Sofia's fingers tighten around the cutlery, briefly. She loosens them before he can notice.
A good answer. She can't tell if it's approval or placation, and it bothers her more than she'd like that she cares about the difference. Ten years of hearing doctors say that's good, Sofia in voices designed to manage her. Ten years of every honest thing she said being catalogued and weaponized.
"It's the only answer," she says.
And then, because she can feel the dinner shifting into something too close to vulnerability, too close to the space where Carmine would have leaned in, she redirects. Deliberately. The way she changes modes like changing shoes.
"Your fish is getting cold," she says, and nods at his plate. Her voice is lighter. Hostess again, the version of herself that runs a room without raising her voice. "And you haven't told me what you want to be."
She picks up her own fork, cuts another careful bite.
It's a good answer because it's the only answer. Because Logan can tell any other answer would be a lie, and that's important. Her honesty is important.
That she turns it back onto him isn't surprising. He didn't push for more information, didn't ask more questions that might risk testing her patience. It's understandable that she would take the opportunity to find out about him instead. Information is power, after all. She showed she shares that believe when she gave him the schematics.
Logan looks at his meal and, slowly, starts to pick at it again. It is nice, he's just not a good eater.
"I don't know what I want to be." Honesty deserves honesty. "I don't think it matters. The sea can't be anything but the sea. A city can't be anything but a city. I'm a prince."
He sets his cutlery down and takes a slow sip of wine, before looking at Sofia.
"But what I want to do? I want to protect my people, and that means not letting our history fall into the wrong hands."
Sofia watches him set down his cutlery after barely touching the fish and thinks, briefly, that Carmine would have had something cutting to say about a man who can't finish a meal. Then she thinks about Arkham, about eating everything on the tray because you never knew when they'd decide to skip a meal as punishment, and she lets it go.
"A prince," she says. Not mocking, for once. Just placing it, fitting it into everything else he's told her tonight. The suit. The posture. The way he watches a room like he's responsible for everyone in it.
She takes a sip of wine, sets it down.
She's quiet for a moment, turning her fork slowly between her fingers.
"You don't know what you want to be, but you know what you want to do." She considers that. "That's backwards from me. I know exactly what I want to be. What I'm doing to get there changes every week."
She looks at him, and for a moment the calculation drops. Not warmth. Just recognition. Two people sitting at a table in a city that belongs to neither of them in the way they need it to, eating food that's getting cold.
"Protect your people," she says quietly. "Must be nice. Having people who are yours to protect."
She picks up her knife and fork again, cuts a precise bite.
A small pause.
“Just don’t forget you’re doing it here,” Sofia adds. “And here, the wrong hands are usually wearing gloves.”
She lifts her glass. “So. Tell me one practical thing, Prince. When you say ‘history,’ are you talking about something that can be carried out under a coat, or something that needs a truck?”
Eating had never been one of Logan's strong suits, but it had become harder after the paranoia had set in. Reluctance to give people another way to remove him from the throne was a perfect excuse to eat less. No one, not even him, had thought to rectify that after his removal. It wasn't important in the grand scheme of things.
He does, however, eat a little, bit by bit, while Sofia ponders and speaks. It gives him something to do while he listens.
It stops him from remarking that having people to protect is nicer when those people don't want you dead. The comment isn't necessary. He doesn't blame his people, even if he is frustrated by them.
He nods at her warning and sips his wine as she moves to practical matters. She truly does want to eke out any bit of information she can.
"A bag is adequate," he tells her. There's no need to keep that much information hidden. Plenty of things for in a bag. It doesn't narrow things down for her much. "Unless there's something in Gotham that I'm currently unaware of. Anything I know about can be stored in a bag."
Sofia’s eyes flick to his hands, to the careful way he eats like each bite is a decision. A bag. Portable. That narrows it enough to be annoying.
She thinks of Carmine again, of ledgers and keys and little objects that ruined lives more efficiently than any gun. She thinks of Arkham and how small things could still mean a locked door, a missing privilege, a week of pain.
Out loud, she stays mannerly.
“Because bags get lost,” Sofia says, and cuts her lamb with quiet precision. “Bags get stolen. Bags get swapped by someone who smiles the whole time.”
She lifts her glass, makes a little gesture and sets it down.
“And because if it fits in a bag, it fits in a coat pocket,” Sofia adds. “Which means it fits in a waiter, or a cop, or a man brushing past you on the sidewalk.”
