1964-12-15 - Brother talk

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jay cannonball douglas 

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Cannonball is out on the back grounds, zooming around in the air, pretty much the usual. He likes to fly, and its harder in the city to do it. So, getting a little out, here, where its safe. He hates going a day without soaring around and loving every minute of being a mutant. He has it all, as far as that's concerned. Flying…and passing as human whenever he wants.

*

Yeah. And yet, the Pinkskin's lot in life is interesting, because as Mutant culture develops… some of them start to see you as unfairly privileged, don't they? The dirty looks, the whispers. Doug came out to do a little drawing under the patio lights and look at the stars, and he's sitting barefoot, absently sketching; Warlock (he draws Warlock a lot, because Warlock is always interesting to draw), the old gang, people he's seen. But right now, he's abstracting the firey trails of light he sees in the sky. He has a couple of bottles of root beer next to him, one of which he cracks open and takes a pull from, absently.

*

Its true. You become not just one of the lucky ones…but…almost reviled in a way. Sam hasn't felt it, because he's been oblivious to it. He spots Doug on a pass and doesn't even try to land near him. He, instead, lands on the grounds and then walks his way over to the guy with the root beers. "Hey…fancy seein' ya out here. What ya drawin'? Can ya e'en see?" He puts his hands on his jeans-wearing hips and meanders closer.

*

Doug smirks, and says, "Sorta! But… I cheat." He holds up a little flashlight, which he had in his teeth. He tosses Sam the second root beer, and then he holds up the paper. "Sorry, you were making interesting designs in the sky. So I figured I'd sketch them." Indeed, it's bold lines, all kinds of twisty loops and hard angles. Then he sits back. There's sketches of all of them in there, from memory. Sam, Bobby, Dani, Illyana, Amara, Kitty — Doug's not going to get put in an art gallery anytime soon but they're recognizeable.

*

And more and more sketches of that weird metal-skinned alien man with the big smile and funny eyes.

*

Cannonball takes the sketchbook if Doug lets him and flips through it, curiously. "Lots of…Warlock in here." He comments with a little brow lift, as if to ask something of the linguist. "None of Berto?" He flips through to look, perhaps a little eagerly. Its been a while since he saw his BFF. Not since the incident that drew him away from the school in the first place. He takes the rootbeer and sits down next to the other guy, casually.

*

There are a few of Berto in there, actually. One of him in a pose in the soda shop when he was flirting with the waitress… a cartoony one of him with an anvil on his head, which is a memory of an old argument. Roberto and Doug used to have the most incredible rows… but Doug never backed down, even when he should've. And their arguments would flip back and forth constantly between Engish and Portuguese. Then Doug looks up at Sam, sidelong, and then takes another slow pull of his root beer. "Don't ask me man, I haven't talked to him." He's quiet, for a time. "There are things I'd like to make right." Then he is quiet.

*

"What's that mean? You dint do anything wrong that I know of." Sam insists, look from the sketchbook over to Dougy. He looks then for any signs of a self portrait. "You ever draw yourself? Like as a cartoon or in a mirror?"

*

Doug snorts, once, and then he rests his chin in his hand. "Just that Berto and I were never close, and… that was partially my fault. I always liked him, Sam — I saw how smart he was and how he was always a step ahead, and I admired it, when I wasn't grinding my teeth in jealousy. I just never had the words to say it." Then he looks down, and says, "Why do you ask? No, I've never tried drawing myself. I just doodle, really. Some of those are old, though, from before I went to Europe." The earliest ones of Sam are from back when he had the flat-top and hadn't grown into his ears yet. Might wanna burn those.

*

Cannonball leans forwards some, setting the book down on Doug's legs. "Why dint ya ever tell me? I ah…I like to think I'd have been kind, at least." Then he frowns as he thinks about it. "Maybe not. I was…fair confused. Probably right that you didn't say nothin'." He exhales at his own lack of an open mind, even that long ago.

