[ He listens. Sitting on his fallen log, looking like nobody much— black clothing somehow cheaper and lighter than the black of the bark, absently tracing the grooves of the wood— he just plays audience, or confessional priest.
He fought to the death for me, says his new friend, and John nods a deep and tired understanding. He gives no reaction beyond a flicker of raised eyebrows at Mr. Lawrence: he does, actually, keep an eye on the network. And Shannon talks. ]
So. The only man here who could recall him with you, and it's only ever disrespect.
[ They are oceans and worlds away from John Kreese, wherever and whoever he is. He wonders whether there's been time, yet, for love to curdle into grief. ]
no subject
He fought to the death for me, says his new friend, and John nods a deep and tired understanding. He gives no reaction beyond a flicker of raised eyebrows at Mr. Lawrence: he does, actually, keep an eye on the network. And Shannon talks. ]
So. The only man here who could recall him with you, and it's only ever disrespect.
[ They are oceans and worlds away from John Kreese, wherever and whoever he is. He wonders whether there's been time, yet, for love to curdle into grief. ]
I see why it'd be tough to stay civil.