[ You know what, he seems like a dog guy. Like one of those dudes who's only company is a golden retriever or something, and he makes conversations with it while building boats in his woodworking shop and listening to Johnny Cash. Just a first impression, not even a fair one, probably not an accurate one. It's the feeling he puts out.
There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
[ No golden retriever. He never got the hang of building boats, but he's been learning. Was learning. Johnny Cash is alright, but it's not one of the three dusty records he's got in the basement. One outta three ain't bad.
No offense taken. Nathan's expression goes through a short series of changes -- brows lift, mouth pulls. There's a reflected amusement in there, that same shade of jaded in tone that might, if you squint, look friendly. Like camaraderie, even, as Nathan exhales through his nose. Shakes his head.
A normal conversation. Nathan's attention returns to his glass, which is about two-thirds full. He stares at it, then tips his chin. Nods at it. ]
This is a fucking terrible beer.
[ Probably because it's made out of everything but hops. Nathan sounds mildly accusatory anyway. ]
You know that, right.
[ This approaching a normal conversation topic, yet? ]
[ If Nathan Lowell had to miss any sort of beverage that wasn't tar-black coffee, it wouldn't be PBR. A short, irritated look passes to Ian, but then, the same look is fixed onto his beer. So. At least they've clarified that it isn't personal.
[ His expression turns wry, faintly pleased. Nothing quite like bonding over how shitty PBR is after bonding over how their lives are falling apart and they're barely keeping it together and they could have a breakdown at literally any point.
Fuck PBR though. ]
Alright, nailed it, got one in the bag. I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead.
[ He declares, straightening up and clapping Nathan on the shoulder as he passes by. ]
I'm gonna go to my couch and pretend like that somehow counts as leaving.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
There's a soft breath, an exhale, puffed — a laugh, but with no conviction. No real humor, either, just... jaded amusement, maybe. ]
You wanna know something fucked up?
[ A low and lilting murmur, and it's accompanied by a little arch to one eyebrow and a conceding bob to one shoulder. He doesn't wait longer than a beat before just plowing on ahead a little apologetically. ]
That actually kinda makes me feel a little better.
[ No offense, and it's not that misery loves company thing. He's not taking any joy in Nathan's suffering. It's just... good to know that it's not him being deficient somehow. That he's not just a pathetic piece of shit while everyone else with similar baggage is out there pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
Maybe not even everyone. Maybe just Nathan, but he's been like the human incarnate of stoicism and squared shoulders. Even so. The only falter Ian's ever seen is after a fucking arm fell out of the sky, and he doesn't really think that one should count.
And since he's already venturing toward wry admissions, he'll slowly drawl out another one. ]
I'm not sure we're ever gonna have a normal fucking conversation.
no subject
No offense taken. Nathan's expression goes through a short series of changes -- brows lift, mouth pulls. There's a reflected amusement in there, that same shade of jaded in tone that might, if you squint, look friendly. Like camaraderie, even, as Nathan exhales through his nose. Shakes his head.
A normal conversation. Nathan's attention returns to his glass, which is about two-thirds full. He stares at it, then tips his chin. Nods at it. ]
This is a fucking terrible beer.
[ Probably because it's made out of everything but hops. Nathan sounds mildly accusatory anyway. ]
You know that, right.
[ This approaching a normal conversation topic, yet? ]
no subject
Looks like they understand each other well enough. They're at least in the same book if they're not on the same page.
Enough for him to have no reservations about saying: ]
Fuck you, my beer's alright.
[ He won't stretch and say great, but. ]
At least it's not PBR.
no subject
Nathan shrugs, lifts his glass. ]
Got that right.
[ He's going to drink it anyway. ]
no subject
Fuck PBR though. ]
Alright, nailed it, got one in the bag. I think I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead.
[ He declares, straightening up and clapping Nathan on the shoulder as he passes by. ]
I'm gonna go to my couch and pretend like that somehow counts as leaving.