Maybe for the first time in her presence—certainly the first time directed specifically at her—, a ribbon of real annoyance cuts through the set of Flint's face. It's a flexing thing, and so at home is it among his collection of wrinkles that it acts as an immediate translation for how certain heretofore inexplicable lines may have written themselves. It's apparently a far more ready arrangement of his features than approval is.
Is it the logistical complications of the request that does it, or the part where she refuses to indulge the obvious hook of his curiosity? Or is it just that miniscule upward tilt of the chin?
"Given the option, half this company would prefer to have nothing to do with the other half. You'll do whatever work you're assigned," has the brusque quality of a line decisively being scratched out of a written report.
Previously, a mere flicker of irritation from a commander would make Abby drop it and roll over. Right now, she finds she doesn't care at all. Less than twenty-four hours ago she broke the collarbone of a fellow Riftwatch member, down in the guts of the Gallows, and her knuckles still hurt from doing it. This sting of indignation is salt in the wound.
He won't budge on this and yelling at him, though sorely tempting, won't sway him to her side either. Like her previous boss, Flint has an old, worn-in pride about him, the kind that has real danger simmering just underneath, something Abby considers leonine.
She clashes her back teeth together, hard enough to hurt, and mutters, "Whatever." And chases that with, "It's going to cause more trouble if something happens while we're out together."
It's that muttered, sullen note that stops the trajectory of his hand toward the book—checking the motion as surely as if she'd spat on his boot. The hand sets down on the edge of the desk. Flint leans slightly forward in his chair, and all the air drains out of the office as surely as water might run free through the punctured base of a bucket.
Who exactly does she imagine she's sulking to in this moment?, isn't something that requires saying. It's written right there in his face, irritation and impatience both starkly present.
"As far as I was aware, both of you are grown women who understand the precedence that our work here takes. If you judge Ellie to be a legitimate threat to the goals of this tower, I expect your report to encapsulate more than just your disdain."
"I know that you don't give a shit about me," is snapped onto the tail end of his sentence, their last and first words overlapping. A shivering hand has curled up in an angry, nervous fist at her side. The thing is that Abby's had many people in her life like this, ones that gave the orders she followed. She was never naïve enough to think she was anything other than a body to them, but she's realising right now that she hoped Flint would be different, disappointment a disgusting tang at the back of her throat.
"But there are a lot of other people in Scouting, in Riftwatch, and I'm asking you a favour as somebody fighting a fucking war with you."
Sue her for wanting a little security, blanketed over the top of the near constant nightmares.
"Is this separate from or in addition to the favor I'm doing right now by allowing you to stand here and insult me?"
It doesn't have the tenor of a metaphorical question, but it must be one. He doesn't give her much time to answer.
"Don't imagine me unsympathetic to your position. I realize that, to a Rifter, this place is little more than an inconvenient diversion from the what you probably believe your life should be. But it would be a mistake to believe that anyone here feels otherwise. So when we all have the luxury of doing what we find most convenient, by all means. I'll happily insulate you from whoever it is you dislike. Until then, you and myself and everyone else in this tower will do what's been deemed necessary."
"Am I supposed to stand here and listen to you condescend to me without-" Abby starts, and then she makes herself stop mid-retort.
Her heart is beating crazy hard. She's so angry her eyes have gone glassy, molten hot, and she wants to punch Flint, haul back and sink her knuckles into his jaw. Cuz that's how she solves problems right, just hits them until they go away.
But what happened to her was not his fault. He had nothing to do with it. Bar that, if she's going to snap and deck somebody for fucking her off it should not be her commanding officer.
She sucks in a breath like she's coming up for air.
"Forget it," she says lowly, strung out. She hates that it feels like she's had this conversation before. She can almost see Gwenaëlle's eyes boring into hers. She grits out, "Sorry to bother you," and instantly contradicts that by turning to leave, and slamming the door shut behind her.
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no subject
Is it the logistical complications of the request that does it, or the part where she refuses to indulge the obvious hook of his curiosity? Or is it just that miniscule upward tilt of the chin?
"Given the option, half this company would prefer to have nothing to do with the other half. You'll do whatever work you're assigned," has the brusque quality of a line decisively being scratched out of a written report.
His hand is already moving back to the book.
no subject
He won't budge on this and yelling at him, though sorely tempting, won't sway him to her side either. Like her previous boss, Flint has an old, worn-in pride about him, the kind that has real danger simmering just underneath, something Abby considers leonine.
She clashes her back teeth together, hard enough to hurt, and mutters, "Whatever." And chases that with, "It's going to cause more trouble if something happens while we're out together."
no subject
Who exactly does she imagine she's sulking to in this moment?, isn't something that requires saying. It's written right there in his face, irritation and impatience both starkly present.
"As far as I was aware, both of you are grown women who understand the precedence that our work here takes. If you judge Ellie to be a legitimate threat to the goals of this tower, I expect your report to encapsulate more than just your disdain."
no subject
"But there are a lot of other people in Scouting, in Riftwatch, and I'm asking you a favour as somebody fighting a fucking war with you."
Sue her for wanting a little security, blanketed over the top of the near constant nightmares.
no subject
It doesn't have the tenor of a metaphorical question, but it must be one. He doesn't give her much time to answer.
"Don't imagine me unsympathetic to your position. I realize that, to a Rifter, this place is little more than an inconvenient diversion from the what you probably believe your life should be. But it would be a mistake to believe that anyone here feels otherwise. So when we all have the luxury of doing what we find most convenient, by all means. I'll happily insulate you from whoever it is you dislike. Until then, you and myself and everyone else in this tower will do what's been deemed necessary."
no subject
Her heart is beating crazy hard. She's so angry her eyes have gone glassy, molten hot, and she wants to punch Flint, haul back and sink her knuckles into his jaw. Cuz that's how she solves problems right, just hits them until they go away.
But what happened to her was not his fault. He had nothing to do with it. Bar that, if she's going to snap and deck somebody for fucking her off it should not be her commanding officer.
She sucks in a breath like she's coming up for air.
"Forget it," she says lowly, strung out. She hates that it feels like she's had this conversation before. She can almost see Gwenaëlle's eyes boring into hers. She grits out, "Sorry to bother you," and instantly contradicts that by turning to leave, and slamming the door shut behind her.