Haller & Namor | Soft Times, Soft Men
Sep. 23rd, 2024 03:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_submariner posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsDavid goes to visit Namor at the chapel to check in on Gaia's progress in quarantine.
"How's she doing?"
The broad man sitting behind the desk didn't look up at the intrusion. The door had been open, afterall, but he also didn't look up to meet his guest's eyes. Namor instead seemed to deliberately make each keystroke, every reference, and all reactions to his current work more more. The googly eyes on the fish and barnacle mug sitting next to his laptop – proudly declaring there were, in fact, many fish in the sea – bounced with each motion until, finally and with a pointed gesture, the king put up a solitary finger before locking eyes with the stringy man in the door.
"Counselor Haller," Namor began, "how daring of you to not have an appointment."
Jim's attention, briefly captured by the surreally incongruous mug, shifted back to Namor. The ruler of Atlantis would never have been accused of a warm and welcoming countenance, but he seemed to be in a particularly chilly mood today. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that was procedure. I'll remember in the future."
The beginnings of a smile twisted onto Namor's face, but they lacked any sort of warmth. "To think common courtesy is now mere procedure. Still," and he shut his laptop, "I have realized just how I miss our previously companionable silence each and every time we talk. Rest assured, however, our guest downstairs appears stable and has yet to grow fangs or become a monster We could not contain."
"I'm glad to hear she's doing all right." The barb had been as subtle as the prong on a trident. Well, if there was one thing to be said about Namor it was that you always knew where you stood with him. Jim considered letting it pass, but decided against it. He might be a social coward, but this was a consultation. This was professional.
"You don't like how I handled the situation with the visitor, I'm guessing."
"You remind me of a human saying. What do you say?" Namor tapped a finger on the desk. Click. Click. "Soft times call for soft men. I invited you here, and you had a single job."
Few mortal eyebrows could match those of Namor when displeased, and Jim didn't try. Instead he deployed his own version: a single interrogative arch "Which was accomplished," he pointed out, not rising to the bait.
"Tell me: have you ever felt unmoored, Counselor Haller? Made so small against a world so alien you felt like a single krill lost in an endless sea?"
"I have," Jim replied slowly, thinking of what it was like to die only to awaken again in an alien mind full of mad rules and screaming phantoms, "but they were unusual circumstances. What do you mean?"
The king's smile twitched. "I never had before I was forced to wake here – a time so removed from my people that they had been forgotten. I dislike it immensely." At this, he turned away to let the silence fill in for what words could not. A cold fire danced in his eyes when he looked back up. "That girl was a creature hunted as she came through our portal. Alone. Enraged. Desperate. How fortunate for us all that we did not need you for understanding to be reached."
Namor had said something similar when they'd been trying to talk to the girl, hadn't he? About how he hadn't had a choice. "Someone put the language in your head when you came here," the telepath concluded. "That's why you thought I'd do it. Emma, I'm guessing?"
"The details of my arrival were surely recorded."
"I wasn't myself at the time. Besides, people are more than their files." Jim eased himself into a chair where he could regard the other man, direct but not challenging.
"Emma is an incredibly skilled telepath. She's precise, efficient. She's shaped her power into the tool she needs for the work she does. I've done the same. It's just not the same work." The counselor's odd-colored remained steady on the Atlantean, unblinking in the face of Namor's imperious disdain. "Emma operates as a combat telepath. I don't. I operate solely off the battlefield, where speed isn't the difference between life or death. Think of a man with a leg trapped beneath rubble. If there's a flood with water rising quickly, maybe you take your chances and amputate the leg. If there's time, though, you wait for the right equipment. Save the person and his leg. That's what my job is. To the one you're trying to help, the execution is just as important as the result."
"Do not presume to lecture me on mercy," Namor said. "A true king knows the value of the tools he holds, but know that I do not trust your gift. Telepathy is a force best used as a last resort – a double edged weapon. Inelegant. The fact this age affords the luxury of defensive care means that you lungbreathers have forgotten what it feels like to drown. Better a reaching hand than an audience debating the whims of the sea." He steepled his fingers. "We now see how you may be best utilized in the future, but philosophy is for mad and weak men. I am neither."
The corner of Jim's mouth crooked in a smile. "There are lots of ways to drown. Even in peace."
There was a jagged edge to the expression, and for a moment the eyes staring back at the Atlantean were flat as those of a soldier remembering his own battlefield.
"But I agree," the telepath continued, "it is a luxury. Like you said, soft men for soft times. If I can afford to go slow, I will." Jim sat back, muscles loosening again but still watching Namor's face. "I gather you didn't have the luxury."
"I have afforded you more time than you deserve, Counselor." Namor's own body language was opposite to Jim's new ease. Every small motion – how he leaned forward, the tension in his shoulders, even breathing – was like an arrow drawing tight. "I myself was thrust violently across time itself to find my home forgotten, my people gone, and the world in the hands of . . . " He caught himself and took a slow breath. "I will let no one suffer the same."
He let the silence punctuate that promise.
"We will continue," and the previous passion was gone, "to entertain Excalibur's guest downstairs until we," and the two pronouns were distinctly different between the royal and his team, "have ascertained she is safe for our world. You may take responsibility for her if she wishes, but I swear to you I will not play Xavier's jailor."
Namor seemed disinclined to elaborate further. That was more than fine. If there was one thing Jim, as a telepath, believed, it was that not all things were for all people.
Still, it was a hard thing to be torn from everything you'd ever known. Anyone would have feelings about that -- even Namor.
Jim rose.
"We're agreed there, at least," he said. "I appreciate your time. I'll be sure to make an appointment next time."
