i_speak_softly | Sixty-Second Theory [Action]

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Sixty-Second Theory [Action]

[Today, Don can intermittently be found standing outside House 55, eating a large but careful amount of the household's remaining food, and watching a long line of Kin'corans walk - or be forcibly herded - into the barracks to be teleported to wherever they're going.]

[In between these breaks, he will be industriously stripping the plaster from the walls of one of the house's long-vacant bedrooms, demolishing it right down to the studs. He has the windows open to help ventilate the inevitable dust, and the sound of his efforts can be plainly heard in the surrounding area.]

[Ask what he's doing in there? Complain about the noise? Or just join him to observe the sad parade of refugees?]

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[It's simple and effective okay.]

[Don shrugs. He would probably wear one if you brought it to him (at least until he misplaced and forgot about it), but it's no big deal if he doesn't have one.]

[It's something for him to do then. Robert, spurred into action by a potential objective, moves to go search for a good mask for Don.]

... Give me a moment. I will go do so.

[Knowing Don, he'll just keep working and turning the room into a mess, though.]

[No, he'll keep working and try to sweep up the dust a little. It's not terribly effective and will probably make Robert want to do it obsessively himself.]

[It is very difficult to resist the impulse to actually do so when he catches Don beginning, but Robert manages to stop himself and heads out of the room.

Less than five minutes later he's back with two standard-issue medical masks, with elasticized bands at the back - hopefully one'll fit comfortably over Don's significantly-wider beak - and cleaning materials. He knows he should probably wait until after, but the dust is driving him crazy.]

Here, Don. [He extends one of the masks Turtle-ward, clutching the other in his own hand.]

Edited 2012-09-07 02:18 (UTC)

[Don looks at the mask doubtfully, but puts it on. Immediately, the thin paper starts getting sucked into his nostrils every time he inhales.]

[... This is not going to work.]

[...

The irritated look on Robert's face is akin to someone finding a mismatched pair of socks.]

Well.

I suppose this will be... more difficult than I thought...

[And he's honestly not sure if sturdier masks exist that would fit Don's beak properly. Stupid human-centric designers.]

[Don takes the mask off before he hurts himself, and awkwardly hands it back to Robert. Thanks for the thought, at least.]

There has to be some way... [Now even more determined to find some method of protecting the Turtle's lungs (because why should only Robert be able to have it?), Robert stares irritably at the paper mask in his hands, attempting to figure out how to properly fit it across Don's face.]

I would not... wish for you to become ill, Don. I am certain you are aware of the dangers of certain kinds of dust...

[Yes, yes, of course he knows. Are you going to lecture him about the unhealthy side effects of his habits?]

[No, but he is going to worry about Don's health forever until he can find a way to fix it or at least not to worry so much.]

So then you must be safe... constructing something like this is counter-intuitive if it puts your health at risk...

[Don has faced so many things in his life, a little dust doesn't even register as unsafe. Having the risks pointed out to him like this is kind of annoying. In a world of healing magic and temporary death, he just wants to live his life and damn the dangers.]

[Realizing Don is still working despite all of this, Robert frowns in a confused sort of way. Are you really going to do this despite the danger?]

Don... [Yes, he is genuinely afraid of this despite everything that has happened. Perhaps it's ridiculous, but Robert is basically hyperacutely aware of potential danger to his partner now.

Might need to shoo him off, Don. Or distract him with the dust's presence. Maybe if Robert can clean it as Don works he won't be as paranoid?]

[Wielding the broom like a bo, Don strikes defiantly at the pile of dust. Don't tell him one of the few things he can still find satisfaction in is too dangerous.]

[Okay, that works to shoo Robert off at least, though it's not exactly the nicest way to do it.

The scientist scuttles backwards, away from the cloud of dust hanging in the air, and shields his face from it - though it's too late to stop a coat of the stuff from spraying across his lab coat and arms. Luckily his eyes are protected from the dust by his omnipresent glasses, and his reaction time isn't as slow as it used to be, but his sputtering makes it obvious he didn't expect that.

A few moments later, his brain registers that he's covered in dust, and that's enough to trip the little mental switch that says he's filthy and needs to remove it right away. He instantly launches into a tirade of arm-wiping.]

[Don is too angry to feel very bad about this. Showing a minimum of sympathy, he pushes a somewhat-used towel into Robert's hands, and points him towards the door. Go clean up.]

