[The next part again seems obvious, but Omar remembers: Ricki had
said he'd been out before he came here, so this is at least in part
a real retirement story.
He doesn't think of Brandon, but it's a deliberate choice not to. Doesn't
think about choices that make sense in the moment -- calling Control,
letting the boy go down the block alone; doesn't think about Ricki's girl
getting-- He doesn't let it happen. He takes a long, slow breath on
his end, closing his eyes against it. He lets Ricki go on, and waits to
hear if there's some kind of satisfaction yet to come.]
It took months. I didn't know what was going on in the political landscape back home while I was on the run, but I arrived in London tired, hurt, broke and hungry. The mole had called Moscow, you see, and arranged for a considerable sum of money to be transferred into my bank account, allowing the Circus to justify freezing it while they hunted me down for my apparent espionage and implication in the murder of Thessinger.
I landed in a public call box, and I dialled a long shot. The political position, you don't have it in the States, but you might consider it-- second in command to the Vice President? With a brief for liaising between that office and the various Intelligence bodies.
It's a tricky conversation to have. 'You don't know me. My name is Ricki Tarr. If you need confirmation of that, please contact Peter Guillam to the Circus, but no one else. I have reason to believe that there is a mole so highly placed in MI6 that every single one of us is at risk.' I'm not sure whether or not I was good, or if he was just a thoughtful and intelligent man who could sense in my voice the edge that I was up against. It was raining, and I don't remember ever having been so tired. I knew I was breaking the surface of a still pond, but I didn't know what waves I'd make, whether he'd believe me or not. I had no idea that Control was already dead, disgraced by his crack-pot assertions that the organization had, in fact, been compromised. That Smiley had been fired months previously.
Things began to move, but I just used the last of my cash to get a hot meal, and crawled through a back window into a squat, with boarded up windows in the attic that no one would be able to sneak a shot through. I collapsed, incautiously, inevitably, I just- I'd gone and fallen in love with her, you know, though I'm not sure when it happened. Certainly not during our days together. I think it was the guilt, and the memory of her hands.
[His eyes are shut, voice subdued. There are little flickers here and there, of pride for sounding the alarm, of amusement, at the London rain, but mostly he's just quiet.]
We call it being 'out in the cold,' operating so far gone, without resource or support or hope. Because my parish was always tropical, I never really got a sense of what they meant when they christened it that. Not being able to move from an unheated building, or to make too much noise during the day, even, for fear. I lasted there as long as I could, and then I sussed out the shape of the resistance, got a sense of who had been contacted to look into the problem. I took a gamble and came back in, to offer my services in exchange for their trading Irina out from wherever Moscow was working her.
[He chuckles at the phone call, thin and humorless, muttering almost under his breath:]
Lord, man -- that point I think I'd be wondering if Mr. Vice-Vice President wasn't in the mix, too.
[And there are some things in the rest that are familiar to him. Omar is Omar, and he's lived in these squats mostly by choice these last few years, but even for the best stick-up boy there have been some lean times, or times he couldn't so much as look out the window safely. Years of unheated Baltimore winters. Love and guilt and the painful lingering of sense memory.
But the rest is exhausting even just to listen to. He's spent so much of his life looking over his shoulder, he's betrayed people and been betrayed, but there have still always been people he's known he could safely turn his back to. Even in Jessup, Butchie took care of him; even after Brandon, McNulty and Greggs had been a safe call. Kimmie is barely speaking to him these days, but he knows beyond a doubt that she'd still come if he needed her. He'd never thought of himself as taking all that for granted -- hard-won allies, every one -- but now he thinks of thinking to hide from all of them, and he just feels tired and sad.
He wishes they weren't doing this over the phone, suddenly, even if he doesn't much want Ricki to see what it's doing to his face. There's a rustle as he sighs and stands anyway, soft footsteps, a door opening and closing.]
[It takes a few seconds after that for Ricki to answer the door. It was easier to sound calm about it on the phone. In person, he doesn't really know what to do, but put on a glossy, brittle smile.]
Got a little heavy on you there, didn't I?
[But he steps back, to let him quietly in.
The minute the door shuts behind him, Ricki takes what is (for him) a considerable step and moves in close.]
[He looks a little apologetic, though. He can understand why Ricki wouldn't want to talk about this in person, but--]
I just...