*

"Not like THAT," Doug says, giving Sam a shove. "Doofus. I mean I just wanted to be tighter friends with him but it just never happened, and I'd like a chance to fix it." Then he glances up at Sam sidelong, and says, "Hey." He pauses, and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey. Listen. About—" He pauses. "Ah." He colors across the bridge of his nose. "I have no regrets. I don't know how to talk about it, or even if you WANT to, but…"

*

"Oh, I see. Sure. Well, perhaps he'll come back around eventually. Last I heard, he was doin' somethin' with his business." Sam reports, though that may not be accurate or up to date. He and Doug are sitting on some chairs by the lawn. A little kicked-up ground indicates that Sam was recently flying around. Now he has a root beer. He reaches over and puts his hand on Doug's shoulder, then leaaaans, trying to tip him and his chair over.

*

Hey! Hey! Doug was trying to be open! And here you are, pushing him out of his chaise longue! "Waaaa!" He holds up his root beer in the air, as he lands in an inelegant sprawl. He looks up, his glare shining under the patio lights. "Guthrie, what did you do that for!?"

*

Like brother like…erm…smaller brother? Jay is taking a rareish trip to the school and once you're out of the city, there isn't a whole lot but open space, so may as well take to wing rather than anything else, especially since he doesn't own a car. Against the sky, red flutters that way on a lackadaisical sort of path, spotting two familiar figures under the lights of the patio, Jay takes one pass overhead, then comes about again on a second loop, landing with a little bit of a lop-sided backwing and heavy drop to the ground with an 'umph' and flex of his knees about three yards away from the edge of the patio. Mutely, Jay lifts a hand, barefoot in the autumn chill as he walks in the older two mutants' direction.

*

Then Doug watches Sam shoot back up into the sky to go back to flying, and he looks down, briefly. "Geez." He grabs his sketchbook, and waves it at Jay. "Hey, wings. I thought you were allergic to the Institute."

*

Jay's head whips back as he watches a familiar blur of energy blast past him. A curious knit of his brows, the red-headed brother shrugs and scrubs the back of his neck, approaching Doug and his sketchbook. "More like fundamentally scarred by it?" Icarus leans back with a faint curve of a smile. "But, y'know, D tells me that immersion therapy works. B'side, Ah was thinkin' more on what you said about tryin' to find another guy t'help me sharpen up my mimicry, you know? Maybe make it useful instead of just fer music. Kaleb's off…Ah don't know, freedom fightin' fer some aliens or somethin', so…" He trails off lamely and shrugs, peering at Doug's book. "What're you doin?"

*

"Oh." Doug holds it up, showing the wavy lines and hard angles that mark Sam's jet-trail in the sky. "Abstract flight path sketching. Your brother's much better in the air than I remember. But his landings still *suck*." Then he climbs back into his chaise longue, before he looks around, then pulls another root beer out from under it. "Hey. I'm happy to see you!" He leans back, and says, "Jay… have you gotten a chance to sit and talk to your brother since he got back?"

*

Jay tilts his head to the side, his smile expanding slowly from that mild curve into a quick flash of a grin when Doug says his landings suck. A flash of that single dimple in the side of his cheek visible briefly. "You mean when he /crashes into stuff/? Yeah. Then again, Mine ain't so graceful, neither. Ah think Ah gave Warren a heart attack the first time he saw me land. Even with his new wings, that guy is /smooooooth/." Jay whistles and shakes his head, yearningly. Meandering back toward Doug as he leans back, Jay drops unceremoneously but still with a boneless, earthy comfort into a chair and frows softly, looking in the direction where Sam blasted off from. "Not /really/ talk. Ah mean…stuff is kinda real complicated. Ah thought he abandoned me out there without nobody." His tone gets quiet, those soulful green eyes fall on Doug and there's a /lot/ he could explain to allow him to appreciate the gravity. His body language /screams/ it. BUT! Jay is loyal. He /wants/ to be understood, but eventually falls flat out of some sense of loyalty and murmurs. "Ah know it ain't the case, but we haven't really talked t'catch up with what happened all these months…" Wings fwip and shiver with aggitation. Hiding something.

*

Doug looks up, and says, "I know he wound up in jail. I don't judge him for it, and I told him I felt like you'd forgive him quick, but that's Sam for you — always worried that his mistakes will cost him the people who care about him. But you're his brother—" He picks up his sketchbook, and shifts to catch the patio light, before he begins to draw the edge of a wing — "I was wondering if maybe he'd confide in you the way he wouldn't in someone else. …My powers give me the ability to pick up on microexpressions, on things people don't say, even when they speak. It's hard to lie to me. I've gotten good at not prying… but something deep is troubling him."

