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For all his careful deflection of the "where will you transfer" question from both Otto and America, he fooled no one and least of all himself. Eventually he'd have to track down Caelius and pray he didn't get shot for the pique, but that would wait. In the meantime it might be advisable to at least find out if he'd be wanted--a thing he was not at all certain of. He passed Edith once the day after he came back to his room, still vaguely hungover from last night's affection-drunk neediness, feeling unusually vulnerable and stupid instead of the expected cocky and refreshed. He'd chickened out.

The second opportunity arose as she was heading into the kitchens and the last thing he wanted was to have this conversation around something else that made him uncomfortable (because he was eating now, or trying, but being surrounded by food made him feel sick and uneasy) but he could not evade this forever and Fiona was irritated at his childish hesitation. Seeking her out in her office was immediately off the table. Caelius had made him leery of one-on-one time alone with the division leads, even if everyone insisted that Edith was relatively sane.

Reminding himself that he'd had his hands in Edith's bra (or not Edith, he thought with fresh and intense unease, not Edith at all) and that for this reason if for no other he had no reason to suddenly feel so cowed and meek, he followed her in, clearing his throat. Which was a mistake, and made him cringe, still.

"Ms. Carr?"

He found himself wishing he was dealing with Caelius and Fiona, whom he had not realized was capable of it, made the sort of frustrated half-growl, half-yell a teenage girl might make on being confronted with a particularly stubborn younger brother. She had been, he noticed dimly, much more open with him of late.

"I uhm--" he watched her warily, and decided that it would be best to 1) demonstrate that he was in fact capable of eating, since she recognized him and he had no idea what else she might know and 2) be polite. "I'd... appreciate that, thanks. Although the intention was business, if you don't mind me cornering you here. I was going to try and arrange a time to meet you," he lied through his teeth, "but I saw you and figured I'd just go for it."

He'd phrased and rephrased this a dozen times, and he'd had any number of bold or cleverly self-deprecating lead-ins. What he said after a long, nervous pause was: "I suspect that I am a poor fit in my current division."

He allowed himself the utterly aghast face he was feeling while her back was turned, but quickly stilled it back to only mild apprehension.

This is a ******** crime against--I don't even know what it's a crime against, because those corn dogs have nothing to do with nature or food.

I wouldn't know, sir. I don't eat, she snapped, all business once again. Focus, she all but said.

"I'm... considering it as an option, if anyone will have me." It came out less charmingly self-deprecating than he'd intended and more miserable loser. "My concern is that I'll find myself somewhere where I'm an even... poorer fit than I am now." He paused, and he didn't want to touch the topic because he didn't know what the interdivisional leadership relationships looked like, but he could not avoid adding: "It's a question of personal ethics as much as it is a question of skillset." More. Much more.

He gazed at the trainwreck on the plate because he could not look away, before giving himself a shake.

"I'm... not going to pretend that I'm in the best front-line fighting shape, obviously." That had been another Taym elsewhere: that had been his job and he'd done it with vicious pleasure and remarkable efficiency. "But I know your division is responsible for other things, too." This grated him. It wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was what the other Taym had. "I'm friends with Konstantin Bashmet, and I can't begin to understand why he left your division for mine, but he's told me some of what you do. I have a phenomenal ******** work ethic," he added, the only thing he'd said with any confidence so far. His one good quality, as far as he was concerned. "I'd like to put it to use helping people instead of... what I do in my current role."

Lair notwithstanding. He remembered cornering Leslie in a safe house just as if it were real; he remembered rooting out with heartless efficiency those that would look for comfort elsewhere after swearing themselves to the Island. Those had seemed like much more realistic visions for the future of his division than reality had.

He attempted to politely avoid the food by way of allowing himself the tea (allowing himself, this was still how he phrased it). He was, in any case, distracted by what she was saying, listening with a relief to intense it coiled up his breath in his chest.

He did not answer immediately: it was obvious that he was deep in thought, his eyes wandering back and forth sightlessly, his hand, trembling faintly, picking at his lower lip in distracted nervous habit. He knew vaguely and uneasily that he failed again and again to take care even of himself, and hoped it wouldn't matter.

"For all I know," he said finally, "I've incurred enough of Caelius's wrath that he won't ever let me transfer. Possibly he won't ever approve of my earning a title other than 'trainee.' But maybe he'll look at this as a chance to foist me off on someone else, make me someone else's problem. I don't want," he said flatly, "to be your problem. Or Deus's. I don't give a f--a, a fillip," he settled on finally after "rat's a**" and "s**t" were discarded on the tip of his tongue "about my own f--about my advancement. No. That isn't true," he added suddenly, and his own words startled him, scared him. "I mean advancement in terms of rank or authority or titles. That I don't care about. I do--I care about the rest."

He paused, motivated for reasons he didn't understand to divulge. "I don't have a great track record," he said quietly. "I've worn out a lot of second chances, here and before. I've been here a year and all I've managed to to do is acquire a couple of scars and a medical file, I guess. And I keep putting my feet wrong and this is normally the point in the conversation where I'd promise you that I'm going to do whatever it takes, but I've also broken a lot of promises and I'm tired of that too. All I can say is that I want to do whatever it takes. I want," he said, landing on the words he'd been distractedly struggling towards, "to be proud of myself. I think I can do that easier and better in Moon than I can pointing fingers for Caelius in a division that's rewarded the man who's tried to murder me and others. I don't think I can be proud of myself, in that place. I can be proud of myself working for people who are doing the right thing. I just want to help."

The pang of painful relief--elation, almost--was shot down quickly by the question he'd been dreading. He clung to the glass of tea like it was an anchor.

"Unless taking care of croupy babies and skinned knees counts," he answered grimy, "not much. I had an early mission with Gale Gentry where I fell into a defensive role sort of by default--I was brand f--brand new, it was easier for me to react than it was for me to act the aggressor--but other than that it's... something I know I need to work on. I'm approved for bandages," he added, "but I haven't had a need to use them yet where they've been at hand, and I'm pretty sure anyone can stick a magic band aid on someone in a pinch, anyway."

He'd met the first part with a leaden dread, but the question instantly procured one of those half-hidden smiles, this one wry, as he experimentally broke a piece of chocolate-crusted, sprinkled potato chip off the outside of the abomination on his plate.

"She heals," he said, turning the chunk over in his fingers before politely forcing himself to eat it.

Think of it like a chocolate covered pretzel, Thompson, he told himself, and he did. It made his eyes water, but luckily the Tabasco and chili flakes went a long way to effacing any actual horrendous clash of flavors. He withheld comment, hoping she'd interpret it as his politely waiting for her reply.