Jonathan Sims (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_archivist) wrote2017-06-30 12:41 am
the_archivist) wrote2017-06-30 12:41 am
Open Post!
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"Statement Ends."
The Archivist sets the paper aside, and the world floods back to him in full colour. He is very cold, he realises, with a sort of distant curiosity. When he looks down at his fingers, they are white and frost has started to form on them. It lingers, even when he rubs them together. It spreads across his desk, a rime of white frost crystals, and his tea, already cold, is now frozen on top.
The Archivist smiles and takes a breath. He can smell sea brine even if the closest to the sea they get is the Thames.
"Hello Martin."
The Archivist sets the paper aside, and the world floods back to him in full colour. He is very cold, he realises, with a sort of distant curiosity. When he looks down at his fingers, they are white and frost has started to form on them. It lingers, even when he rubs them together. It spreads across his desk, a rime of white frost crystals, and his tea, already cold, is now frozen on top.
The Archivist smiles and takes a breath. He can smell sea brine even if the closest to the sea they get is the Thames.
"Hello Martin."
Martin waits until the Archivist is well and truly absorbed into the statement before he steps into the room and lets his influence spread until the door is sealed with ice and frost. It's a warning to everyone working the Archives not to interrupt and if they ignore that warning... well. He doesn't relish the thought of doing anything to Jon's assistants but this time is precious to him and he's not willing to share it.
Cold arms wrap around him from behind, followed by a face buried into the crook of his neck. The smell of aging books and dusty libraries is home for him and Martin tightens his grip as he soaks it in after five months abroad following the whims of his patron.
"Hello, Jon."
Cold arms wrap around him from behind, followed by a face buried into the crook of his neck. The smell of aging books and dusty libraries is home for him and Martin tightens his grip as he soaks it in after five months abroad following the whims of his patron.
"Hello, Jon."
There are so few people who call him Jon these days. Elias still does sometimes, when they're in public, and Peter he had grudgingly accepted it from. Technically his bank statements and the lease on his flat still read Jonathan Sims, but it always feels a bit like something from another life.
From Martin it is familiar and feels like home.
He shivers when arms wrap around him, and he feels breath and cool skin against his neck. He closes his eyes and gives a soft hum of pleasure. "How long has it been?"
Time gets a little fuzzy for him these days, and he struggles to keep track. There is so much to learn, so many things to Know, and the days slide away. He just knows that when Martin is away it is always Too Long, and all the sweeter for it.
From Martin it is familiar and feels like home.
He shivers when arms wrap around him, and he feels breath and cool skin against his neck. He closes his eyes and gives a soft hum of pleasure. "How long has it been?"
Time gets a little fuzzy for him these days, and he struggles to keep track. There is so much to learn, so many things to Know, and the days slide away. He just knows that when Martin is away it is always Too Long, and all the sweeter for it.
"Five months this time."
Five months that felt like five years, dragged out with the longing to be back here breathing Jon's presence in like he needs it to live. The loneliness is another offering to his patron in exchange for these times when he can have Jon.
He marks a line in his journal every day he's gone, a physical reminder as he does his business. Now he sheds each of those days like a weight as he presses a kiss to Jon's jaw.
"Have you been taking care of yourself while I've been gone?"
Five months that felt like five years, dragged out with the longing to be back here breathing Jon's presence in like he needs it to live. The loneliness is another offering to his patron in exchange for these times when he can have Jon.
He marks a line in his journal every day he's gone, a physical reminder as he does his business. Now he sheds each of those days like a weight as he presses a kiss to Jon's jaw.
"Have you been taking care of yourself while I've been gone?"
"It felt like longer," Jon murmurs. His own offering to Martin's God. It is a price that he is willing to pay, this longing and loneliness. It allows him to focus on his work. Forsaken and Beholding had always blurred together at the edges.
He smiles at the kiss, tilts his head to give Martin better access to his neck. His lips are cold and it is a thrilling feeling.
He gives a soft laugh. "I'm alive. That counts for something, doesn't it? Have you?"
He smiles at the kiss, tilts his head to give Martin better access to his neck. His lips are cold and it is a thrilling feeling.
He gives a soft laugh. "I'm alive. That counts for something, doesn't it? Have you?"
"Alive is always preferable. And I've been fine, no one has moved against us in months after the last time."