Her gaze stays steady on him. “If you want quiet, you need boring. You need to look like you are carrying nothing worth taking.”
She dabs her mouth, then gestures lightly toward his plate, hostess again. “Eat a little more. You can be paranoid and still be functional.”
Then she lets the edge back in. “So tell me what kind of bag. Normal leather, or something you would notice if it was touched.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A good answer. She can't tell if it's approval or placation, and it bothers her more than she'd like that she cares about the difference. Ten years of hearing doctors say that's good, Sofia in voices designed to manage her. Ten years of every honest thing she said being catalogued and weaponized.
"It's the only answer," she says.
And then, because she can feel the dinner shifting into something too close to vulnerability, too close to the space where Carmine would have leaned in, she redirects. Deliberately. The way she changes modes like changing shoes.
"Your fish is getting cold," she says, and nods at his plate. Her voice is lighter. Hostess again, the version of herself that runs a room without raising her voice. "And you haven't told me what you want to be."
She picks up her own fork, cuts another careful bite.
"Fair's fair, Logan."
no subject
That she turns it back onto him isn't surprising. He didn't push for more information, didn't ask more questions that might risk testing her patience. It's understandable that she would take the opportunity to find out about him instead. Information is power, after all. She showed she shares that believe when she gave him the schematics.
Logan looks at his meal and, slowly, starts to pick at it again. It is nice, he's just not a good eater.
"I don't know what I want to be." Honesty deserves honesty. "I don't think it matters. The sea can't be anything but the sea. A city can't be anything but a city. I'm a prince."
He sets his cutlery down and takes a slow sip of wine, before looking at Sofia.
"But what I want to do? I want to protect my people, and that means not letting our history fall into the wrong hands."
no subject
"A prince," she says. Not mocking, for once. Just placing it, fitting it into everything else he's told her tonight. The suit. The posture. The way he watches a room like he's responsible for everyone in it.
She takes a sip of wine, sets it down.
She's quiet for a moment, turning her fork slowly between her fingers.
"You don't know what you want to be, but you know what you want to do." She considers that. "That's backwards from me. I know exactly what I want to be. What I'm doing to get there changes every week."
She looks at him, and for a moment the calculation drops. Not warmth. Just recognition. Two people sitting at a table in a city that belongs to neither of them in the way they need it to, eating food that's getting cold.
"Protect your people," she says quietly. "Must be nice. Having people who are yours to protect."
She picks up her knife and fork again, cuts a precise bite.
A small pause.
“Just don’t forget you’re doing it here,” Sofia adds. “And here, the wrong hands are usually wearing gloves.”
She lifts her glass. “So. Tell me one practical thing, Prince. When you say ‘history,’ are you talking about something that can be carried out under a coat, or something that needs a truck?”
no subject
He does, however, eat a little, bit by bit, while Sofia ponders and speaks. It gives him something to do while he listens.
It stops him from remarking that having people to protect is nicer when those people don't want you dead. The comment isn't necessary. He doesn't blame his people, even if he is frustrated by them.
He nods at her warning and sips his wine as she moves to practical matters. She truly does want to eke out any bit of information she can.
"A bag is adequate," he tells her. There's no need to keep that much information hidden. Plenty of things for in a bag. It doesn't narrow things down for her much. "Unless there's something in Gotham that I'm currently unaware of. Anything I know about can be stored in a bag."
Another sip of wine. "Why do you ask?"
no subject
She thinks of Carmine again, of ledgers and keys and little objects that ruined lives more efficiently than any gun. She thinks of Arkham and how small things could still mean a locked door, a missing privilege, a week of pain.
Out loud, she stays mannerly.
“Because bags get lost,” Sofia says, and cuts her lamb with quiet precision. “Bags get stolen. Bags get swapped by someone who smiles the whole time.”
She lifts her glass, makes a little gesture and sets it down.
“And because if it fits in a bag, it fits in a coat pocket,” Sofia adds. “Which means it fits in a waiter, or a cop, or a man brushing past you on the sidewalk.”
Her gaze stays steady on him. “If you want quiet, you need boring. You need to look like you are carrying nothing worth taking.”
She dabs her mouth, then gestures lightly toward his plate, hostess again. “Eat a little more. You can be paranoid and still be functional.”
Then she lets the edge back in. “So tell me what kind of bag. Normal leather, or something you would notice if it was touched.”