Try Not To

[Gage Silver 0]

Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting. -Sun Tzu

 

 

Try Not To

A Granger-Silver Log

 

Rising from his meditative sprawl to straddle the bench, Gage groaned and clamped a hand on his head at the temples. Apparently the new lump on the back of his head and strains from the day had said hello.

 

Hearing the groan, Cass hesitated, one hand on the door frame, wondering how she could begin a conversation when she had little idea what it would really be about and only an inkling of what was actually happening, or even why. The room had emptied out long ago; most had either gone for chow or hit the rack, which meant that she and the ensign were alone. Put that with the prospect of getting to the bottom of whatever was eating at her, and the situation was pretty darned intimidating.

 

“Ensign Silver,” she called down the line, one hand draped over an open locker at the end of his row, “got a minute, Sir?”

 

Gage glanced up and studied her, half shielding his eyes with a subtle grimace as he clearly deliberated between making a crack and taking her seriously. Then his expression relaxed in her favor.

 

“Yeah, take a seat,” he said and eased the nearly forgotten t-shirt in his hand over his head, tugging it down before stretching out an ache.

 

Cass wandered down, stopped to consider then threw a leg over the bench, straddling it to face him.

 

“Got a problem, Sir. Not sure how to approach it. Hell, not even sure what it is.” Arms folded across her chest, she eyed him a minute before continuing. “Think it might have to do with mission sabotage: me trying to get intel from the guy at the bridge?”

 

“What about it?” he soberly asked.

 

“That thing about flirting. Wha'd you mean by it?”

 

He stared for a second and then shrugged. “Donno. Giving you a hard time like I always do, I guess.”

 

Despite her gut reaction to presume he was about to turn the whole thing into another joke at her expense, she decided to take the statement at face value and move on. “So... why'd you dump the guy in the drink? Why stop the questioning? I get the idea I'm missing something here."

 

Gage sighed. “‘Cause he didn’t want to talk, Cass, and pushing him was escalating the situation. Dumping him seemed like the quickest way to separate you before you-- before one of you got hurt.”

 

It took a second for her to process that. “You think I couldn’t defend myself?” she said, more confused than annoyed.

 

“Didn’t really think about it, Cass,” he answered, rubbing his eyes and sounding wearied, like he still heard a defensive, feminist angle in the question. “Just grabbed him and threw him over.”

 

“Gut reaction, Sir?”

 

He smirked. “Yeah, something like that.”

 

Cass turned away briefly, thinking. After a moment she blew out a breath and gave a slow nod. “Guess we both have some gut reactions to work on. Think that might be the problem, or part of it, communication being the other part.”

 

Gage expelled an ironic chuckle and stood, leaning against his locker door. “Yeah, there’s a failure to communicate, but in my defense, my ‘gut reaction’ didn’t give you a concussion,” he replied, putting on a grimace as he touched the back of his head.

 

A glance toward his injury and she uncrossed her arms to return to the subject. “So the question is: how do we plan to fix the communication problem? Figure it’s going to take work on both sides, so have at it, Sir.” A sharp nod indicated he should take the first shot, her expression all business.

 

He looked at her, the hint of a stifled quip in his face before he visibly deflated. “Answer’s simple, Cass. Banter’s supposed to be fun. But you’re wound too tight to enjoy it. Makes you uncomfortable. One of us is gonna have to adapt. Something tells me you won’t and I shouldn’t expect you to,” he exhaled; “So I will.

 

“Give you my word: no more jokes,” he assured. “If it’ll help, we’ll switch up teams for the rest of the op. Tomorrow, you go with Moa and I’ll head out with Souter. Good?”

 

“Good, Sir. And me?” She paused, checking out the ceiling for a bit, “I’ll try to lighten up.”

 

Gage crossed his arms, shook and bowed his head. “You just keep being you, Cass,” he replied, staring at the bench. “Problem’s mine.” He gave her a sober smile.

 

“Due respect, Sir? We’re in this together.”

 

“Didn’t ask your opinion,” he retorted, his smile persisting.

 

He reached out to touch her shoulder, then stopped and with his hand briefly suspended in the air, sneered in apparent self-reproach. He was already breaching her personal space after learning he made her feel uptight. “Get some sleep,” he said as his hand collapsed into a loosely pointed finger that disappeared in his pocket.

 

“Aye, Sir,” she replied, mirroring the point before she unhooked her leg from the bench to stand. “Think maybe you could do the same.”

 

“Yeah,” he agreed, unamused. Rubbing the back of his head, he turned his back and moved down the row, muttering: “If there’s a pill outta this, God knows I haven’t found it yet.”