In passing. I believe the gist was: "You may be called to act as a source of support for others. Don't hesitate to excuse yourself from draining situations."
It's leisurely as Blake ever is, but when he shows up to where Crane is staged, he doesn't look at all rushed. A sense of zen — albeit minor — has slipped past his defenses and he sit easily across from the doctor as if this is a regular date and utterly acceptable even after their very rocky beginnings.
"You asked for this," he reminds the other man, although he does so in a rather cheeky way, not wanting to toss their conversation into the pit just for the sake of being at each other's throats non-stop. He's been practicing his Horizon magic, so as expected, he "pays" for the drink by producing money and a person to deliver the beers in their glasses. There's no intention to show off, but he is making strides now that he's forced himself past his initial awkwardness towards the whole ordeal.
Blake sits back, relaxing against the chair, trusting it to hold him up, trusting the rest to hold him down. Unlike physics in the real world, he feels untethered here, worried so often that everything will suddenly change right beneath him.
"How's work?" He asks as if they're old friends finally catching up.
"Plentiful. Who could have imagined the people here have so many problems?"
His response fires once Blake has closed his question. The wonderful thing about predictable questions is being able to craft specific answers. The euphoric feeling gifting their evening a spark is the knowledge he can choose not to pretend. To relax, unwind and become himself at the drop of a hat. Life stopped being an ordeal once he realised it was easy to navigate. All he had needed to learn was its rules.
Outside his office the night sky reflects the darkness of the real world. His beer - he avoids drinking in company - begins warming as embers crackle in the fireplace.
Blake takes no sort of pause and he actually drains a decent amount of his faux beer, hissing gently at the hoppy sharpness. He doesn't drink often, but since coming to Abraxas he's found himself more and more tolerant. Not an expert by any means (and only apt to be "drunk" in the Horizon if he allows it of himself), but he thinks he can hold his own. Assuming Crane bothers to drink.
"Well, considerin' the way this place adds stress, it doesn't seem so surprisin' to me. We're a half-inch from war all the time." Blake doesn't appreciate this fact but he does acknowledge it because every day in the Free Cities takes its toll, and while the locals suffer, the Summoned are called on more than anyone else to execute. (And for what? Certainly for more than an obelisk.)
"Does it break your personal code of ethics to tell me how it's goin' for your patients?"
Crane looks towards his glass - a simple and narrow shape that expands near the top - and holds his breath. He never drinks with friends and rarely with colleagues. His dedication to his work means he hardly drinks at all. His mind is too treasured to him to be blunted by alcohol. The social engagements associated with his position tire his patience. So he finds his comfort in his research instead of the glass.
He regards his drinking companion with mild suspicion. Does Blake enjoy this? Forcing him to question his boundaries? To compromise his integrity? Does he assume he will impose his own ethics? When abandoning them is everything one must do to survive?
His uncomfortable sigh is accompanined by a discomforting stare.
"No. But if everything was anything but fine would we be having this conversation?" He wrinkles his nose. "Of course not."
He pauses for a moment. "People are doing well. It is nice to witness them beginning to change their lives for the better."
Of course those improvements are according to his opinion and design. Not that his guest doesn't know that.
As it turns out, Blake enjoys most floods of information. It's asking a lot for him to allow all those details to seep in — he can find himself easily overwhelmed with more questions than it's worth — but it becomes useful with each new step he takes, especially in this tentative, but definite relationship with Crane.
He sips his drink and his legs cross loosely, the beer held in one hand. Studying passively for a moemnt, he finally shrugs.
"If it was anything but fine, what would we be doin'?" he asks, although he knows the last several times they'd spent their time together, Blake had been in varying states of disarray and not really capable of doing much more than lob idle threats at them both in one manner or another.
Crane reaches for his beer. His posture is rigid and stiff while he lifts the glass to his lips. Eyes close for focus and the world goes black.
Until they fly open. He grimaces at the taste. Not only is alcohol a rare taste it is a bitter one. Not least because he remembers being pitied by his tutor. It was hard to decline a person in a position of power - a person he had once admired.
"You would be warning all and sundry and I would be reminding you to remember a man is innocent until proven guilty." He raises a brow and judges Blake without waiting to hear his case. "Or does that cornerstone of law only apply to the innocent?"
