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Hey, what's going on.

[ --sounds like a greeting, not a question. There'd been an initial squint after syllables staggered through, more so for the fact Tony had a clear idea of what Gervais sounded like in his head, and it wasn't quite that, immediately.

But there's coffee now, and he clasps his hands around his, pulling it in. ]

Thanks. God, there'd be riots if this place didn't have a decent espresso. I guess this isn't, technically, but, mf-- [ Words muffled into his cup as he draws on a sip. ] You know what, more Greek than Roma. Gritty. Not bad.

Nice to meet you.

[ He is talking very fast, which is his normal save for the clear shadows under his eyes. ]

Ah, and—and—and you.

( he sounds orlesian, when he manages to sound anything other than mildly (always mildly) frustrated with the concept of verbal speech being something that he has to engage in. low-voiced, habitually quiet, a cadence of speech (pronounced stammer aside) that shapes someone who has ruthlessly rounded off all of his corners. made himself palatable. made himself small, as much as a man of his size can.

he doesn't carry himself that way, any more, but evidence lingers. people have tells. for instance, he is currently observing with some faint and increasing concern the staccato speed of tony's speech coupled with drawn look about him and the darkness around his eyes, and reconsidering how good an idea coffee was.

this is not unfamiliar. )

It is, ah, it, it, it, it is m-mainly marriage. And death. ( he considers preudame, sat beside his knee waiting to see if he's going to pass down anything from his plate once it comes, and allows, ) C-c-c-c-ompanionship.

( and: )

Direct, ah, ah, action. From—time to time.

[ It's probably not untrue that for someone with a natural motormouth and a brain that sprints ahead without passengers and a habit for interruption and talking over-- stopping to allow for hindered speech takes conscious effort. Noted for next time, anyway, that maybe Jeeves would prefer to be pen pals than drinking buddies, but.

Inevitably, he will be both regardless for as long as he tolerates it. Tony taps fingers against the sides of his cup of fantasy joe. ]

That's kind of the same thing, where I'm from, except we pack in a lot of other things prior to the marriage-and-death phase of existence, though I was working towards 'em. Do you-- I can't even express how--

[ Maybe stammering is catching. It's not upset so much as hard pivots between the things he wants to say out loud and the ways he wants to do that. ]

So I had a lot of shit going on, back home. The active decrease is about as much of a. I dunno, shock, as the everything else about this place. Did you know [ and he emphasises this by prodding the table with two fingers, leaning in ] there is nothing -- no-thing -- in the archives about rifters. Anchor-shards. Zero, zip. I know this because that's been what I've been doing for fun. I'd bet on that. Swear on that.

[ The irritation is more of an undercurrent, been and gone, more to be shared in that projected forward. Words still happening far faster than they have a right to. ]

I mean, do I have to do everything myself in every world I exist in?

Th-th-th—

( gervais breathes out over his coffee. it had made sense, when he was a young man, to cultivate rather than smooth out his verbal tics. he hadn't known he was ever going to leave the context in which that had been true. it hinders him now as it had helped him then, and his cultivation of a mild-mannered affect doesn't mean he's not human, or immune to these minor irritations.

he's given a grace period to gather his thoughts and hopefully his words when the serving girl who'd smiled at him before brings out two breakfast plates, which he slightly rearranges after nodding his thanks (she seems unoffended by what would be brusque from someone else, so presumably she knows the drill) mainly to be sure that tony is going to get enough of what gervais thinks he could do with. )

Notes, ( finally. ) Lyrium illness. R-r-rifter ah, quarantine, quarantine is...new, from—from that.

( it had been probably the single most informative thing that's ever happened to rifters, which mainly serves to underscore tony's broader point: that the research has largely not been fucking done. but it's somewhere to start, at least. )

Before—before, ah, my time. Here.

[ He looks at the food. Hunger has turned into queasy pangs, removed from actual enthusiasm. He keeps the monologue about how he's so thrown off his gluten-free keto regiment to himself in a rare move of not wanting to behave completely like a child, waiting for Gervais to stop-- doing what he's doing with the plates before he pulls his near, idly turning it around in search of something he wants to put in his face.

Tongue running over his teeth. Toothpaste would be awesome. The concoctions of herbs and salt that seem to be on offer instead are better than nothing, but still. ]

That's some'n, [ he agrees. ] Smart. Also terrible, boring.

[ But what's he gonna do, go on a tour? Sight-see? ]

Still an inexcusable amount of gaps to fill in, and what literature there is, I hate. [ The incidence record of the illness Gervais is talking about provided more questions than answers, but passive confirmation -- or cause of -- the theories Gwen shared around the nature of rifters. ] Do you guys have the five stages of grief, here? Just curious, asking for a friend.

[ Of which he has none. Except maybe Gervais, for now. He sics utensils against some egg. ]

( maker, tony, the yolk of the egg is as edible as the white. these are the thoughts that cross gervais's mind, observing him, though his expression reflects (as ever) approximately none of his internal world and he's busying himself with his own breakfast in a somewhat more businesslike fashion, regardless.

(preudame lays her head on his knee, which pushes it down slightly. he pats her head absently, but his hand doesn't contain a sausage, so it's not a win.) )

J-j-j-—

( he drinks his coffee. )

Work, ( he says, finally, ) you, you, you're on the, ah, the right track.

( it's just the one stage of grief, it's "try and get on with it until you also die", generally. )

[ Tony laughs. Obviously kind of a tense laugh, but it's not disingenuous, a brief smile pressing thin while he navigates his breakfast plate. Maybe he's a picky eater because he certainly is being selective, ignoring slices of ham, the half-running yolk, the slice of bread.

He does pick up the tapered rectangle of cheese, breaking pieces between his fingers. ]

Sorry, uh, gallows humour. [ Badum-chhh. ] I'm good for that, work. You know, with the right tools, or a sense of. Um, purpose, even if that purpose sucks. [ Accepts a bite of cheese. ] I had a lot of projects going at home, actually, building things. Greater good kind of stuff. Here I don't even know what the hell I'm meant to do when I do get up to speed, which. You know.

[ Then he whistles, attention steering down and aside towards the dog. It's to her that he offers out his hand flat, a couple of cheese pieces on offer. ] You break it you buy it, [ he adds, in case she gets ambitious in her appetite.

The ease to which all these words come out so hurried makes it seem like the way he normally operates, as much of a tic as Gervais' own stammer. The fragmentation, however, is more indicative of the cracks beneath the surface. ]

I miss my robots. That's probably weird. Also they can never know, they've been sassy enough as it is.

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