*

Finally, Doug says, as he continues to sketch Jay's wings, "Like how I know you're not telling me something. Tell me —" He says, "Or don't. That's your call. But I'm not going to fake ignorance."

*

Jay nods a few times, not the least bit surprised when Doug says he knows Sam was in jail. No. He knew that part. "Ah know he got locked up. He explained that. He jus' didn't wanna talk about the why, or nothin' that happened when he was gone. Said he needed time, so…Ah wanted to give him time." Gentle-spirited, Jay accepts and respects requests like that without pressing. No surprise. "But Ah know what you mean—somethin's not quite right." A concerned twitch of Jay's brows together, nodding seriously to the sketch artist. "He said he'd talk when he was ready. He just hasn't been ready yet, Ah suppose."

Jay is the least hardest nut to crack when it comes to his body language. Sure, he's got that southern relaxation like his brother does, but he's always worn his heart on his sleeve. The musician is a passionate spirit, if mild mannered. And those dang wings are like emotional barometers, broadcasting loud and clear to folks like Doug. Jay knows it and smiles, ruefully to the increasingly familiar fellow. Quietly, Jay admits, "Ah know you can read me, Doug. Ah don't mind it. But sometimes a man's story is all he's got, yaknow? Ah'm sure a lot has happened t'Sam while he was gone. Lot's happened since you knew me back home, too. Heck, lot's happened just while Ah've been here. So…there's a lot Ah'm not sayin'." A quirks a wry smile.

*

Doug sketches Jay's face, roughly, quick flicks of his pencil. He looks up at the fire trailing through the sky, and says "You know…" He says, "When we were kids, all of us — we went to a party. It was a hoi polloi thing, with Emma Frost's Academy, before it memrged with the Institute. They relaxed some of the rules, I hit the poker table, won a bunch of cash off some guy. Met a girl, got drunk." He sketches, more. "Got real drunk. Eventually the others found me. There was an argument, and I heard something that made me mad — I don't even remember what — and I slapped that girl. Well," He says, with an exhale, "Your brother did not like that. And he sobered me up, in a hurry. I still remember that bathtub full of ice. I fought with Bobby da Costa as often as we hung out and I guess I was always closer to the girls, but Sam—" He says, "He's in a class by himself. I was an only kid. So in some ways he was the older brother I never had."

*

Jay listens to Doug's story peacefully. His expression is, well, classic Jay in a lot of ways as at least one of his friends would explain. Wide-eyed and attentive with a gentled cant of his head slightly to one side in a classic 'listening' stance, those forest-green eyes clear and guileless. Not an ounce of judgment in his heart while Doug tells his story, though there is a spark of humor that makes his mouth curve and eyes shine a moment and the touch of seriousness as well. Listening and observing are high on Jay's list of things he's good at, peaceful throughout that tale. There also doesn't seem to be any urge to hide himself away while Doug's pencil moves. Candid and honest. Guthrie boys just have honest down.

"Sam's good at th' big brother bit. He's a hard one to live up to, but he is one of a kind," Jay murmurs his agreement. Tipping his head forward some, he continues, trying to catch Doug's eye for a moment of direct contact. "You know he always had kind things t'say about you, too, don'tcha, Doug?" Slower then, he continues, "An', Ahs suppose from all Ah've seen, Ah gotta say he had it right. Catchin' you again did me more good than Ah knew right off. So. Ah guess you can say you passed it on."

*

"Really." Doug says, as he continues to sketch Jay, trying to catch the nuance of that expression with his pencil, though as artists go, he's really just an amateur. But it gives him something to do with his fingers while he talks. "Probably something like," He affects that lazy Kentucky accent, "That Dougie Ramsey, he sure does try hard, poor lil' guy! He sure did get the sticky bit left in the still when he drew his powers, though!" Then he looks up at those firey trails, and for a moment something else flickers in his eyes, but then it's gone again. "My heart is Black and Yellow, Jay. Death itself couldn't separate me from the rest of them. Sometimes I just don't know how to say it."