[He shakes his head. He doesn't know if he has a good excuse for coming, except that he wanted to, which is usually a good enough excuse for anything. He thinks for a second, then moves past Ricki into the room and goes to sit at the head of the bed, one leg propped up, the other on the floor.]
C'mere.
[He nods to the space in front of him; if Ricki sits there between his legs, leans back against him, they could be close without being face-to-face.]
[Ricki locks the door behind him, and then pads over, sinking onto the bed with him, and figuring out what he means with just a second of hesitation. He settles down, and lets out a long, slow sigh.
Starting the story again takes about thirty seconds, where he first just gets used to resting here like this, picking idly at the comforter.]
There's more. Obviously. It went on for months, there were dozens of things. I missed a wedge, I had Peter Guillam land on me and split my lip for me for a hello, when I did come home. That stung, I don't like being hit when I can't hit back.
[Easier to jump back in there, than talk about Irina again.]
[He loops an arm loosely around Ricki's waist, otherwise quiet and still; just a warm, solid presence against his back, breathing slow.
Until that, anyway -- then a flash of secondhand indignation goes through him, and he almost shifts over to look at him before remembering what the point of this is supposed to be.]
'ayo, what he hitting you for, man? Ain't that the man supposed to be taking care of y'all?
He'd been dragged into a meeting by the remaining top four, and chewed up and down over how his man had taken Moscow money and been sent back with a plot to muddy the waters, make good Circus boys suspicious.
Smiley got him off me and turned him back around, but- I suppose I need to explain the really interesting thing about how this was set up. It wasn't just one man managing all this by himself. Our mole- codenamed Gerald, for the record, arranged with Moscow to run a source that we codenamed Witchcraft. Witchcraft would come to London and set up secure drops with all of the top Circus personnel. They fed him chickenfeed, and in exchange he gave them gold. Only Gerald, on our side, he snuck the crown jewels in with the scrap he was supposed to hand over. But it meant that of those four men, even though one was a traitor, all of them were committed to trying to have me killed, because they thought I was going to complicate Witchcraft's cover story. They could see why I believed there was a mole at the top of the circus, but they wanted me not to sound an alarm about it, because it'd compromise the Witchcraft connect.
It's like how you'll be willing to see a painting as counterfeit if you're given it for free, but if you pay dearly for it, you'll defend the authenticity practically to the death. My own people were lying to Peter, to get him to turn me in when he saw me next. I'm lucky all he did was let loose a little.
[Plucking again at the blankets.]
Peter and I come to blows rather a lot, anyways. It's- a communication style, or something. It was neither of our faults that this time I was in no shape for it.
What we did was send me to Paris, where I surfaced at one of the wire offices and sent a message home that I was there and wanted to talk. I was bait, right? Gerald knew it was crucial that I be intercepted rather than brought home.
Smiley and Mister Guillam staked out Witchcraft, and listened in until they heard Gerald approach him and start plotting about how they'd take care of me before the Circus men could get to me.
[Calmly, matter of factly, as though there weren't every chance in the world he could have been taken, tortured and killed at many steps along the way.]
They got their man. And that is the story of how I, Ricki Tarr, your date to movie night, somewhat saved British Intelligence from complete Russian infiltration.
[As he pats his pockets for cigarettes, then turns his head to give him a kiss on the cheek, before lifting himself up, crawling away to go find them a pack, a lighter.]
'Cause really, where y'all gonna go after something like that?
[There's a chapter of the story still missing, he knows, but he thinks in the same moment that he shouldn't -- doesn't want to -- ask. There are three things that could have happened to Irina, and if Ricki's not volunteering that part, that pretty much narrows it down to two. Either way, Ricki doesn't seem eager to tell him, and he's not all that eager to know. He's already thinking about a girl with cigarette burns on her skin, try as he might not to.
He'll owe him that story now, maybe, though the thought weighs heavy. He holds out a hand, gesturing for a cigarette.]
[His eyes finally, suddenly burn. He tosses the pack to Omar, and sits down on the edge of his desk, looking down, scrubbing a hand over his face, suddenly. Shit.]
I probably owe Anya some sort of fruit basket. Or a bottle of scotch. The baggage of mine she carries.
[He has the grace to focus on the cigarettes, taking his sweet time on the ritual of lighting up. There's enough attention on Ricki right now, enough pressure; he doesn't need Omar staring at him. He smiles ruefully, apologetically down at the covers.]
Thought you was calling on me to pick you up.
