If he weren't so thoroughly smashed, he'd know better than to let her see that. He gains no advantage, personal or professional, by having her think him anything other than the camp's court jester. If anything, he's far better off if she thinks him nothing more than a fool - after all, she might well gossip, and his life will become much harder if chatter starts going around that that Byerly, he's a little sharper than it seems to be. His ImpSec trainers would rake him over coals for this. But -
But. But the thought of her thinking of him like that turns his stomach, in the end. He supposes a Betan therapist - or the ImpSec agent who'd sat with him in a room for hours, once, pulling him apart to see when and where he would break - that had been about three years ago, before they started entrusting him with bigger and better assignments - they'd identify the root cause of this at once. Honestly, he can identify the root cause at once. It's not hard to see the resemblance between this girl and his ferocious, stubborn sister. And it's not hard to remember that time - that vicious slander - and how the only thing that had kept him from falling apart completely had been his sister's steady faith in him. Her assertion that he'd never hurt her, no matter what they said about him. And so the thought of a girl like her, looking at him with fear, touches some deep and primal terror in him. So there you are. Simple imprinting. Misplaced compulsions. Like a baby bird, making a mama out of the first thing it sees - he, in desperate times, reverts to making something to protect, and lives and dies by how much she loathes him. And tries to make her loathe him.
I detest myself.
"They ought to draw and quarter the blighter, then," he said, mildness at least partly restored. Even so, he still watches her, just as intent. "But I've heard the man is a fool. Reason enough to be annoyed. But tell me - why are you afraid?"
no subject
But. But the thought of her thinking of him like that turns his stomach, in the end. He supposes a Betan therapist - or the ImpSec agent who'd sat with him in a room for hours, once, pulling him apart to see when and where he would break - that had been about three years ago, before they started entrusting him with bigger and better assignments - they'd identify the root cause of this at once. Honestly, he can identify the root cause at once. It's not hard to see the resemblance between this girl and his ferocious, stubborn sister. And it's not hard to remember that time - that vicious slander - and how the only thing that had kept him from falling apart completely had been his sister's steady faith in him. Her assertion that he'd never hurt her, no matter what they said about him. And so the thought of a girl like her, looking at him with fear, touches some deep and primal terror in him. So there you are. Simple imprinting. Misplaced compulsions. Like a baby bird, making a mama out of the first thing it sees - he, in desperate times, reverts to making something to protect, and lives and dies by how much she loathes him. And tries to make her loathe him.
I detest myself.
"They ought to draw and quarter the blighter, then," he said, mildness at least partly restored. Even so, he still watches her, just as intent. "But I've heard the man is a fool. Reason enough to be annoyed. But tell me - why are you afraid?"