*

Jay's eyes turn into little green crescent moons as he smiles at Doug, delighted by that impression of his brother. "Not /quite/ like that, Dougy. Not quite. Good accent, though, man. Ah dig it." A soft, breathy chuckle exhaled quietly, Jay draws a deep breath and visually traces Doug's profile as he looks skyward again. He's no mind reader. Hell, he's not even a bodylanguage reader. Depending on who you talk to, there's a debate on if he knows how to read at all. But still, there's a thoughtful nature to his attention while it clings to Cypher. Jay's cheek hollows while he bites on the inside of it softly for a moment. The red-head nods quietly, and looks skyward again as well. "Ah know, Doug. Ah think that was the most disappointin' thing of 'em all. Y'all sold this place so highly. It wasn't that easy fer me. That sense of…belonging. Soulful, deep, knowing belonging. Ah hear it in yer voice every time. Written all over you." His voice, his body, screams longing. "Well, it ain't right to envy, but Ah do. Still. Ah'm glad you have it. Sam has it."

*

"I love this old pile, Jay, but it's the /people/ that make it matter. I met… the most incredible people. All of a sudden, my life was one of the stories I'd grown up reading. It was— intoxicating, and it was frightening. But I've come to the realization that people are what make life worth living, and family isn't something you're given, it's something you build — one fight, one laugh, one… quiet moment at a time." He flicks his eyes back to the paper. "So start building. And if it doesn't work, it doesn't work, and you try again." He sighs, and looks down, and says, out of nowhere, "I think I might be a fool, Jay Guthrie. A fool who just makes things worse."

*

Doug's thoughts evoke something still and deep in Jay. The gentle lean of the young man's body, the hazy focus in his gaze, the faint drop of large, feathered appendages. Icarus listens and those words seem to resonate somewhere inside his hollowed bones. His defaulted seren smile slips through his fingers, whispering away to a neutral set. "Ah suppose…Ah've never been much of a builder, Doug." That smile pulls back up, brave, but maudlin and as hollow as said bones as he glances sidelong to the curly headed fellow. Doug's final thought surprises a laughan honest to God laugh, not a whisper of breathy hum of humorstraight out of Jay's chest, bubbling high and manic. "Oh, good lord," He smiles and rubs the bridge of his nose, head bowed. "Yer preachin' to the choir, Doug. You got no idea."

*

Doug looks up at Jay, sidelong, and then he says, "Try. For the girl. For your mother, for your brother. For your father, who seems like he must've been one stand-up guy. Because… grief doesn't ever really go away, but you build around it." Then he adds, "But you don't need to put on an 'X' to be a part of the family. *I* really like you, kid. You make beauty, effortlessly, and that's one heck of a superpower. …Sam always envied it. I think," He watches those trails weave through the sky, "Somewhere in there, he wishes he'd had the chance to be an artist like you."

*

Jay's breath stops a moment and wings tighten against Jay's square shoulders with conscious effort while he rubs the bridge of his nose a couple more times and looks up at the screaming paths of orange in the air just so he doesn't have to look at Doug. "Ah don't know if yer so right about that last part. Ah try, though. Ah really try." Though his tone doesn't seem convinced how successful his efforts have been. Blinking quick a couple times, he'd never fess up to it, but the quick glassiness in Jay's eyes is anything but a coinsidence when he glances back to Doug. "What about you? What're you buildin'? What could you possibly be makin' worse? A stand up guy like you."

*

Something about that statement makes Doug laugh out loud. It bubbles up from inside his chest, and rings out — and he's so busy laughing that he quite forgets to answer Jay's question. But oh, it does strike him as funny. Eventually he falls back against the chaise longue, wiping one eye. "Oh, Jay. Jay, Jay, Jay…" He says. "Trying is all we can do, right?"

*

Doug has been working a lot. Busy, busy, busy — he pretty much comes back to Westchester to sleep. This morning, he's headed out the door, with his hair combed, his glasses on, his tweed blazer with the leather elbow patches and his bow tie. He looks… like a nerd, but a well put-together one, as he descends the steps to where he's got his car parked in the driveway out front. It's a nice car — a '58 Fury, since those aren't anywhere NEAR classic yet, and it's not ridiculous to have one.

*

Cannonball has his sunglasses on, which isn't necessary, and a plaid shirt, jeans, boots, and his arms crossed. The moment he spots Doug he drawls out, "Hey…you and I need ta have a chat, Ramsey…"

*

Doug can read a lot into a lot of things. Whatever he picks up off of Sam when he hears his voice stops him in his tracks. He actually tenses, just a bit—but then he stops, and his shoulders stoop, because as much as he would like to just brush it off and go… he's a stubborn fool. "…I'm listening." Which means, he's not talking, yet.