"I look forward to resuming our affable silence," Namor added, if only to get the last word in. He was already getting back to his work. "Consider yourself dismissed."
"How's she doing?"
The broad man sitting behind the desk didn't look up at the intrusion. The door had been open, afterall, but he also didn't look up to meet his guest's eyes. Namor instead seemed to deliberately make each keystroke, every reference, and all reactions to his current work more more. The googly eyes on the fish and barnacle mug sitting next to his laptop – proudly declaring there were, in fact, many fish in the sea – bounced with each motion until, finally and with a pointed gesture, the king put up a solitary finger before locking eyes with the stringy man in the door.
"Counselor Haller," Namor began, "how daring of you to not have an appointment."
Jim's attention, briefly captured by the surreally incongruous mug, shifted back to Namor. The ruler of Atlantis would never have been accused of a warm and welcoming countenance, but he seemed to be in a particularly chilly mood today. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that was procedure. I'll remember in the future."
The beginnings of a smile twisted onto Namor's face, but they lacked any sort of warmth. "To think common courtesy is now mere procedure. Still," and he shut his laptop, "I have realized just how I miss our previously companionable silence each and every time we talk. Rest assured, however, our guest downstairs appears stable and has yet to grow fangs or become a monster We could not contain."
"I'm glad to hear she's doing all right." The barb had been as subtle as the prong on a trident. Well, if there was one thing to be said about Namor it was that you always knew where you stood with him. Jim considered letting it pass, but decided against it. He might be a social coward, but this was a consultation. This was professional.
"You don't like how I handled the situation with the visitor, I'm guessing."
"You remind me of a human saying. What do you say?" Namor tapped a finger on the desk. Click. Click. "Soft times call for soft men. I invited you here, and you had a single job."
Few mortal eyebrows could match those of Namor when displeased, and Jim didn't try. Instead he deployed his own version: a single interrogative arch "Which was accomplished," he pointed out, not rising to the bait.
"Tell me: have you ever felt unmoored, Counselor Haller? Made so small against a world so alien you felt like a single krill lost in an endless sea?"
"I have," Jim replied slowly, thinking of what it was like to die only to awaken again in an alien mind full of mad rules and screaming phantoms, "but they were unusual circumstances. What do you mean?"
The king's smile twitched. "I never had before I was forced to wake here – a time so removed from my people that they had been forgotten. I dislike it immensely." At this, he turned away to let the silence fill in for what words could not. A cold fire danced in his eyes when he looked back up. "That girl was a creature hunted as she came through our portal. Alone. Enraged. Desperate. How fortunate for us all that we did not need you for understanding to be reached."
Namor had said something similar when they'd been trying to talk to the girl, hadn't he? About how he hadn't had a choice. "Someone put the language in your head when you came here," the telepath concluded. "That's why you thought I'd do it. Emma, I'm guessing?"
"The details of my arrival were surely recorded."
"I wasn't myself at the time. Besides, people are more than their files." Jim eased himself into a chair where he could regard the other man, direct but not challenging.
"Emma is an incredibly skilled telepath. She's precise, efficient. She's shaped her power into the tool she needs for the work she does. I've done the same. It's just not the same work." The counselor's odd-colored remained steady on the Atlantean, unblinking in the face of Namor's imperious disdain. "Emma operates as a combat telepath. I don't. I operate solely off the battlefield, where speed isn't the difference between life or death. Think of a man with a leg trapped beneath rubble. If there's a flood with water rising quickly, maybe you take your chances and amputate the leg. If there's time, though, you wait for the right equipment. Save the person and his leg. That's what my job is. To the one you're trying to help, the execution is just as important as the result."
"Do not presume to lecture me on mercy," Namor said. "A true king knows the value of the tools he holds, but know that I do not trust your gift. Telepathy is a force best used as a last resort – a double edged weapon. Inelegant. The fact this age affords the luxury of defensive care means that you lungbreathers have forgotten what it feels like to drown. Better a reaching hand than an audience debating the whims of the sea." He steepled his fingers. "We now see how you may be best utilized in the future, but philosophy is for mad and weak men. I am neither."
The corner of Jim's mouth crooked in a smile. "There are lots of ways to drown. Even in peace."
There was a jagged edge to the expression, and for a moment the eyes staring back at the Atlantean were flat as those of a soldier remembering his own battlefield.
"But I agree," the telepath continued, "it is a luxury. Like you said, soft men for soft times. If I can afford to go slow, I will." Jim sat back, muscles loosening again but still watching Namor's face. "I gather you didn't have the luxury."
"I have afforded you more time than you deserve, Counselor." Namor's own body language was opposite to Jim's new ease. Every small motion – how he leaned forward, the tension in his shoulders, even breathing – was like an arrow drawing tight. "I myself was thrust violently across time itself to find my home forgotten, my people gone, and the world in the hands of . . . " He caught himself and took a slow breath. "I will let no one suffer the same."
He let the silence punctuate that promise.
"We will continue," and the previous passion was gone, "to entertain Excalibur's guest downstairs until we," and the two pronouns were distinctly different between the royal and his team, "have ascertained she is safe for our world. You may take responsibility for her if she wishes, but I swear to you I will not play Xavier's jailor."
Namor seemed disinclined to elaborate further. That was more than fine. If there was one thing Jim, as a telepath, believed, it was that not all things were for all people.
Still, it was a hard thing to be torn from everything you'd ever known. Anyone would have feelings about that -- even Namor.
Jim rose.
"We're agreed there, at least," he said. "I appreciate your time. I'll be sure to make an appointment next time."
"I look forward to resuming our affable silence," Namor added, if only to get the last word in. He was already getting back to his work. "Consider yourself dismissed."