"That does sound like us," he muses, although there isn't a laugh to follow, partly because Blake isn't necessarily that man, even if that was who had taken over when the two of them had met.
Pleased to see Crane at least trying, Blake sips his own drink as if making it conciliatory, and considers the rest. It's the same back alley lead that would hope to draw him into a fight and he decides that sidestepping the semantics would do them both a favor.
"If you're innocent, then you've got nothin' to sweat," he says, and he'd like to believe that, too, but he'd seen Crane in that apothecary, and he knows that people don't just... get better overnight. "And can trust I'm just here for a beer."
Genuine curiosity is not out of the question despite their tenuous background.
His lilting voice rises and falls, changing direction with the flow of conversation. It is one sign of introspection: the weighing of curiosity against his survival instincts. For he trusts nobody and knows Blake thinks he understands why.
"We are here to understand our position. I to observe yours and you to tail mine."
There really is no polite way to call Blake a spy. But that was a brave attempt.
"You've gotten space," he points out, figuring that Crane can't really argue that. Blake hasn't taken any more time to out the doctor, nor has he gone to any of the authorities to warn of potential issues. He could follow one militant act after another if that were his prerogative, but he instead chooses to let Crane walk that path himself. If he steps out of line, there's no small number of individuals to stop him.
"And what position do I have? None," Blake adds, and this time this sip is much deeper than the last. He's at Viktor's workshop, but he's not making anyone's life easier. Although he is finding himself more and more entrenched by everything going on around them.
There is a block on addressing Blake by name. One constructed by experience against the uncomfortable intimacy of friendship. He murmurs at nothing and looks at the fire. He might not question the method but he is suspicious of its motivation.
"But congratulations on making friends who support your position."
Blake chews on that a moment, trying to decide if Crane's cyclical approach to questioning everything is part of the training or just a man turning in circles himself. Too often he's accusing Blake just moments after a confession of doing the exact opposite. It's like being called a liar without saying as much.
"That support my non-position? Thanks, I guess. But call me curious, 'cause now I really wanna know who I poisoned you against. Hilda could crush your skull. And Norman wasn't charmed for a second." If they knew enough and hadn't ousted Crane yet, then what's the harm done? There's a hard edge to Blake's words, defensiveness where it's not necessary, but he hasn't taken on greater emotion, hoping only to bolster his position.
"Are they avoiding you?" It's asked plainly, although the arch of Blake's eyebrow might suggest that he's attempting to draw a distinction between cautious and avoidant.
Crane inhales and holds his breath. Norman. Hilda. Dean. Their names are unimportant: were they unacquainted he would have befriended others. Chances are with a different background chances he would feel flattered. But as it stands he looks tired.
"No but you are missing the point."
His stare focuses on the flames in an uncomfortable and unpleasant manner. This fire is a luxury he once could never afford.
"A man can have all the space in which to roam but still be trapped in prison."
It is the situation he endured as a child. One he fought with tooth and nail.
"You're lonely," Blake reasons, although he hardly needs any of this back-and-forth to know as much. "Trust me, doc, I get it. In the dark depths of the mind, a dozen shinin' smiles look like bloody, bared teeth. Come to face them, and it's piercin' gazes and cruel whispers, clawed hands reachin'—
"And that's when you don't wanna be saved, when you don't wanna risk the disappointment, and there's nothin' takin' you from day-to-day but the obsession with yourself and how you're just not worth the effort.
"You could be, if only— if only—"
It bubbles out and there's no lack of conviction. He's got no fancy terminology to define it, nor any right to compare them, but he sure as hell knows how he's interpreting this. After all, Crane's mentioned friendship how many times before?
Crane presses his lips together and shakes his head: his feet dragging across carpet. His body leans forward - but while rising slowly he grasps the armchair with his hand. He closes his eyes and slouches. But he drags himself upright and balls that hand into a fist. Empathy and sympathy are encouaging to some. But he finds them damaging and dehumanising and can only be reminded of his own helplessness.
The only man he needs in any relationship is himself. The only side of himself that he wants to share is made of straw. The only thing he wants to inspire is a cold sweat. He offers an unwarranted smile but clenches his jaw. Why be terrified of others when he can terrify them first?