*

Cannonball approaches Douglas until he's right in front of him. Then he drops his hands to his side. "Jay said you were worried about us bein' friends. Well, ah haven't changed mah mind about that, and we are still friends. So, know that at least." Then his fingers curl into fists. "All that said, what ya thinkin'? Ahm scared ta high heaven 'bout folks findin' out and yer flappin' yer gums about it! And tryin' ta get me all wrapped up in a commitment and ahm just…ahm not there, Dougy. Ahm not sure that's gonna be anytime soon at this rate. E'ry time I think I can trust someone whose name I know…then this sorta thing happens."

*

Doug looks up at Sam, and he adjusts his glasses. "I know." is all he says. "I'm sorry." His expression is flat, his mouth a thin, compressed line. "But for the record, Sam — I wasn't talking to you about things I wanted us to do. I was talking about things *I* was thinking of doing. *I* am thinking of buying a house. *I* am thinking about *my* future. I was sharing that with you because I care about what you think. If you assumed I was talking about *we* when I meant *me*, then that was a failure to communicate on my part, wasn't it?" There's an edge of iciness, an edge of something else in how he says that. "So I'm sorry! Okay. I'm sorry."

*

Cannonball tips his chin down. "Fine. I do get it, you know. I get that you've…had some…thing about me and I'm sorry too cuz I n'er shoulda done it in tha first place. But now ah gotta explain all this shit to mah damn brother and if ya think he won't look at me diff-rent, then..yer crazy. I oughta give ya what for, for attackin' on him, but…he's got lightning, so if he took a punch, its his own damn fault."

*

"Wait…" Doug says, looking puzzled. "Brother? Jay doesn't—what brother." He looks genuinely puzzled at this. His brows draw down.

*

"Jebediah Guthrie." Sam arches his blond brows. "Our brother."

*

"…What?" Doug says. "I remember him, little kid, got into everythingwait…" Doug says. "…When did I run into Jeb." He already has a sneaking suspicion. "Fuck. It was when I went to Three-Eyed Jack's because I was feeling low, wasn't it. *Son of a bitch*." Doug sits on the step, and bites his knuckle. This time, his contrition is less tight and more contrite. "Sam, I was drunk. I went down there a couple of days in a row and I got hammered, and I must've*fuck*."

*

"…I didn't hit him, did I?" He asks. "God, the things I could do to a man if I was drunk and not holding back—" …Huh?

*

Then he pauses. "Sam, what the fuck was your little brother doing in a pisshole like Three-Eyed Jack's!?"

*

"I don't know and I don't care, that's business to fuss at him about later. But what were you doing there, babbling about…what…things we did, in the first place, Doug!" He fusses back when Doug's voice raises. Its a classic fight, right down to the hand-waving.

*

"I. Was. Drunk." Doug says, acidly. "So I don't have a good answer to that, except I was feeling low and I went to a shitty bar because when I get drunk… I start fights." Doug's voice quiets a bit. "Look, Sam. Whatever you've decided about how I feel… I'm not gonna deny, I love you — too many years, too much stuff for that to not be objectively true — but you seem to think I'm…" He flaps a hand, "Twitterpated or something! A couple of nights doesn't 'in love' make! I was upset because when I sat and thought about it I realized I was using *you*. I wanted to get laid. We clicked. And I guess I just can't do that thing some people do where they fuck the body and don't give a fuck about the person." He gets to his feet, and walks toward his car, before he says, grimly, "It's just not a talent everybody *has*, is it, Sam."

*

Cannonball spreads his hands. "We all got our talents, Dougy. It aint really about carin'…cuz yer still mah friend and that aint changed, whatever else that means. "

*

Doug looks up and raises an eyebrow. "It means you didn't make a mistake, Sam. I did. Like it or not, I was deceitful with my friend and I said the wrong thing and I hurt him… and then I got drunk and once again destiny took a… big shit on my plate. So I feel… what would you call it? Low as a hog's belly? Yeah, that's about how low I feel." He puts a hand on the roof of his car.

"I got tired of feeling alone. I played pretend, for a little while… I knew what the score really was. But I figured, what could it hurt, just to feel… something, even if I had to put it away again." He lets out a bitter snort. "Turns out a lot."

