugh. “Or does that only count for you?”
“If it’s that troublesome, I’ll keep my sympathy to myself.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not like you; it doesn’t bother me if someone feels bad for me.
I know the stories, and I have a few of my own.
The foster system sucks ass; I won’t pretend it doesn’t, and I won’t tell people they shouldn’t give me the look you just did, or tell me they’re sorry to hear that. ”
“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked in one of those moments where he sounded genuinely curious as opposed to being judgmental.
“Should it?” I wondered. “As I said, I know the stories, and I’ve lived through plenty of my own.
People feeling bad for me means they know the system isn’t working like it’s supposed to, which means people know it needs to be fixed, which means there’s a chance people might actually try to fix it. ”
“Trying is not the same as doing.”
“Trying is the first step to doing, and knowing is the step before trying. Well, not always, but it can be.”
“You certainly don’t lack optimism.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Ultimately? Nothing, but I’ve never seen much point in hope other than it can occasionally be beneficial.”
I leaned forward and tossed him the bag of chips, which he caught deftly. “So what? Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I find hope a bane more than a boon,” he said, opening the bag and grabbing a couple to crunch. “Hope can kill people as much as it can help, and really, it often does more damage.”
“Hmm, I think hope is what keeps people going when there’s nothing else to hold onto.”
“It also means people will keep holding onto something long past its use, or to the point that they do even more harm, when moving on or choosing differently would have served them better.”
“But that’s how people work,” I said with a shrug. “Sense and logic don’t always come into play.”