He delivers the report between kisses along the curve of Jon's neck, finding his way to his pulse point slowly but surely. He can see Jon is alive, feel how warm his skin is and the beating of his heart.
Still, it's nice to have an excuse to touch him.
"Did you get the presents I sent?" Survivors, released to tell their stories until they could be reclaimed by his god to finish feeding it. But they served a purpose, giving Jon power as well.
He delivers the report between kisses along the curve of Jon's neck, finding his way to his pulse point slowly but surely. He can see Jon is alive, feel how warm his skin is and the beating of his heart.
Still, it's nice to have an excuse to touch him.
"Did you get the presents I sent?" Survivors, released to tell their stories until they could be reclaimed by his god to finish feeding it. But they served a purpose, giving Jon power as well.
"That's good," Jon says, but he's more interested in the way that Martin is kissing him. It makes him shiver in the most pleasant of ways. God, he's missed this so much, missed him so much. No-one else is the same.
The question makes him smile. "I did. They were... they were lovely," he says sounding a little dreamy when he remembers them. So much fear, so much loneliness. A fine meal.
The question makes him smile. "I did. They were... they were lovely," he says sounding a little dreamy when he remembers them. So much fear, so much loneliness. A fine meal.
A few more kisses are laid down before he pulls away. Martin draws Jon's chair back from his desk, turning him around until they're face to face. They're each stepped in the powers of their gods, unchanging for the most part. And Martin memorizes every inch of him like he's seeing him for the first time.
"I missed you. So much."
Cold hands cup Jon's cheeks, soaking in his warmth as Martin kisses him properly, savoring the feeling like he always does when he's been away. The loneliness is worth it for moments like these when they can be together.
"I missed you. So much."
Cold hands cup Jon's cheeks, soaking in his warmth as Martin kisses him properly, savoring the feeling like he always does when he's been away. The loneliness is worth it for moments like these when they can be together.
He makes a noise of protest when Martin pulls away. It's not enough, it's never enough. But that's rather the point isn't it? He lets Martin spin him around and finally gets to See him. His gaze scours over him, hungry for the sight of him, for every minute change, for every scrap of information. It isn't quite a human gaze anymore, but nor is it entirely his god.
He kisses back eagerly, chasing Martin's lips which breathe ice against his. He'd never dreamed that he could have this for so long. He'd never imagined that giving in, that giving himself wholly to his god could lead to this sweetness. When they finally break away, he rests his forehead against Martin's. "I missed you too."
He kisses back eagerly, chasing Martin's lips which breathe ice against his. He'd never dreamed that he could have this for so long. He'd never imagined that giving in, that giving himself wholly to his god could lead to this sweetness. When they finally break away, he rests his forehead against Martin's. "I missed you too."
Martin always treasures these moments right after he returns, the way Jon welcomes him back so eagerly is beautiful to him. In that kiss he can taste the loneliness that his Archivist has nurtured in his absence, an offering to the Forsaken even as he tends to his own patron, feeding its endless hunger for knowledge.
A chill hand curls around the base of Jon's neck, possessive. In the hall he can feel one of the Archivist's assistants looking at the ice crusting the door and let's the cold radiating from it until they shiver and go on their way. He doesn't like to nurture curiosity when it might take away from these precious moments.
"Good, I like being missed." He rewards him with another kiss and smiles. He willingly gave himself to his god and he can't regret a thing, not when he has the Archivist in his arms like this.
A chill hand curls around the base of Jon's neck, possessive. In the hall he can feel one of the Archivist's assistants looking at the ice crusting the door and let's the cold radiating from it until they shiver and go on their way. He doesn't like to nurture curiosity when it might take away from these precious moments.
"Good, I like being missed." He rewards him with another kiss and smiles. He willingly gave himself to his god and he can't regret a thing, not when he has the Archivist in his arms like this.
He tends his loneliness like a garden in Martin's absence. His connections have been whittled down slowly so that he can focus on his purpose and his assistants are just people now, people with no idea what they serve. Maybe a few of them will, in time, come into power, but most of them will perish eventually. Melanie had long-since stepped fully into the Spiral's corridors to be with Helen. They visit sometimes and it isn't uncommon to find doors in the Archives where doors should not be. Basira and Daisy are too often travelling, seeing the world for their patron.
His eyes drop closed at the possessive curl of fingers against his neck, the way the chill seeps into his skin like Martin wants to mark him with it forever.