*

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "We both did the same damn thing, Doug. Well, aside from the drinkin' and babblin' about stuff. But…we wuz both pretendin' cuz its hard ta be alone all the time. Yer doin' bettern me…what with yer…fancy wife-dating and what not. You'll be fine."

*

Doug raises an eyebrow at that, and then says, "…Yeah, Sam. I'll be just fine." He opens the trunk of his car, and checks something. "I might just buy that house, by the way. Warlock can visit me there easily enough. It's not so far that I can't work out of Boston for big jobs…" He grunts, and slams the boot shut, with an "It's time to *grow up*."

*

Sam draws in a deep breath, "Doug, I'm sorry. I can't…I just can't. I'm gonna be expected ta bring me home a wife and all that, someday. I got me a limited amount of time ta…have fun, and…fallin' for people is just…not somethin' I can afford. You're ready ta grow up…and I'm tryin' ta stall for another couple years, if I can manage it."

*

Doug looks up, and raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't know that? That somehow I'm ignorant of what's expected? Sam, I'm a Mormon. Or I was. I grew up watching people believe a cup of coffee was some kind of unholy pollution of the self and that one of the most important things in life is to settle down and have about a million kids. Granted, given that I'm a coffee-swilling only child my parents were kinda lukewarm about the whole thing but I'm not *ignorant*." He crosses his arms, and then his legs at the ankles. "For what it's worth, I think you'd be a great dad, and a great husband—but only if you were happy. Unhappiness is a poisonous language, Sam. It takes everything good and turns it… bad. I don't care where you find happiness, just as long as you're *happy*. I had to learn the hard way a long time ago that caring for someone doesn't come with conditions… or… or… expectations of some kind of reciprocity. You just *do*. The same way I care about Illyana and Kitty — I knew it'd never happen… but what can you do?" He runs his fingers through his hair, messing up his coif, "Act like a vengeful little bastard because you're not gonna get some? That's not the way grown men behave, and I've seen too many people around the school who SHOULD know better fuck up their lives by not getting that point. I'm sorry I said that to your brother. You don't have to tell him. Tell him that I came onto you, and you turned me down. If I said anything ELSE while I was plastered… tell him I'm a liar. It's fine. I can live with it."

*

Sam nods a little. "For what its worth…if ya move…I think that'd be a mistake. It aint about bein' an adult, here. Its about bein' part of a team. And yer that." His manner seems to soften, in regards to thes truggling man who is in a slightly different lifestage than he is…the big, southern idiot.

*

Doug tils his head, and then says, "Oh, yeah, I'm just waiting for them to call my ticket and bring me into the X-Men. Any day now." Doug snorts, and now he actually laughs. "*You* are on the short list to get the X, Sam. I am not."

*

Cannonball holds up his hands. "I ain't joinin' it. I ain't ready for that. I got a lot of family to look out for." He insists. "Dun matter what team yer on."

*

"Your family's growing up fast, Sam," Doug says. "The reason I talked to Jay, by the way, is that somewhere along the line, I think he might've become wiser than either of us." Doug looks defeated, now. "Do you want to know what I really think, Sam? Really, really? Say no, cause you're gonna hate it."

*

"Then…no, I guess. I mean, that's like showin' someone a dead animal on a stick and saying 'this smells so gross, smell it!'." Sam's so mature that he's basically agreeing with the Jay thing.

*

Doug tries to keep a straight face at that — he does — he's so close. He fails. He cracks up, even if there's an edge of bitterness to it — he cracks up, and laughs, his shoulders shaking. "Ah, man." He brushes one eye. "Listen, Sam — happy endings, reaching the stars, grabbing the brass ring — they're for handsome princes like you. Guys who can do anything. Not for court jesters — clowns — like me." He puts his hand over one eye. "Whatever you find that makes you happy, I'll be in the front row cheering you on, okay? I promise. Go ahead and put what I said on me, if you're not ready to tell your brother yet—it's fine. I mean it."

*

Cannonball shakes his head. "Nah, I'm gonna talk to him and ah don't put my shit on other people. Ah'll deal with it, Doug. I'll…see ya around, ok?"

*

Doug looks up, and then says, looking away, "…When I see you, Sam. I think maybe I'd better lose myself in my work for awhile. …Don't beat yourself up about this anymore, okay? It takes two to tango."

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