[And he does feel a little bad -- he'd been picking at him instead, over something he's not even comfortable thinking too much about.]
Well, I. Meant it to be a nothing story, you know? A double double game I played in Istanbul once, following Boris around those night clubs.
[Getting ahold of himself, he comes back to the bed, this time sitting in front of them, leg resting carefully over his, so they're still tangled. He reaches out to take the pack back, to brush hands.]
Nothing does pick me up, dust me off, leave me feeling human, quite like when you let me bend your ear.
[There it is again -- a jolt right to the heart of him, but one that rubs just a little bit over a raw nerve. He bites his lip, catching Ricki's fingers in his own for just a second, then letting them go again.]
[He wants to promises him he has nothing to make up for, but doesn't want to get trapped in a silly game of each of them insisting when the point is just that they'd each like to be here together.
Instead, he gives up fumbling for the lighter, which is lost somewhere in the blankets, and shifts back over, to settle tentatively, carefully against him.
Ricki doesn't really know how to lie against men. Is a little bit all elbows, but entirely warm of intention and manner. He reaches for Omar's cigarette, to steal a drag, and hums, settling slowly down.]
[He lets Ricki have the cigarette, gets an arm around him, shifting until they can sit without Ricki's elbow digging into his ribs. He doesn't feel so settled, really, but he blanks out his mind for the moment and lets himself relax into it. It's good to have the warmth and weight of a man against him again, and he likes this one.
Too, too much, he's starting to realize.
He reaches out and takes the cigarette back, dragging deep, absently stroking Ricki's shoulder with the other hand. He holds the smoke in for a long beat before letting it out again. It helps curb the edge a little bit. Maybe not enough, though.
He smokes in silence for another moment, then says, quietly:]
Thinking we might be square on that little debt you owe.
[Shit, it's a good thing that Omar has the cigarette back, because Ricki startles, would probably have burned the both of them.
He turns his head, hard, clutching in a sharp, ungainly movement at him, because he's a fool, an easy mess when it comes to kindness, always.]
Omar. I haven't--?
[He's never brought it up, has worked hard not to let it stand between them, not to do anything remotely like pressuring him into this. He twists, glancing up at him, checking his expression closely.]
[It's not a kindness. It's selfish, and his expression stays unusually shuttered, eyes on the covers. He tenses where Ricki's fingers dig in.]
Me dragging all this outta y'all and everything.
[It's an imbalance; this is a way to correct it without having to reopen wounds that are already starting to tear at the edges. He takes another deep drag, the corner of his mouth quirking in a humorless smile as he lets it out again.]
Truth be told, I got a few skeletons I'd still like to keep in my closet.
[He says, and sits the rest of the way up, propping himself up on his arms and considering him closely.]
Well.
[It takes every bone in his body to say it, then, but;]
Then it's still yours. [Even though it's clearly a fight and a half to give it back, and leaves him a little red-faced, and feeling foolish.] I told you because I wanted to tell you, and with no expectation of anything in return. I have actual interrogation training, darling, if you wanted to drag something out of me you'd need the better part of two weeks and a skill set I don't think you have. I can't in good conscience pretend that this is anything close to fair, not when I just- wanted to let it out. You keep your skeletons, and you keep my IOU, and you just give me a kiss tonight and we'll be more than square.
[He seems oddly dissatisfied with that answer, or less relieved than he ought to, anyway. He does look back at Ricki, at least. Even with all Ricki's skill, though, and as well as he knows Omar now, there's no telling what's in his eyes beyond that. He's a closed book.
But he's asked for a kiss, and he can do that much -- even if that, too, is a little harder than it should be, a little bit of an edge in it, like a distant echo of Ricki's feverish panic from before. He curls his hand in Ricki's shirt and holds tight for a moment.]
[He almost explains, I'll never forgive myself, if I feel I got it out of you dishonestly, but shuts himself up and looks up at him instead as he's held, accepting the shut off look in his eyes with perfect stillness, returning the kiss and then waiting, soft and still, for any indication.
After a heartbeat, he rubs a delicate hand along Omar's side. Still watching his eyes. The kindest thing he can think to do is offer him two gracious choices, so Ricki takes the cigarette back and murmurs;]
I know it's early, but I was thinking of getting some sleep. You're welcome to keep me warm while I wind down, but if your schedule is later than this I'll understand perfectly.