He pinches his nose and turns away to stare at the painting above the fireplace. There have been dozens of attempts to make friends. Each attempt had tired him to death and - like this painting - trapped him in an infinite scream.
"If only I accept your help?"
His indifference withers while he studies the painting.
"My help?" Blake suppresses the urge to scoff. Of all the people on the planet Abraxas, he's about the last he'd expect Crane to lean towards for that purposes. "Shit, no, doc, I can think of a million reasons why I'm not the guy for that job."
Trying to imagine himself unraveling Crane's gnarled issues only inspires images of Blake wrapped up just as tightly. They'd be two thorny vines tangled and apt to shred anyone who tries to pry them from their problems.
He picks at his fingernail, eyes still leveled on Crane. "Do you want the help? Would you take it?" Because that's where Blake struggles and he knows it prevents him even now from improving his life. Still haunted by memories decades old he's achieved great things, but what would it look like if he weren't so inhibited?
"Would you take it?" The aloof look on his face is suggesting otherwise. "I can think of a million reasons why I cannot."
He pauses for a second to admire the painting before inhaling his frustration. He approaches for a closer look, hands behind his back as he counts every stroke and line. The painting holds his gaze - pulls him in - drains him of curiosity and replaces it with despair. Fingers clench and straighten the frame. He imagines himself as the painting and hears himself scream.
"The most important of which is I am comfortable with my life. Scars exist but I cannot imagine myself indulging in the self-loving urge to move forward and deny their existance."
He is truly unashamed of himself at the end of it all.
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Any more of this and I'll need a beer.
[That's what jocks do, right?]
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"You asked for this," he reminds the other man, although he does so in a rather cheeky way, not wanting to toss their conversation into the pit just for the sake of being at each other's throats non-stop. He's been practicing his Horizon magic, so as expected, he "pays" for the drink by producing money and a person to deliver the beers in their glasses. There's no intention to show off, but he is making strides now that he's forced himself past his initial awkwardness towards the whole ordeal.
Blake sits back, relaxing against the chair, trusting it to hold him up, trusting the rest to hold him down. Unlike physics in the real world, he feels untethered here, worried so often that everything will suddenly change right beneath him.
"How's work?" He asks as if they're old friends finally catching up.
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His response fires once Blake has closed his question. The wonderful thing about predictable questions is being able to craft specific answers. The euphoric feeling gifting their evening a spark is the knowledge he can choose not to pretend. To relax, unwind and become himself at the drop of a hat. Life stopped being an ordeal once he realised it was easy to navigate. All he had needed to learn was its rules.
Outside his office the night sky reflects the darkness of the real world. His beer - he avoids drinking in company - begins warming as embers crackle in the fireplace.
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"Well, considerin' the way this place adds stress, it doesn't seem so surprisin' to me. We're a half-inch from war all the time." Blake doesn't appreciate this fact but he does acknowledge it because every day in the Free Cities takes its toll, and while the locals suffer, the Summoned are called on more than anyone else to execute. (And for what? Certainly for more than an obelisk.)
"Does it break your personal code of ethics to tell me how it's goin' for your patients?"
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He regards his drinking companion with mild suspicion. Does Blake enjoy this? Forcing him to question his boundaries? To compromise his integrity? Does he assume he will impose his own ethics? When abandoning them is everything one must do to survive?
His uncomfortable sigh is accompanined by a discomforting stare.
"No. But if everything was anything but fine would we be having this conversation?" He wrinkles his nose. "Of course not."
He pauses for a moment. "People are doing well. It is nice to witness them beginning to change their lives for the better."
Of course those improvements are according to his opinion and design. Not that his guest doesn't know that.
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He sips his drink and his legs cross loosely, the beer held in one hand. Studying passively for a moemnt, he finally shrugs.
"If it was anything but fine, what would we be doin'?" he asks, although he knows the last several times they'd spent their time together, Blake had been in varying states of disarray and not really capable of doing much more than lob idle threats at them both in one manner or another.
