He's been doing pretty well, honestly. This is his life, this is where he lives, this is what he does. It's solid and grounded and real up until suddenly it can't possibly be real because familiar faces ghost their way in and that-
Makes things seem hazy. Wouldn't he want them here too? Wouldn't he wan them to enjoy this second chance at doing good, at being good? If North and Carolina show up that'll clinch it but that itch at the nape of his neck where Delta reacts to his agitation doesn't go away and his own habitat is too empty and quiet for his peace of mind.
Guitar on his back he drifts until he finds Locus' base. It's just like he said, pretty spartan. Familiar in the broad strokes while being wholly foreign and that- that's what York needs. He knocks (because that's what you do) and loiters, looking five kinds of out of place rocking back on his heels in civvies.
Fortunately, he now has a way of keeping an eye on things when people wander into what he considers 'his' space. It's not really private, save in the sense that no one stays. Who would want to? There's nothing terribly scenic or comfortable about any of it.
When he finds York standing at his door, for the first time since the movie night, Locus considers for a moment before opening the door to him. A Freelancer. Like Washington.
But very much not like Washington, at the same time.
"Hey." He offers roughly thirty percent of his usual good humor and grin, the rest of him knotted up and slightly off center. He needs- well. This. Somewhere he couldn't have made up, someone he's never known before. Someone new. Someone with no interest in being anything but who they are and won't pick at him too bad for being odd at the moment. "Was kinda quiet at my place and I kinda...needed quiet somewhere else."
Something York has offered already on more than one occasion. Freelancer, he's reminded, but York -- Locksmith -- is trying to leave it behind him. Washington had intimated as much.
With a quiet nod, Locus draws back enough to let York inside the base proper. Not much here he hasn't seen vaguely rearranged somewhere else, on some other planet. The only personal touch appears to be a red and white striped scarf, strangely decorate amidst the rest, folded and hanging over a chair Locus has claimed as his own.
"Well this is all very cozy." He manages some kind of quip because at this point it's somewhat expected. Even if all he wants to do is curl up somewhere no one else will look for him and just. Noodle around on the guitar for a bit. He finds the scarf an odd pop of color, incredibly out of place with the rest but-
Thoroughly endearing.
"Somebody made a new friend, huh?" It's easier to grin about this as he picks an unclaimed chair, guitar swinging around to settle on his lap.
Locus's gaze flicks back to the scarf, thick and warm and clearly a gift from someone, yes. The ends seem to have pockets, with rifles embroidered on the ends along with "Go with God" in Spanish.
Gave you a pretty good clue who they might have come from.
"I'm fairly certain she got it as some kind of joke," he mumbles, in a way that convinces no one that he thinks that at all.
"A lady friend. Figures, women dig tall, dark, and handsome. Or in your case huge, built, and brooding." His nails tap lightly at the neck of his guitar as he flicks through possibilities and only comes up with a single possible woman with that kinda humor.
"Maybe she just likes you. I mean this is better than pulling pigtails." A beat. "Unless, for you, this IS pulling pigtails."
The expression earns a dubious look, though it registers only as a tilt of his helmet before he settles into his seat once again. Regardless of what he thinks of the gift, he's held onto it. And it's obviously the most well-kept thing in the area, being the only thing of his.
"It's difficult to say. She is not unpleasant to be around," he admits, at last.
"If you want a wingman, man, say the word. I am great at that." Amazing if he did say so himself. A high success rate of getting bros at least a phonecall if not dinner after the fact.
"Of course taking her out for dinner or something while in armor could get a little awkward. Hard to eat through a helmet."
Does he sound exasperated? Because he is. Sombra is a friend, he thinks. There's no call for anything further than that. Friendship is still new and strange enough that he's adjusting to it. York himself is proof of that.
"Coffee, then. A beer? Casual platonic hangout things." His fingers flick and bend, coaxing out a low bass tune he'd been noodling around with whenever Locus was around. "You kinda need to get out more, I say hiding in your bunker."
Of the two of them he gets out plenty and technically this is getting out for him but right now, this is more than enough.
The little twist of self-aware hypocrisy at the end earns a faint snort, but Locus shakes his head all the same. He doesn't do 'casual' very well. Even when he was younger, he tended to be a little too intense, too awkward, even if he'd meant well and wanted to fit in.
That had been a long time ago. That had been Sam, not Locus.
"She has associates." She doesn't need to sit around humoring his efforts at being social. This, on the other hand? This is manageable.
"Associates or friends? Different flavors of koolaid there, locus." Relationships for business and for fun. Or refuge and grounding and all that stuff. It does make york drop his eyes to the strings he's been plucking, voice mild and casual when he asks.