"I always miss you," he says. Even now, when Martin is here, he misses him fiercely because he knows he will be gone again soon enough and it could be months before he returns. He might have resented it once, but now he savours it, knowing how it sustains Martin.
His eyes drop closed at the possessive curl of fingers against his neck, the way the chill seeps into his skin like Martin wants to mark him with it forever.
"I always miss you," he says. Even now, when Martin is here, he misses him fiercely because he knows he will be gone again soon enough and it could be months before he returns. He might have resented it once, but now he savours it, knowing how it sustains Martin.
He gets back into the Archives after lunch later than he normally would and heads into his office. He feels full and sated and he settles back into his seat with air of a crocodile, drowsy from feeding. His gaze is still a little absent, a little unfocussed as he relives the statement that he'd dragged from the man in the park, lets it run through his mind again and again, drowns in it.
He knows that he'll want more again soon. He always does. It sustains him in a way that paper statements just cannot do. And slowly his humanity comes creeping back, and with it the guilt. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he will have to live with for the rest of his life. And he savours that too. Because one day, one day he probably won't feel a flicker of guilt about anything.
He knows that he'll want more again soon. He always does. It sustains him in a way that paper statements just cannot do. And slowly his humanity comes creeping back, and with it the guilt. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he will have to live with for the rest of his life. And he savours that too. Because one day, one day he probably won't feel a flicker of guilt about anything.
Martin tries to give Jon his space when he can. Constant surveillance is only going to convince Jon that he needs to be watched because he's not human. So he tries not to hover too much so Jon has that opportunity to be a person.
Except-
Except this keeps happening. He tastes the difference in the air as Jon comes back from his long lunch. The minutes ticking past the hour he should have been back by left a sick pit in Martin's stomach that left him unable to finish the leftover takeaway he had brought for himself.
Martin lets himself into Jon's office after a brief knock, not even waiting for an answer before he's stepping inside and sitting down across from him. He places a tape recorder on the desk between them and presses the record button. "Who was it this time, Jon?" He asks, and he wonders if he looks as tired as he feels.
Except-
Except this keeps happening. He tastes the difference in the air as Jon comes back from his long lunch. The minutes ticking past the hour he should have been back by left a sick pit in Martin's stomach that left him unable to finish the leftover takeaway he had brought for himself.
Martin lets himself into Jon's office after a brief knock, not even waiting for an answer before he's stepping inside and sitting down across from him. He places a tape recorder on the desk between them and presses the record button. "Who was it this time, Jon?" He asks, and he wonders if he looks as tired as he feels.
Those words are greeted with a smile, with cool hands caressing Jon posessively as he drinks in that exquisite isolation that he's steeped himself in so willingly. There are so many ways to be alone, so many ways to feed his god and Martin knows he is so very lucky that they fit together so well in their monstrousness.
The Archive is safe under the protection of the Lonely, the air always a bit cool no matter how often the temperature is adjusted. Perhaps if he had been claimed by a different power they wouldn't have found this balance that lets them be together while still feeding that which feeds them.
"Are you done for the day? I made dinner reservations for us."
The Archive is safe under the protection of the Lonely, the air always a bit cool no matter how often the temperature is adjusted. Perhaps if he had been claimed by a different power they wouldn't have found this balance that lets them be together while still feeding that which feeds them.
"Are you done for the day? I made dinner reservations for us."
He leans into the touch, eyes dropping closed briefly as Martin touches him. He has to savour it, to build up that store in his mind to keep him during the times when Martin is gone. But he'll come back. Eventually. And Avatars have long lives if nothing worse befalls them. Plenty of time to enjoy each other and to serve.
"I can be done," he agrees and presses a kiss against Martin's palm. "You always take me to the best places."
One of the advantages of having joined the Lukases. It brought a certain prestige and access to wealth which Jon normally had no interest in, but Martin did have impeccable taste.
"I can be done," he agrees and presses a kiss against Martin's palm. "You always take me to the best places."
One of the advantages of having joined the Lukases. It brought a certain prestige and access to wealth which Jon normally had no interest in, but Martin did have impeccable taste.
Jon barely looks up when the door opens. His eyes are closed, tongue flicking out over his lips occasionally as he takes the time to process it. It feels so good is the problem. All that fear, that suffering and pain. It sustains him and his god pleased. And he'll see them in his dreams too, watch them over and over again and drink in every second.
