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One of the other perks (or perhaps pitfalls) of full rank was an extra two leave days a month. It felt foolhardy to use another one up so soon after the last one, but the last one had been an exercise in misery at the end of it, and also Taym was still feeling vaguely nauseated every time he remembered how much money he had to his name, and felt the need to spend it just for the sake of making it go away. If America knew how much he'd blown on exorbitant server tips and expensive birthday gifts and other things that decidedly were not funding the town she might have--what? Probably nothing. Probably just a disappointed exhalation: Obadiah Ezekiel Hairballnoise Thompson.

He'd almost, out of habit, veered first toward the first floor, and then toward the basement before he turned away from that, too, with a pang. Things were safer and calmer, and it was probably better for everyone involved if he made himself scarce.

This meant, however, that he ended up alone in front of his new door (bereft of happenstance hallway meetings with Peyton, who always seemed to hear him coming and step out to greet him, when she was around; no encounters with Kostya and America who might have accommodated him, or Leslie, who might have just done what he was told while bitching) with an armload of bags and boxes and not nearly enough hands to juggle those and his keys.

Every man (and woman, to be frank) knows that is a p***y move not to get all your s**t in the door in one go. This was an exercise in manliness, goddammit. This is what he told himself, in response to Fiona's calm observation that he could just put some s**t down first.

A rapid succession of reactions passed across Taym's face and through the way he held himself: alarm, and then strangely aggressive bristling, and then an immediate cessation of hostility, easing into the closest he ever got to relaxed (which wasn't very). Freed of half his burden, he juggled the rest to unlock the door, strangely self-conscious because he knew--he knew--that politeness dictated that he should invite Bix in. That even if it didn't, Bix had his stuff. And even if those didn't matter, Bix was (strange thought) a friend of his: a friend he hadn't bothered to inform of his promotion, because he hadn't bothered to inform anyone but America and Peyton, and the latter only so she'd catsit for a few days.

The cats, speaking of which, were in their gently-glowing tank on top of the desk, and they were one of the only homey touches in the new room aside from a packed bookshelf. Whereas Bix had Martha Stewart'd his dorm into submission, Taym's method of making himself at home appeared to be the liberal application of cleaning supplies--it smelled positively sterile in here, smoker's room or no--and stripping every surface of any personal mark at all. Whereas Bix had a kitchen, Taym did not: he had decided, all things considered, that a separate shower and bathtub were worth more to him than a stove.

"It's--definitely nice not to have to share a shower," he acknowledged as he stepped aside, depositing his armful on the impeccably-made bed and indicating that Bix ought to do the same. He ran his fingers over the cage for the entertainment of the cats (cat? he still wasn't sure, even now), who evidently, in the way of cats everywhere, could not care less. One of them yawned expansively. "And it's still new. I don't know. Long time no see," he added, turning from the carrier to the loot. It appeared to be almost entirely books, and he set to sorting them out onto the bed. "What's going on in your world? And thanks," he added belatedly, quiet as he always was. "Reverse deja vu, there, a little bit."

"Oh, you know missions. It was fine," he said pointedly, mocking but not unfriendly.

This genuinely alarmed him, and he looked up from frowning at the disintegrating binding of some ancient paperback. "Dude. Are you actually busy or are you... you feeling OK? I almost offered you a cigarette just then," he added ruefully. "Old habit, I guess." And then, before he could answer, he turned back, placing the book to one side and picking up another. "I haven't been--the best at staying in touch, I guess. Things went a little haywire after--after the Sahara. Sorry."

"Seems like it hit a lot of people hard," he said quietly. "Lot of... guilty consciences wandering around. Guilty over nothing mostly, it seems like." Except for him, of course. "I guess it's harder when you're sharing the same living space to just pretend it didn't happen."

A long, long, long silence. So long and so motionless, in fact, that maybe for a minute it seemed like he'd end it by asking Bix to do what he'd tried to do before, and leave.

"They tell some of them," was what he settled on, roughly. "I guess they didn't--tell her, though. Does it make it better or worse, that it's not just a ******** of opinion, that's keeping you? Because--"

He didn't finish the thought. He gave himself a shake, upending another bag onto the bed.

He took all this in silently, then turned to sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

"Are you sure," he asked, after a long moment of silence again, "that you don't want a ******** cigarette? Jesus Christ, Bix. I guess the--the shitty day--" of all euphemisms "--had a way of bringing all that s**t to a head. Lot of s**t you try not to think about, I guess, and then--there you go."

He hated, hated, being the bearer of other people's emotional baggage. The invitation was in his voice anyway.

"Of course I think about it," he said quietly. "We all think about it. But that's how you get them killed, so think about it's all you do. That's how you... how you get them killed," he repeated lamely, hurt, turning aside again to pick up a random book for the excuse of turning his eyes to the back cover. "But I think about it all the ******** time, so you're not--alone, at least. For whatever small ********' comfort that is."