on procrastination.

[staircases]

[ He's waiting. Again. ]

Or you could just finish the app.

Comments

[ownership]

[ She tongues the inside of her cheek. ]

But you're awake. [ Therefore: disciplined, in all the critical areas. ] Your typist isn't stupid.

[staircases]

[ He watches her mannerisms with a passive sort of interest. People aren't really his thing, but that doesn't mean he can't attempt observation. Just, more often than not, the pieces don't fit together as smoothlessly or as effortlessly as they do for people like Eames or even Dom. (A perpetual sticking point in his head.) ]

Never said she was stupid. [ And never will. ] Just a little impulsive.

Could get us both into trouble. Never been?

[ownership]

[ Watching implies a kind of focus that Rosella doesn't quite have. Instead, her arsenal runs more towards absence than stillness, eyes sliding over to match Arthur's blink for blink, face otherwise slack. ]

Impulsivity is a gateway to stupidity. You could have corrected with improvisational. [ A tilt of her head, almost owlish in the jerk of it. ] No, I have not.

[staircases]

[ It's a strange sort of lie, he thinks. Everyone gets into trouble once and a while — a reality that he undersands but has never really brought himself to like. His job was to mitigate that tendency as much as possible — in himself and in the people around him (Cobb, Cobb, Cobb).

In denial. A bad liar. Or—

He can't tell which she is. But the blankness is weird. ]

Impulsivity's human nature. [ And, to his credit, he's worked very long and very hard to break that down inside himself. ] Hers has been my advantage up until now. [ It got him here, didn't it? ] There's still time.

[ownership]

Human nature is a construct, [ she corrects, not particularly forceful but not pliant either. Flat. ] That does not have to include undesirable traits. Allowances can be made for genetic predispositions.

[ Rosella holds her stare for as long as she's able before something else draws her attention; a fold in his lapels or a glint of metal on his cuffs. Her brows furrow at that. Only certain men dress certain ways but as soon as it happens Rosella shrugs, as if she isn't particularly worried about proving her point despite how adamant she sounds. ]

You could tell her finishing with time is better than running out.

[staircases]

[ That pinch to her brow is the most demonstrative thing Arthur's seen out of her yet and so his mind pings upon it briefly, considers it and (again) still nothing. Something about his appearance. (Manner of dress. Posture. Socioeconomic implication. Cold read. Was she casing him?) ]

Already tried that. [ His tone is a little annoyed, a little credit where credit's due. But credit isn't due here; they don't know one another. And even if they were trying (they're not), it still wouldn't be due for a long time. ] Usually deadlines work to my advantage.

This time, it looks like she's about to go to ground.

[ownership]

[ Usually is sloppy work. But people don't like being told that by strangers, so Rosella doesn't say that. He has a pleasant enough face.

Instead: ] Vanishing off the grid is only effective if people do not expect her to disappear. [ Her mouth quirks. ] You're bad at secrets.

[staircases]

[ Arthur isn't exactly sure how to react to that if only because, no, he's perfectly good at secrets, thanks very much but on the other hand, maybe she's right. The prospect makes him vaguely annoyed — and the fact that it's a vague annoyance rather than one that's obviously actionable makes him irritated on top of that. But more immediate is his sense of surprise — both bemused and taken off-guard. He's not really one for 'pleasant surprises' but they happen every once and a while; Arthur's on the fence as to whether or not this qualifies. ]

Mine or hers?

[ownership]

[ She considers this for a while. It's a lengthy beat, a longer time than strictly necessary to just think over a three worded question but when time is measured in blinks, it's not so bad. Once, then twice, lingering at the corner of Arthur's eyes then dropping to her right.

Finally: ]

Hers. Your own secrets are always worth more.