It's only when the record button clicks on that he seems to take notice, a siren's call, and he looks up at Martin with half-lidded eyes that blink slowly at him, like a cat that's half asleep and fed well.
And then he lays it out, the whole story with perfect clarity, mirroring that poor soul's experience with his words and his voice, each of them imbued with that primeval terror ripped out from dormancy. Finally he sighs and leans forwards, arms folded on the desk, and rests his head against them. "And then I came back here."
It's only when the record button clicks on that he seems to take notice, a siren's call, and he looks up at Martin with half-lidded eyes that blink slowly at him, like a cat that's half asleep and fed well.
And then he lays it out, the whole story with perfect clarity, mirroring that poor soul's experience with his words and his voice, each of them imbued with that primeval terror ripped out from dormancy. Finally he sighs and leans forwards, arms folded on the desk, and rests his head against them. "And then I came back here."
Edited 2019-07-01 16:23 (UTC)
If there were anyone better to ask for advice or an introduction to such matters, Angela would very much like to meet them. No, when she received the tentative message from Jon and invited him over for tea and to discuss whatever was on his mind, she couldn't have imagined it would be exactly like this, but she's glad he had come to her. Maybe a part of her had suspected that the moons would hold sway over him eventually, whether he liked it or not. But with some brief assurance that it isn't the case, that really, this was all right, she bumps her brow to his for a long moment with a hand cradling his jaw, thumb over some scar or another, and she says "okay". She just needs a few minutes to get everything prepared.
Pick the right equipment for the job, ensuring it's all sterilized and she has enough condoms on hand, and— well. She'll try not to spook him with all the details. The trust was already there, no? Months and months of friendship, of being subjected to this place, and Jon... likely wanting to take some form of control, she imagines, but that may not be quite right, either.
"Would you like to take a shower before we begin?"
She's already drawing him along by his fingertips, guiding him toward her bedroom as bare feet pad quietly on the hardwood— spacious, bed soft and walls done in navy with gold diamond frames, just like the living room. It seemed to be the theme of the place. The only thing she's likely added to the default room were extra coffee mugs for guests and the number of blankets strewn about, and even half of those were gifts. Her own attire's mostly just the oversized sweater nearly reaching her knees she's bundled in, material silky soft and fuzzy trumping even cashmere, having been winding down after a day of work and in no rush to get terribly decent for his arrival. She was comfortable as she was; she figured it would inspire the same in him as he toed off his shoes and entered her flat.
Pick the right equipment for the job, ensuring it's all sterilized and she has enough condoms on hand, and— well. She'll try not to spook him with all the details. The trust was already there, no? Months and months of friendship, of being subjected to this place, and Jon... likely wanting to take some form of control, she imagines, but that may not be quite right, either.
"Would you like to take a shower before we begin?"
She's already drawing him along by his fingertips, guiding him toward her bedroom as bare feet pad quietly on the hardwood— spacious, bed soft and walls done in navy with gold diamond frames, just like the living room. It seemed to be the theme of the place. The only thing she's likely added to the default room were extra coffee mugs for guests and the number of blankets strewn about, and even half of those were gifts. Her own attire's mostly just the oversized sweater nearly reaching her knees she's bundled in, material silky soft and fuzzy trumping even cashmere, having been winding down after a day of work and in no rush to get terribly decent for his arrival. She was comfortable as she was; she figured it would inspire the same in him as he toed off his shoes and entered her flat.
It's taken a long time for him to get to this point, for him to feel comfortable about this. He isn't a sexual person by nature; quite the opposite, but he's stuck here, and he has people he trusts to not push boundaries he isn't comfortable with crossing. He's still prickly and awkward, but more than all of that, he's curious. Had been, even before he'd become the Archivist, and that has only increased with his patron's directive to learn and experience.
And who better to teach him than Angela?
He lets her guide him through the house, taking in the details of the place with greedy eyes before he manages to pull his attention back to her.
"Ah, a shower might be good," he agrees. It would feel less awkward to strip off for a shower, than it would to undress purely for sex. "I'm not- there are a lot of scars," he adds. He doesn't think she'll mind, but he feels like he should warn her anyway.
And who better to teach him than Angela?
He lets her guide him through the house, taking in the details of the place with greedy eyes before he manages to pull his attention back to her.
"Ah, a shower might be good," he agrees. It would feel less awkward to strip off for a shower, than it would to undress purely for sex. "I'm not- there are a lot of scars," he adds. He doesn't think she'll mind, but he feels like he should warn her anyway.
