I'm afraid that isn't something I could offer, even if I had all the comforts of home available at the moment.
[Zeta feels Fevrain moving so he can put him down. He briefly entertains the idea of carrying him back to his chair, seating him in his lap, but... For one, it might not be far, but he's rather at more danger of dropping Fevrain before they got there. For another, he isn't sure when he'll start getting restless, and he doesn't think it'd be best if he was still holding him at that time.
So Zeta complies, carefully helping Fevrain to the ground.
(... and then glances at the monitors again. Everything still fine. Good.)]
[The difficulty in this is that their uniforms are identical, and they're not that different in size. Zeta stares at the pile of clothes nearby, promptly decides, "fuck it," and throws a thought to the converter.]
[He takes the clothes that Zeta is offering him. He'll need to be dressed if he's going to escape......no, no, he can't let himself think like that.]
I wouldn't dream of it. I have very particular tastes anyway. I like actual food, not converted energy or nutrition disks. [Luxuries that are uncommon on Gallifrey.]
Actual food is what I'm referring to, yes. And I'm terrible at it. Everything always comes out wrong. [And burnt.
Zeta draws his own new clothes out next, then sends another command to the converter. He dresses briskly.] I have, though I can't say I'm particularly fond of it.
[Tunic, trousers, boots...soon Fevrain is looking once again like a respectable Gallifreyan. Or as respectable as a professional spy can be. He runs a hand through his hair to make it look stylishly tousled instead of well-fucked mess.
His instincts are telling him that it's time to walk out now. This is the usually the time when he declines invitations to breakfast and lies about keeping in contact. But he can't leave. He's on duty.]
I'm astonished that Narvin has voluntarily remained planetside for this long. The last time he was on an alien planet for more than a few hours was centuries ago and he hated every microspan of it.
I was, too, until we actually saw what was going on. [Zeta straightens his tunic as a last touch, then makes a gesture towards the consoles, a quick flick of his wrist.] What I want to know is how he justifies this to himself. He's clearly blind to the truth, so what does he think is going on there?
[He draws out a couple of bottles from the converter: good, strong stuff, though different from what they'd been drinking before. He figured they'll need all the help they can get to regain their equilibrium.
And he can't possibly claim to himself he's simply on holiday, as if that's a normal thing for him. Narvin has never taken a single holiday in the entire time I've known him.
[Fevrain takes a gulp of his drink and sits in his chair.]
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I simply think that I deserve only the best.
Now, if you propose a bed with Sartalian silk sheets, we might get somewhere.
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[Zeta feels Fevrain moving so he can put him down. He briefly entertains the idea of carrying him back to his chair, seating him in his lap, but... For one, it might not be far, but he's rather at more danger of dropping Fevrain before they got there. For another, he isn't sure when he'll start getting restless, and he doesn't think it'd be best if he was still holding him at that time.
So Zeta complies, carefully helping Fevrain to the ground.
(... and then glances at the monitors again. Everything still fine. Good.)]
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[He doubts it, but one can hope.
Fevrain looks around for his clothes and tries to ignore the twitchy feeling that's building.]
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[The difficulty in this is that their uniforms are identical, and they're not that different in size. Zeta stares at the pile of clothes nearby, promptly decides, "fuck it," and throws a thought to the converter.]
I've made fresh clothes for us.
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A good shag and clever. It's a rare combination. Ranser was a fool to give that up.
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But then he's back, and he simply shrugs one shoulder.] Just don't expect me to cook you anything. It's my one failing.
[He draws out the clothes intended for Fevrain and offers them to him.]
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I wouldn't dream of it. I have very particular tastes anyway. I like actual food, not converted energy or nutrition disks. [Luxuries that are uncommon on Gallifrey.]
Have you ever tried roast seerlak?
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Zeta draws his own new clothes out next, then sends another command to the converter. He dresses briskly.] I have, though I can't say I'm particularly fond of it.
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[He slips his undershirt on over his head, taking his time getting dressed.]
Steamed Dalek?
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But for your questions: yes, I rather like dactyl eggs, and tafelshrew is acceptable.
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His instincts are telling him that it's time to walk out now. This is the usually the time when he declines invitations to breakfast and lies about keeping in contact. But he can't leave. He's on duty.]
I'm astonished that Narvin has voluntarily remained planetside for this long. The last time he was on an alien planet for more than a few hours was centuries ago and he hated every microspan of it.
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[He draws out a couple of bottles from the converter: good, strong stuff, though different from what they'd been drinking before. He figured they'll need all the help they can get to regain their equilibrium.
He waggles one at Fevrain, eyebrows raised.]
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He can't claim that he's investigating a possible security threat. They barely have functioning computers.
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[Zeta goes and takes his seat, cracking open his drink.]
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[Fevrain takes a gulp of his drink and sits in his chair.]
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[Back to drinking and snarking about the boss, it's almost like Zeta hadn't just fucked him up against the wall.
Avoiding thinking about complicated feelings isn't just for Chief Coordinators.]