"Please, call me Hugh. Bit quicker, isn't it?" A tilt of his head. Hugh gives Cassius' hands one last gentle squeeze before he pulls his own loose, sets them prim at his hips instead. "Doctor Argyros, if you'd rather stay formal. And you'll love it, I'm sure. Most of us do. Bit of the only real entertainment we get these days, if I'm being honest. Catastrophes and aliens aside."
Cassius' small smile warms him, honestly. Looks better on his face than that corpsey blankness, save those big, curious eyes of his. Not alive, no, but certainly lively, aren't they?
Cassius' room is one of the larger ones. Essentially a cell where they keep folks for observation, although Hugh takes pains not to make it sound as such - introduces Cassius to the little bed and the little bathroom and the amenities, very basic. This room was for something else, once, Hugh's not sure what, but it comes equipped with a television nonetheless. He brings armfuls of books back from his own cramped self-made quarters in Engineering and ignores how people stare at him for having had Cassius in tow, for how he carries his creature comforts in to this - this thing, as far as they know. Some critter, some fresh thing meant to kill them all. There's a sprawling observation window where they watch him chat Cassius up like a friend, grace him with idle touches here and there. A hand on the shoulder, arms brushing in passing.
They do not like it.
Maybe Cassius sees Hugh being confronted by a little group of angry-looking people when he steps out of the room. The glass muffles things, thick as it is, but it does not hide the way they point at the sole, buggy occupant accusingly. How they raise their voices. How Hugh raises his higher, just like he does his shoulders, crosses his arms and plants himself in the doorway and bristles visibly at some little comment. How it drives him forward into the space of a taller man, some burly fellow who sneers when Hugh jabs a finger in his chest and then shoves him, bold as anything.
People separate the two of them. They walk away together, as if marching to some doom.
Hours pass.
Hugh is back, then, with his jacket on and a rising bruise around his left eye in the vague shape of someone's knuckles. He smiles nonetheless. Steps inside with a tray of mess hall offerings - no empanadas today, unfortunately, they're doing something with rice and plant-based chicken, eugh - in hands that have a webbing of purplish bruising across the knuckles, a gash in one of them like he managed to catch it on something.
(Or someone's teeth.)
"Cassius! How are we? Sorry to disappear like that, had to, ah... have a word. With the higher ups." A glance to the TV. He showed Cassius how to navigate the menus, look for television shows or go through the music channels. "Comfortable, I hope?"
INSERT TINY LIL TIMESKIP
Cassius' small smile warms him, honestly. Looks better on his face than that corpsey blankness, save those big, curious eyes of his. Not alive, no, but certainly lively, aren't they?
Cassius' room is one of the larger ones. Essentially a cell where they keep folks for observation, although Hugh takes pains not to make it sound as such - introduces Cassius to the little bed and the little bathroom and the amenities, very basic. This room was for something else, once, Hugh's not sure what, but it comes equipped with a television nonetheless. He brings armfuls of books back from his own cramped self-made quarters in Engineering and ignores how people stare at him for having had Cassius in tow, for how he carries his creature comforts in to this - this thing, as far as they know. Some critter, some fresh thing meant to kill them all. There's a sprawling observation window where they watch him chat Cassius up like a friend, grace him with idle touches here and there. A hand on the shoulder, arms brushing in passing.
They do not like it.
Maybe Cassius sees Hugh being confronted by a little group of angry-looking people when he steps out of the room. The glass muffles things, thick as it is, but it does not hide the way they point at the sole, buggy occupant accusingly. How they raise their voices. How Hugh raises his higher, just like he does his shoulders, crosses his arms and plants himself in the doorway and bristles visibly at some little comment. How it drives him forward into the space of a taller man, some burly fellow who sneers when Hugh jabs a finger in his chest and then shoves him, bold as anything.
People separate the two of them. They walk away together, as if marching to some doom.
Hours pass.
Hugh is back, then, with his jacket on and a rising bruise around his left eye in the vague shape of someone's knuckles. He smiles nonetheless. Steps inside with a tray of mess hall offerings - no empanadas today, unfortunately, they're doing something with rice and plant-based chicken, eugh - in hands that have a webbing of purplish bruising across the knuckles, a gash in one of them like he managed to catch it on something.
(Or someone's teeth.)
"Cassius! How are we? Sorry to disappear like that, had to, ah... have a word. With the higher ups." A glance to the TV. He showed Cassius how to navigate the menus, look for television shows or go through the music channels. "Comfortable, I hope?"