[He should stay: he came here to be with Ricki, and it would feel like running to leave now. There's a large part of him that's tempted to anyway, to get a little distance between them for a minute. For a moment, panic and guilt war with pride and desire. It's really ego more than anything that wins in the end: Omar Little doesn't scare.
So he shakes his head and settles back again, pulling his shoes off to get comfortable on the bed.]
[He smiles, and gives his side another slow, familiar touch, before getting gingerly to his feet and stretching, heading for the bathroom.
Omar has a thing about not talking to people from other rooms, and anyways, Ricki needs a cup from the desk and a bottle of pills from the dresser, so he starts brushing his teeth, and reemerges to fetch both of those things with the spare hand, and a wink for Omar in passing. It feels a little ridiculous, letting him into this most quiet, domestic space, but of course he brushes his teeth at night, he only wishes he had a spare brush to lend him.]
[That's really a trust issue. Back when Ricki was still a mostly unknown quantity, Omar had preferred he stay in line of sight. Whatever is twisting around in Omar's gut tonight, that's not it, or he wouldn't be staying at all.
He has every intention of letting Ricki go without comment, but he notices the bottle. He hadn't before; it seems to almost suddenly materialize on the dresser just in time for Ricki to pick it up. Is that new? He doesn't remember seeing it before at all. He doesn't ask outright, though he gives it a curious squint as Ricki passes by on his way back into the bathroom, and again when he emerges. He's made himself comfortable in the meantime, stretched out on his back, the shared cigarette having found its way back into his hand.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: voice
[The next part again seems obvious, but Omar remembers: Ricki had said he'd been out before he came here, so this is at least in part a real retirement story.
He doesn't think of Brandon, but it's a deliberate choice not to. Doesn't think about choices that make sense in the moment -- calling Control, letting the boy go down the block alone; doesn't think about Ricki's girl getting-- He doesn't let it happen. He takes a long, slow breath on his end, closing his eyes against it. He lets Ricki go on, and waits to hear if there's some kind of satisfaction yet to come.]
no subject
I landed in a public call box, and I dialled a long shot. The political position, you don't have it in the States, but you might consider it-- second in command to the Vice President? With a brief for liaising between that office and the various Intelligence bodies.
It's a tricky conversation to have. 'You don't know me. My name is Ricki Tarr. If you need confirmation of that, please contact Peter Guillam to the Circus, but no one else. I have reason to believe that there is a mole so highly placed in MI6 that every single one of us is at risk.' I'm not sure whether or not I was good, or if he was just a thoughtful and intelligent man who could sense in my voice the edge that I was up against. It was raining, and I don't remember ever having been so tired. I knew I was breaking the surface of a still pond, but I didn't know what waves I'd make, whether he'd believe me or not. I had no idea that Control was already dead, disgraced by his crack-pot assertions that the organization had, in fact, been compromised. That Smiley had been fired months previously.
Things began to move, but I just used the last of my cash to get a hot meal, and crawled through a back window into a squat, with boarded up windows in the attic that no one would be able to sneak a shot through. I collapsed, incautiously, inevitably, I just- I'd gone and fallen in love with her, you know, though I'm not sure when it happened. Certainly not during our days together. I think it was the guilt, and the memory of her hands.
[His eyes are shut, voice subdued. There are little flickers here and there, of pride for sounding the alarm, of amusement, at the London rain, but mostly he's just quiet.]
We call it being 'out in the cold,' operating so far gone, without resource or support or hope. Because my parish was always tropical, I never really got a sense of what they meant when they christened it that. Not being able to move from an unheated building, or to make too much noise during the day, even, for fear. I lasted there as long as I could, and then I sussed out the shape of the resistance, got a sense of who had been contacted to look into the problem. I took a gamble and came back in, to offer my services in exchange for their trading Irina out from wherever Moscow was working her.
no subject
Lord, man -- that point I think I'd be wondering if Mr. Vice-Vice President wasn't in the mix, too.
[And there are some things in the rest that are familiar to him. Omar is Omar, and he's lived in these squats mostly by choice these last few years, but even for the best stick-up boy there have been some lean times, or times he couldn't so much as look out the window safely. Years of unheated Baltimore winters. Love and guilt and the painful lingering of sense memory.