It was that genuine curiosity that had her agreeing to his request so easily; he had explained his feelings before, on the subject, and so she'd never pressed him. They could nap together, curl up on a sofa and read, go out to eat, and just generally enjoy one another without it needing to result in the removal of clothes and feisty hands. She's always been happy if he's comfortable; it needn't be anything more than that. (And of course, he receives no small number of kisses from her, dotting his cheeks and his brow, once catching him on the nose, the corners of his smiles.) He's her friend, and she's affectionate. She will always gladly share that with him without expectation.
There are signs of company through her flat, but no other signs of life. No roommates; not anymore. Once they're in her room, there's a door clearly leading to the spacious bathroom, and his acknowledgement has her leading him over to the doorway before she's drawing his hand up with the twine of their arms, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Her glance through her lashes is only a little mischievous. It's nothing new from her.
"You know I work with soldiers; scars are nothing new. Would you like some company...?"
There are signs of company through her flat, but no other signs of life. No roommates; not anymore. Once they're in her room, there's a door clearly leading to the spacious bathroom, and his acknowledgement has her leading him over to the doorway before she's drawing his hand up with the twine of their arms, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Her glance through her lashes is only a little mischievous. It's nothing new from her.
"You know I work with soldiers; scars are nothing new. Would you like some company...?"
There's still an awkwardness to him when he's shown affection. Even after months, it still feels like something surprising, and he knows he doesn't deserve that sort of comfort anyway. He still wants it. He's selfish like that.
"I know, I just- they're unpleasant and I feel like I should warn you. It's polite." He certainly doesn't want to spring them on someone unprepared.
"And if you want to come in with me, i wouldn't object," he adds, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
"I know, I just- they're unpleasant and I feel like I should warn you. It's polite." He certainly doesn't want to spring them on someone unprepared.
"And if you want to come in with me, i wouldn't object," he adds, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
It tends to fade, she's found. It surprises him initially, day to day, but it's still something he soaks right up and she isn't one to keep him wanting. It isn't selfish to need— it's just how humans are. She's glad that he can still claim that sort of emotion and desire.
There's a first for everything, isn't there? She just smiles down at his knuckles before pressing another kiss to the flat of his index finger, her own wrist twisting so the lace of her fingers gives way and she can turn that burned palm up to her lips for one more.
"The concern is appreciated, but I'll just thank each and every one for failing to make off with your life. I won't tell you that I look right past them, because I can't; you're still 'Jon', whatever shape you happen to take. And I would like that very much."
She's a doctor. It's only natural she'll see scars and wonder if and how it impacts someone's quality of life, deducing whether or not they hurt, if they're tight, if they require removal and correcting, if they're cutting off circulation. They just aren't unattractive to her. Has she told him before? That she sees them as some close call they've made it through? She has an appreciation for scars, for that reason.
So she steps in first and draws him along, walking backwards in a familiar space and reaching for his other hand to draw both forward and down to the hem of her sweater. He gets the honors, of course, and they can take turns helping.
There's a first for everything, isn't there? She just smiles down at his knuckles before pressing another kiss to the flat of his index finger, her own wrist twisting so the lace of her fingers gives way and she can turn that burned palm up to her lips for one more.
"The concern is appreciated, but I'll just thank each and every one for failing to make off with your life. I won't tell you that I look right past them, because I can't; you're still 'Jon', whatever shape you happen to take. And I would like that very much."
She's a doctor. It's only natural she'll see scars and wonder if and how it impacts someone's quality of life, deducing whether or not they hurt, if they're tight, if they require removal and correcting, if they're cutting off circulation. They just aren't unattractive to her. Has she told him before? That she sees them as some close call they've made it through? She has an appreciation for scars, for that reason.
So she steps in first and draws him along, walking backwards in a familiar space and reaching for his other hand to draw both forward and down to the hem of her sweater. He gets the honors, of course, and they can take turns helping.
It takes his breath away when she kisses him like that. The burn scars are ugly honestly, he hates them. A reminder of everything that he can't escape. Everything that he is. And she touches them like they're not horrible. Like he's worth something.
"That- thank you." It makes him feel less monstrous.
He lets her draw him further in, towards the bathroom. He smiles when she pulls his hands down to her sweater. He's not completely inexperienced. He'd had Georgie after all, no matter how naive people sometimes seem to think he is.