"We're, what? Sparring partners, associates, or friends? Cuz only one of those makes falling asleep on you somewhat acceptable instead of mortifying."
That gives him pause as he considers it, watching York strum away without picking up on the feelers he's putting out, without seeming to.
What he did pick up on, however, was Washington flat out telling him that York thought of him as a friend. And sharing that space, York being comfortable enough around him to fall against him in sleep, is something friends would do. A friend, he reasons, would have been the one to make sure he slept soundly and got back to his own bed.
"If we were associates, I would have left you on the couch," he points out in flat tones.
The strumming stops there for a second. "I, uh. Thought Wash hauled my tired ass home."
Since Locus doesn't really do contact, and carrying is a lot of contact. Still that's... Good to know. He relaxes a little, the quiet tension easing. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Kinda pulled a few allnighters."
"I tried to wake you. When you didn't, I thought it best to let you sleep."
Obviously he'd needed it. And it wasn't that far of a walk. He'd borne someone else's weight for them for a time, before. The memories are there, flickering at the edge of his vision.
This is different, he reminds himself. New start. New...friends.
"Washington did follow, if that's any consolation."
"Yeah, sorry." He sleeps hard when exhausted, and he'd been pretty damn worn out. Pleased but tired. Plenty of code done, plenty of gifts made.
"Really? Huh. You had things handled, why lurk? I mean I haven't really invited him over so maybe he was curious." The strumming resumes, an idle tune wandering through. "...You can, you know. Call me Taylor. My friends do."
The friends that know his name, anyway. Wash will probably always call him York and that's ok. Ish. Mostly.
"He wanted to ensure you came to no harm in my care."
Which, fair enough, considering their history. Which York really has no concept of, does he? He'd seemed fairly oblivious during the movie, only assuming they were some sort of friends prior to this.
Nothing could be further from the truth, obviously, and Washington's words crept back into his mind. He should tell him the truth, before he had a chance to discover it any other way.
"...Okay I know Wash is a paranoid little shit more often than not and it's kept him alive but- why would he think you'd hurt me? We're sparring partners. If you wanted to hurt me you'd do it on the mat and call it an accident." That's how that shit went during the Project, that's not what's going on now. What the hell?
"He's not THAT protective of me." Is he? He isn't. "Just cuz he's the older one now-"
He sighs, grumbling at his guitar. "Damn timelines."
He studies York for a moment. Knowing the truth, he would likely abandon this course, this friendship he was attempting to forge. Why wouldn't he side with his comrade?
He has to accept that eventuality and get this over and done with.
"Because our history is a bloody one. Before coming here, our last experience with one another was on opposing sides of a war."
"The war's over." Mostly, he knew that much, he was sure of that much, Wash was further ahead so it ought to be even more over unless the Innies started picking up new sets of armor or-
Shit that is no longer relevant to him on account of him having ducked down years ago and hidden.
And, well.
Being dead.
"You're gonna have to elaborate on that." Because as it stands it makes no fucking sense.
Every human was more or less on the same side of that war, once the Covenant stepped in. Locus is still watching him intently, watching his fingers play over the guitar strings, debating.
Best way is bluntness, he decides.
"There was a little-known planet called Chorus. Has he mentioned it to you?"
"He has told me fuck and all about what comes after my point in the timeline." Except that everyone but he and Carolina are dead but Wash is on occasion a liar and they were trying to piss each other off, so.
Might be true, might not, even if he's pretty sure it's true he's not gonna mention it to...anyone.
That'll bite him later. "That's way out in the boonies, innit?"
"Yes. Though it held resources that were of interest to the man I was then employed by. Alien artifacts, in particular."
Just state the facts. As unbiased as possible. He still can't quite see a reaction, but that shouldn't be long, now.
"My partner and I were hired to sustain an already bloody civil war among the native population, and retrieve what artifacts we could in the process. Agent Washington and his comrades landed in the middle of said war when their ship crashed on the planet."
The strumming continues- slower, milder, just something for his hands to do while he processes this. War mongering for, what? Potential war profiteering? Research? Tiny place way out of the way where no one will notice this shit going down?
"And then?" New variables for the overall equation, an already murky pattern that he's having a hard time putting together but he knows, bone deep, it doesn't end anywhere good.
Just after Valor's Day
Makes things seem hazy. Wouldn't he want them here too? Wouldn't he wan them to enjoy this second chance at doing good, at being good? If North and Carolina show up that'll clinch it but that itch at the nape of his neck where Delta reacts to his agitation doesn't go away and his own habitat is too empty and quiet for his peace of mind.