But the rest is exhausting even just to listen to. He's spent so much of his life looking over his shoulder, he's betrayed people and been betrayed, but there have still always been people he's known he could safely turn his back to. Even in Jessup, Butchie took care of him; even after Brandon, McNulty and Greggs had been a safe call. Kimmie is barely speaking to him these days, but he knows beyond a doubt that she'd still come if he needed her. He'd never thought of himself as taking all that for granted -- hard-won allies, every one -- but now he thinks of thinking to hide from all of them, and he just feels tired and sad.
He wishes they weren't doing this over the phone, suddenly, even if he doesn't much want Ricki to see what it's doing to his face. There's a rustle as he sighs and stands anyway, soft footsteps, a door opening and closing.]
Hold on.
[A knock at the door, a minute later.]
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Got a little heavy on you there, didn't I?
[But he steps back, to let him quietly in.
The minute the door shuts behind him, Ricki takes what is (for him) a considerable step and moves in close.]
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[He looks a little apologetic, though. He can understand why Ricki wouldn't want to talk about this in person, but--]
I just...
[He shakes his head. He doesn't know if he has a good excuse for coming, except that he wanted to, which is usually a good enough excuse for anything. He thinks for a second, then moves past Ricki into the room and goes to sit at the head of the bed, one leg propped up, the other on the floor.]
C'mere.
[He nods to the space in front of him; if Ricki sits there between his legs, leans back against him, they could be close without being face-to-face.]
no subject
Starting the story again takes about thirty seconds, where he first just gets used to resting here like this, picking idly at the comforter.]
There's more. Obviously. It went on for months, there were dozens of things. I missed a wedge, I had Peter Guillam land on me and split my lip for me for a hello, when I did come home. That stung, I don't like being hit when I can't hit back.
[Easier to jump back in there, than talk about Irina again.]
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Until that, anyway -- then a flash of secondhand indignation goes through him, and he almost shifts over to look at him before remembering what the point of this is supposed to be.]
'ayo, what he hitting you for, man? Ain't that the man supposed to be taking care of y'all?
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[Eyes slipping shut.]
He'd been dragged into a meeting by the remaining top four, and chewed up and down over how his man had taken Moscow money and been sent back with a plot to muddy the waters, make good Circus boys suspicious.
Smiley got him off me and turned him back around, but- I suppose I need to explain the really interesting thing about how this was set up. It wasn't just one man managing all this by himself. Our mole- codenamed Gerald, for the record, arranged with Moscow to run a source that we codenamed Witchcraft. Witchcraft would come to London and set up secure drops with all of the top Circus personnel. They fed him chickenfeed, and in exchange he gave them gold. Only Gerald, on our side, he snuck the crown jewels in with the scrap he was supposed to hand over. But it meant that of those four men, even though one was a traitor, all of them were committed to trying to have me killed, because they thought I was going to complicate Witchcraft's cover story. They could see why I believed there was a mole at the top of the circus, but they wanted me not to sound an alarm about it, because it'd compromise the Witchcraft connect.
It's like how you'll be willing to see a painting as counterfeit if you're given it for free, but if you pay dearly for it, you'll defend the authenticity practically to the death. My own people were lying to Peter, to get him to turn me in when he saw me next. I'm lucky all he did was let loose a little.
[Plucking again at the blankets.]
Peter and I come to blows rather a lot, anyways. It's- a communication style, or something. It was neither of our faults that this time I was in no shape for it.
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Starting to be amazed any of y'all manage to get out of bed in the morning.
[And he sleeps with a gun next to his head, and it's not by choice that it's unloaded at the moment.]
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Smiley and Mister Guillam staked out Witchcraft, and listened in until they heard Gerald approach him and start plotting about how they'd take care of me before the Circus men could get to me.
[Calmly, matter of factly, as though there weren't every chance in the world he could have been taken, tortured and killed at many steps along the way.]
They got their man. And that is the story of how I, Ricki Tarr, your date to movie night, somewhat saved British Intelligence from complete Russian infiltration.
[As he pats his pockets for cigarettes, then turns his head to give him a kiss on the cheek, before lifting himself up, crawling away to go find them a pack, a lighter.]
cw: gore/torture
[He leans back, watching him hunt.]
'Cause really, where y'all gonna go after something like that?
[There's a chapter of the story still missing, he knows, but he thinks in the same moment that he shouldn't -- doesn't want to -- ask. There are three things that could have happened to Irina, and if Ricki's not volunteering that part, that pretty much narrows it down to two. Either way, Ricki doesn't seem eager to tell him, and he's not all that eager to know. He's already thinking about a girl with cigarette burns on her skin, try as he might not to.