He pulls it up carefully, slowly, exposing pale perfect skin, and tugs the sweater over her head. "You're lovely."
"That- thank you." It makes him feel less monstrous.
He lets her draw him further in, towards the bathroom. He smiles when she pulls his hands down to her sweater. He's not completely inexperienced. He'd had Georgie after all, no matter how naive people sometimes seem to think he is.
He pulls it up carefully, slowly, exposing pale perfect skin, and tugs the sweater over her head. "You're lovely."
Angela doesn't think they're ugly. They just exist, like beauty marks or grey hairs or glasses; some additional part of a person that makes them unique, something like freckles earned from years in the sun, a body's way of adapting to what it's been through. Jon's been through more than most. That's always something she'll take interest in and embrace, another part of his whole.
She knows what it means to him, for her to accept him this way. How it takes him aback every time because he isn't expecting even her idlest affections where he doesn't think they'll land. She may not have the whole story but she knows he doesn't like his scars in the least. But they're not horrible, and he is worth something— everything. Face the facts, Jon. She adores you. You're important to her in this place and she considers him one of her closest and longest-lasting friends. She's dedicated to his happiness and his comfort here.
"You're very welcome. I hope you never forget what a wonderful friend you are to me and how much I care about you."
He'll never be a monster to her, and she's never going to be annoyed or upset with him; her patience is very near 'never-ending' as it stands, and it only stretches further for those she cares about.
Angela doesn't offer guidance out of assumption that he's inexperienced; it's an invitation to instigate and keep this rolling steadily forward, not giving him the chance to second-guess what it is he'd requested or back out from some perceived block or another. She wants him to know that she's interested and she wants this, too, and so her arms raise as he draws it up off of her and he reveals the lean expanse of her abdomen and the swell of her breasts caged in dark blue lace, able to see the shape and shadows of her, the pink of her nipples.
"And you're very kind to say so. My turn?"
She asks, but she's already reaching to slip her hands up under the button-edges of his open cardigan, pressing into his stomach and stroking up his chest to see it off his shoulders if he obliges.
She knows what it means to him, for her to accept him this way. How it takes him aback every time because he isn't expecting even her idlest affections where he doesn't think they'll land. She may not have the whole story but she knows he doesn't like his scars in the least. But they're not horrible, and he is worth something— everything. Face the facts, Jon. She adores you. You're important to her in this place and she considers him one of her closest and longest-lasting friends. She's dedicated to his happiness and his comfort here.
"You're very welcome. I hope you never forget what a wonderful friend you are to me and how much I care about you."
He'll never be a monster to her, and she's never going to be annoyed or upset with him; her patience is very near 'never-ending' as it stands, and it only stretches further for those she cares about.
Angela doesn't offer guidance out of assumption that he's inexperienced; it's an invitation to instigate and keep this rolling steadily forward, not giving him the chance to second-guess what it is he'd requested or back out from some perceived block or another. She wants him to know that she's interested and she wants this, too, and so her arms raise as he draws it up off of her and he reveals the lean expanse of her abdomen and the swell of her breasts caged in dark blue lace, able to see the shape and shadows of her, the pink of her nipples.
"And you're very kind to say so. My turn?"
She asks, but she's already reaching to slip her hands up under the button-edges of his open cardigan, pressing into his stomach and stroking up his chest to see it off his shoulders if he obliges.
"Ever been in a fight?"
Once upon a time, that question would have sounded more menacing, coming from Daisy, a threat by way of insinuation. Over a pint, and with multiple nights of pints behind them,it's still not a harmless question but at least the claws are sheathed somewhat. She asks it steadily, with an air of the rhetorical- she's pretty sure Jonathan Sims has never been in a fight, at least not a serious one. But it can be good to check.
Once upon a time, that question would have sounded more menacing, coming from Daisy, a threat by way of insinuation. Over a pint, and with multiple nights of pints behind them,it's still not a harmless question but at least the claws are sheathed somewhat. She asks it steadily, with an air of the rhetorical- she's pretty sure Jonathan Sims has never been in a fight, at least not a serious one. But it can be good to check.
Jon looks up from the paperwork he's poring over. He feels like he should at least attempt to keep up appearances, and that does involve a certain amount of report writing and pretending that any of them have some sort of regular schedule or professional development. It's about as fictional as the statements that record to his laptop.
"Not since I was a teenager."
"Not since I was a teenager."
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