"Well, I've said it so many times that I've stopped getting it, I think," he mutters. "It just sounds like bullshit in my head. It's not like I'm some emotionally stunted gargoyle. I usually know what I'm feeling. The problem is that the person who usually listened to me died and no one else gives a shit."
"Died at home," he says. "I mean, I know there's people who do care here. But it's one thing to know that and another thing to know it. Make sense?" he wonders, leaning back.
"Makes a lot of sense," she agrees. "And you probably knew the person at home better than you know any of us. There's knowing and knowing, and there's also caring and caring. The second kind takes time, usually, and you're still pretty new, right?"
"I have Kepler. He's from home, too. It was - the three of us for a very long time," he explains. "But he was my CO. Getting used to him as being someone I can talk to is an adjustment, yeah." He takes the pen from the notebook so he can tap it a bit.
"But yeah, I'm new. And caring about people isn't something that comes easy to me. Even with time," he admits.
"There's people who'll never forgive you for doing what you did," she says - sounding matter-of-fact about this, not apologetic. "But I hope there'll be people who'll listen to you, too. You're being calm and polite right now; that'll help. People like that."
It is, of course, rarely quite that simple, but never let it be said that Tiffany's own biases don't come into play.
He gives her a long look, considering. "I'm not really used to privacy," he explains. "I have two trackers in me that let my bosses know where I am at all times. I have a file on me that has everything I've ever done. Not the Admiral's file, but a real file, back home. But I don't like strangers knowing things about me that would make them pity me. Or sympathize with me. That kind of dirty laundry. So yeah, the shit I said? That's dirty laundry. I'll tell people almost whatever they want to know."
"I don't pity you," she says - quickly, easily, truthfully. "But I do sympathize, and even empathize a little bit. Not pity, though; I hate that shit, too."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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The latter, she figures, but she doesn't want to all-out assume.
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"But yeah, I'm new. And caring about people isn't something that comes easy to me. Even with time," he admits.
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It is, of course, rarely quite that simple, but never let it be said that Tiffany's own biases don't come into play.
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He shrugs. "Not like I could stop you anyway."
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She mirrors his shrug, leaning back against the hard wall and closing her eyes.
"If you didn't wanna hear it, I'd respect that."
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She opens one eye, and her lips turn up in a tiny ghost of a smile.
"And if I do start pitying you, you can punch me in the face."
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"Yeah. That will do a lot for my image around here. But I'll keep that in mind."