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Until they fly open. He grimaces at the taste. Not only is alcohol a rare taste it is a bitter one. Not least because he remembers being pitied by his tutor. It was hard to decline a person in a position of power - a person he had once admired.
"You would be warning all and sundry and I would be reminding you to remember a man is innocent until proven guilty." He raises a brow and judges Blake without waiting to hear his case. "Or does that cornerstone of law only apply to the innocent?"
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Pleased to see Crane at least trying, Blake sips his own drink as if making it conciliatory, and considers the rest. It's the same back alley lead that would hope to draw him into a fight and he decides that sidestepping the semantics would do them both a favor.
"If you're innocent, then you've got nothin' to sweat," he says, and he'd like to believe that, too, but he'd seen Crane in that apothecary, and he knows that people don't just... get better overnight. "And can trust I'm just here for a beer."
Genuine curiosity is not out of the question despite their tenuous background.
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His lilting voice rises and falls, changing direction with the flow of conversation. It is one sign of introspection: the weighing of curiosity against his survival instincts. For he trusts nobody and knows Blake thinks he understands why.
"We are here to understand our position. I to observe yours and you to tail mine."
There really is no polite way to call Blake a spy. But that was a brave attempt.
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"And what position do I have? None," Blake adds, and this time this sip is much deeper than the last. He's at Viktor's workshop, but he's not making anyone's life easier. Although he is finding himself more and more entrenched by everything going on around them.
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There is a block on addressing Blake by name. One constructed by experience against the uncomfortable intimacy of friendship. He murmurs at nothing and looks at the fire. He might not question the method but he is suspicious of its motivation.
"But congratulations on making friends who support your position."
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"That support my non-position? Thanks, I guess. But call me curious, 'cause now I really wanna know who I poisoned you against. Hilda could crush your skull. And Norman wasn't charmed for a second." If they knew enough and hadn't ousted Crane yet, then what's the harm done? There's a hard edge to Blake's words, defensiveness where it's not necessary, but he hasn't taken on greater emotion, hoping only to bolster his position.
"Are they avoiding you?" It's asked plainly, although the arch of Blake's eyebrow might suggest that he's attempting to draw a distinction between cautious and avoidant.
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"No but you are missing the point."
His stare focuses on the flames in an uncomfortable and unpleasant manner. This fire is a luxury he once could never afford.
"A man can have all the space in which to roam but still be trapped in prison."
It is the situation he endured as a child. One he fought with tooth and nail.
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"And that's when you don't wanna be saved, when you don't wanna risk the disappointment, and there's nothin' takin' you from day-to-day but the obsession with yourself and how you're just not worth the effort.
"You could be, if only— if only—"
It bubbles out and there's no lack of conviction. He's got no fancy terminology to define it, nor any right to compare them, but he sure as hell knows how he's interpreting this. After all, Crane's mentioned friendship how many times before?
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The only man he needs in any relationship is himself. The only side of himself that he wants to share is made of straw. The only thing he wants to inspire is a cold sweat. He offers an unwarranted smile but clenches his jaw. Why be terrified of others when he can terrify them first?
He pinches his nose and turns away to stare at the painting above the fireplace. There have been dozens of attempts to make friends. Each attempt had tired him to death and - like this painting - trapped him in an infinite scream.
"If only I accept your help?"
His indifference withers while he studies the painting.
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Trying to imagine himself unraveling Crane's gnarled issues only inspires images of Blake wrapped up just as tightly. They'd be two thorny vines tangled and apt to shred anyone who tries to pry them from their problems.
He picks at his fingernail, eyes still leveled on Crane. "Do you want the help? Would you take it?" Because that's where Blake struggles and he knows it prevents him even now from improving his life. Still haunted by memories decades old he's achieved great things, but what would it look like if he weren't so inhibited?
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He pauses for a second to admire the painting before inhaling his frustration. He approaches for a closer look, hands behind his back as he counts every stroke and line. The painting holds his gaze - pulls him in - drains him of curiosity and replaces it with despair. Fingers clench and straighten the frame. He imagines himself as the painting and hears himself scream.
"The most important of which is I am comfortable with my life. Scars exist but I cannot imagine myself indulging in the self-loving urge to move forward and deny their existance."
He is truly unashamed of himself at the end of it all.
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