He'll owe him that story now, maybe, though the thought weighs heavy. He holds out a hand, gesturing for a cigarette.]
'ayo, what brought all this on, man?
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[His eyes finally, suddenly burn. He tosses the pack to Omar, and sits down on the edge of his desk, looking down, scrubbing a hand over his face, suddenly. Shit.]
I probably owe Anya some sort of fruit basket. Or a bottle of scotch. The baggage of mine she carries.
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Thought you was calling on me to pick you up.
[And he does feel a little bad -- he'd been picking at him instead, over something he's not even comfortable thinking too much about.]
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[Getting ahold of himself, he comes back to the bed, this time sitting in front of them, leg resting carefully over his, so they're still tangled. He reaches out to take the pack back, to brush hands.]
Nothing does pick me up, dust me off, leave me feeling human, quite like when you let me bend your ear.
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Sorry, though.
Make it up to you?
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Instead, he gives up fumbling for the lighter, which is lost somewhere in the blankets, and shifts back over, to settle tentatively, carefully against him.
Ricki doesn't really know how to lie against men. Is a little bit all elbows, but entirely warm of intention and manner. He reaches for Omar's cigarette, to steal a drag, and hums, settling slowly down.]
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Too, too much, he's starting to realize.
He reaches out and takes the cigarette back, dragging deep, absently stroking Ricki's shoulder with the other hand. He holds the smoke in for a long beat before letting it out again. It helps curb the edge a little bit. Maybe not enough, though.
He smokes in silence for another moment, then says, quietly:]
Thinking we might be square on that little debt you owe.
no subject
He turns his head, hard, clutching in a sharp, ungainly movement at him, because he's a fool, an easy mess when it comes to kindness, always.]
Omar. I haven't--?
[He's never brought it up, has worked hard not to let it stand between them, not to do anything remotely like pressuring him into this. He twists, glancing up at him, checking his expression closely.]
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Me dragging all this outta y'all and everything.
[It's an imbalance; this is a way to correct it without having to reopen wounds that are already starting to tear at the edges. He takes another deep drag, the corner of his mouth quirking in a humorless smile as he lets it out again.]
Truth be told, I got a few skeletons I'd still like to keep in my closet.
no subject
[He says, and sits the rest of the way up, propping himself up on his arms and considering him closely.]
Well.
[It takes every bone in his body to say it, then, but;]
Then it's still yours. [Even though it's clearly a fight and a half to give it back, and leaves him a little red-faced, and feeling foolish.] I told you because I wanted to tell you, and with no expectation of anything in return. I have actual interrogation training, darling, if you wanted to drag something out of me you'd need the better part of two weeks and a skill set I don't think you have. I can't in good conscience pretend that this is anything close to fair, not when I just- wanted to let it out. You keep your skeletons, and you keep my IOU, and you just give me a kiss tonight and we'll be more than square.
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But he's asked for a kiss, and he can do that much -- even if that, too, is a little harder than it should be, a little bit of an edge in it, like a distant echo of Ricki's feverish panic from before. He curls his hand in Ricki's shirt and holds tight for a moment.]
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After a heartbeat, he rubs a delicate hand along Omar's side. Still watching his eyes. The kindest thing he can think to do is offer him two gracious choices, so Ricki takes the cigarette back and murmurs;]
I know it's early, but I was thinking of getting some sleep. You're welcome to keep me warm while I wind down, but if your schedule is later than this I'll understand perfectly.
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So he shakes his head and settles back again, pulling his shoes off to get comfortable on the bed.]
Might be a little tired out, myself.
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Omar has a thing about not talking to people from other rooms, and anyways, Ricki needs a cup from the desk and a bottle of pills from the dresser, so he starts brushing his teeth, and reemerges to fetch both of those things with the spare hand, and a wink for Omar in passing. It feels a little ridiculous, letting him into this most quiet, domestic space, but of course he brushes his teeth at night, he only wishes he had a spare brush to lend him.]
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He has every intention of letting Ricki go without comment, but he notices the bottle. He hadn't before; it seems to almost suddenly materialize on the dresser just in time for Ricki to pick it up. Is that new? He doesn't remember seeing it before at all. He doesn't ask outright, though he gives it a curious squint as Ricki passes by on his way back into the bathroom, and again when he emerges. He's made himself comfortable in the meantime, stretched out on his back, the shared cigarette having found its way back into his hand.]
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