He watches Felix's hand move to his thigh and... follows the obvious line down to where the rest of his leg ought to be and can't imagine a scenario, not a single godsdamn one, where he might've caused that. Unless it was an accident, but it sure as frak doesn't seem that way.
No idea, no idea at all.
"I guess" -- he starts, but swallows back the bigger thought, about how it doesn't really matter if they're homesick because there's no home to go back to -- "that's warranted. It's hard, man, all of it." Including whatever happened three years from now, but for all that this place warps the physics of time, he can't even think that way. He can't. Maybe he's just not evolved enough as a human being to take that kind of cognitive leap, or associative leap, or intuitive leap or whatever the frak he ought to call it. He never majored in physics after all.
"But sleep, that's probably a really good idea. I could sit here and bore you and tell you about all the times I found myself waking up in a hospital, but I'm guessing misery actually doesn't love company and never really did."
It's all pretty weak, but he doesn't know what else to say, except for one thing. "I'm sorry. About your leg, and if there was anything I could do about it, I... really would. So if there's anything you need, or if you want to... to talk about Picon or hear what it's like right now on Caprica or... play a game of cards or shoot the shit or anything, let me know, okay?"
This place has ways of getting messages back and forth.
"Or I can stop back in and check and see how you're doing. Later, or tomorrow or something." He doesn't even know why he's offering. It's not like he knows the guy, but he feels responsible for whatever it is, even if it was caused by some nebulous other version of himself from some alternate reality.
no subject
He watches Felix's hand move to his thigh and... follows the obvious line down to where the rest of his leg ought to be and can't imagine a scenario, not a single godsdamn one, where he might've caused that. Unless it was an accident, but it sure as frak doesn't seem that way.
No idea, no idea at all.
"I guess" -- he starts, but swallows back the bigger thought, about how it doesn't really matter if they're homesick because there's no home to go back to -- "that's warranted. It's hard, man, all of it." Including whatever happened three years from now, but for all that this place warps the physics of time, he can't even think that way. He can't. Maybe he's just not evolved enough as a human being to take that kind of cognitive leap, or associative leap, or intuitive leap or whatever the frak he ought to call it. He never majored in physics after all.
"But sleep, that's probably a really good idea. I could sit here and bore you and tell you about all the times I found myself waking up in a hospital, but I'm guessing misery actually doesn't love company and never really did."
It's all pretty weak, but he doesn't know what else to say, except for one thing. "I'm sorry. About your leg, and if there was anything I could do about it, I... really would. So if there's anything you need, or if you want to... to talk about Picon or hear what it's like right now on Caprica or... play a game of cards or shoot the shit or anything, let me know, okay?"
This place has ways of getting messages back and forth.
"Or I can stop back in and check and see how you're doing. Later, or tomorrow or something." He doesn't even know why he's offering. It's not like he knows the guy, but he feels responsible for whatever it is, even if it was caused by some nebulous other version of himself from some alternate reality.