[The fact it's somewhat-used is just making this whole thing worse. Robert skitters back towards the door, holding the towel with a touch that suggests the object is as repulsive as the rest of the dust, and uses it to wipe off part of his arm.

It doesn't really help much. The dust sort of just gets smeared everywhere all over the coat's sleeve.

With a neurotic sort of expression, Robert rubs at the area again. And again. And again.

... Rinse, repeat, for a few dozen times.

Give him a moment. The week's been a little much for him.]

[Thank you for being disgusted by Don's sweaty towel, Robert; that really makes him feel good.]

[The Turtle steers the panicking scientist more forcibly out of the room, and slams the door behind him. Maybe don't come back for a while.]

...

[At first, there's complete non-comprehension as Don pushes Robert out the door, since Robert is so wrapped-up in his various neuroses to really notice why. But when the door is quite suddenly slammed in his face -]

... Don?

[He doesn't try to open the door again. Even Robert can understand what a door slammed in his face means.

This is the angriest he has ever made Don, and he has absolutely no idea what it was he did. Completely bewildered and hurt, Robert just stares at the closed door, a physical recreation of the distance between them, before he starts to cry silently.]

[For the next few minutes, Don loudly and violently tears down the remaining chunks of drywall, throwing them to the floor until the interior structures behind them are laid bare. When that's done, his initial anger is spent, and he turns to the task of cleaning up the mess.

Intact pieces of the wall are piled in a corner, to be taken away later. The dustpan is filled, many times, and tipped carefully into the bushes under the window. When he's finished, it's probably still not up to Robert's obsessive standards, but it should at least not look like a health hazard anymore.

From there, Don slips silently into the bathroom to wash up, then to the kitchen to boil some water.

About an hour after the slam of the door, he enters Robert's room, quiet and penitent. The man is hunched in a corner, staring at nothing, half-dried teartracks streaking his face.

Don kneels beside him - slow, calm, formal - and offers a steaming cup of the Terran's favorite tea. Peace?]

[An hour. A lot of things can happen in an hour.

Robert wasn't standing in front of the door crying the whole time, no. Even his processes function better than that. He could only stand a few minutes of it, the angry noises of destruction behind the door juxtaposed with the dark staring silence of its surface, and when it rapidly became evident that Don's emotions were not changing, he left. What else was there to do?

Since then he's obsessively scoured dust from his clothing and himself, washed Don's towel at least twice over (and no, it wasn't the sweat that bothered him, it was the dust on that too), and then... emptiness set in. Suddenly the dust's presence seemed unproblematic next to whatever trouble he caused.

As he is wont to do in any situation where he has caused a problem and can't understand what it is, he essentially retreated to his room to hide.

And that, of course, is where Don finds him. He is indeed staring at nothing, and there are worrying marks on his hands where he's been rhythmically rubbing them. His nanocomputer sits open at his desk, screen blank and forgotten. It's evident he tried to write something, failed, and then simply got caught up in his own thoughts. Don's towel, cleaned and almost reverently folded on the bed, is likely the only sign he's done anything whatsoever.

At first the noise of the door opening, and the light of the hallway filtering in, is not noticed by the occupant. But the sweet scent of tea in a room as sterile as Robert's...

He turns, enough to see Don there, kneeling, and he doesn't really know what to say.]

...

[He takes the tea from Don's hands, cradles it like a lifeline, and looks into his eyes.

Peace.]

[Don remains silent, letting Robert drink the calming tea. If the scientist hasn't said anything yet when half the cup is gone, the Turtle will begin with:]

I'm sorry.

[Robert immediately shakes his head.]

I am the one who... sh-should be sorry...

[Didn't he cause he the problem? (Doesn't he always?)]

[It's not important who's at fault. What matters is that they were upset with each other, and now they've made up.]

[Don shifts a little closer, resting their shoulders together. Is this okay?]

[Yes, it's okay. Robert lets his shoulders relax and leans into Don slightly, a small half-smile on his lips.]

... I... must be f-frustrating, sometimes. [He means his obsessive desire to make everything clean, but unknowingly this could apply to his equally-obsessive desire to keep Don safe and out of trouble.]

[That sounds like a dangerous thing to agree to, so Don goes for the safer:] Me too.

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