Guitar on his back he drifts until he finds Locus' base. It's just like he said, pretty spartan. Familiar in the broad strokes while being wholly foreign and that- that's what York needs. He knocks (because that's what you do) and loiters, looking five kinds of out of place rocking back on his heels in civvies.
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When he finds York standing at his door, for the first time since the movie night, Locus considers for a moment before opening the door to him. A Freelancer. Like Washington.
But very much not like Washington, at the same time.
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Here, if Locus lets him.
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With a quiet nod, Locus draws back enough to let York inside the base proper. Not much here he hasn't seen vaguely rearranged somewhere else, on some other planet. The only personal touch appears to be a red and white striped scarf, strangely decorate amidst the rest, folded and hanging over a chair Locus has claimed as his own.
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Thoroughly endearing.
"Somebody made a new friend, huh?" It's easier to grin about this as he picks an unclaimed chair, guitar swinging around to settle on his lap.
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Gave you a pretty good clue who they might have come from.
"I'm fairly certain she got it as some kind of joke," he mumbles, in a way that convinces no one that he thinks that at all.
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"Maybe she just likes you. I mean this is better than pulling pigtails." A beat. "Unless, for you, this IS pulling pigtails."
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"It's difficult to say. She is not unpleasant to be around," he admits, at last.
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"Of course taking her out for dinner or something while in armor could get a little awkward. Hard to eat through a helmet."
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Does he sound exasperated? Because he is. Sombra is a friend, he thinks. There's no call for anything further than that. Friendship is still new and strange enough that he's adjusting to it. York himself is proof of that.
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Of the two of them he gets out plenty and technically this is getting out for him but right now, this is more than enough.
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That had been a long time ago. That had been Sam, not Locus.
"She has associates." She doesn't need to sit around humoring his efforts at being social. This, on the other hand? This is manageable.
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"We're, what? Sparring partners, associates, or friends? Cuz only one of those makes falling asleep on you somewhat acceptable instead of mortifying."
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What he did pick up on, however, was Washington flat out telling him that York thought of him as a friend. And sharing that space, York being comfortable enough around him to fall against him in sleep, is something friends would do. A friend, he reasons, would have been the one to make sure he slept soundly and got back to his own bed.
"If we were associates, I would have left you on the couch," he points out in flat tones.
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Since Locus doesn't really do contact, and carrying is a lot of contact. Still that's... Good to know. He relaxes a little, the quiet tension easing. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Kinda pulled a few allnighters."
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Obviously he'd needed it. And it wasn't that far of a walk. He'd borne someone else's weight for them for a time, before. The memories are there, flickering at the edge of his vision.
This is different, he reminds himself. New start. New...friends.
"Washington did follow, if that's any consolation."
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"Really? Huh. You had things handled, why lurk? I mean I haven't really invited him over so maybe he was curious." The strumming resumes, an idle tune wandering through. "...You can, you know. Call me Taylor. My friends do."
The friends that know his name, anyway. Wash will probably always call him York and that's ok. Ish. Mostly.
He'll deal.
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Which, fair enough, considering their history. Which York really has no concept of, does he? He'd seemed fairly oblivious during the movie, only assuming they were some sort of friends prior to this.
Nothing could be further from the truth, obviously, and Washington's words crept back into his mind. He should tell him the truth, before he had a chance to discover it any other way.
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"He's not THAT protective of me." Is he? He isn't. "Just cuz he's the older one now-"
He sighs, grumbling at his guitar. "Damn timelines."
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He has to accept that eventuality and get this over and done with.
"Because our history is a bloody one. Before coming here, our last experience with one another was on opposing sides of a war."
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Shit that is no longer relevant to him on account of him having ducked down years ago and hidden.
And, well.
Being dead.
"You're gonna have to elaborate on that." Because as it stands it makes no fucking sense.
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Every human was more or less on the same side of that war, once the Covenant stepped in. Locus is still watching him intently, watching his fingers play over the guitar strings, debating.
Best way is bluntness, he decides.
"There was a little-known planet called Chorus. Has he mentioned it to you?"
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Might be true, might not, even if he's pretty sure it's true he's not gonna mention it to...anyone.
That'll bite him later. "That's way out in the boonies, innit?"
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Just state the facts. As unbiased as possible. He still can't quite see a reaction, but that shouldn't be long, now.
"My partner and I were hired to sustain an already bloody civil war among the native population, and retrieve what artifacts we could in the process. Agent Washington and his comrades landed in the middle of said war when their ship crashed on the planet."
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"And then?" New variables for the overall equation, an already murky pattern that he's having a hard time putting together but he knows, bone deep, it doesn't end anywhere good.
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