[Because this still isn't about Snape. Or about the specific incident. And she isn't going to spend time laying out a pattern of Sirius' behaviours, trying to explain it that way. It's come too far for that, left just the base, raw core of things.]
I want to be able to trust you. I want to be able to trust that you trust me. That you give enough of a shit about this job, about what we're trying to do, that you'll follow your fucking orders.
[And care that he'd disobeyed. That in disobeying he'd fucked up, played around in one of the ship's games, almost got someone killed. She shoves the chair forward slightly, towards him.]
[--He says, first, talking over her before she's actually issued her order. Talking over her in of itself is disrespectful, but she's got to know that he's trustworthy. He's proved that much, at least, where it counts. Not in cases like this, but in cases where it actually matters.
The scrape of the chair against the floor isn't all that loud, but it's enough to get Sirius' attention, for a moment--and only a moment, because then Tyke gives that order, and that final consequence afterwards. And some expression jumps across Sirius' face, a flicker like surprise, and a little touch like fear, brief, there and then gone--before his face clouds, belligerent and dark.
He doesn't move. The urge to follow her command is there, in the lines of his stance--but he stays where he is, for a moment longer.]
[There's anger still, in the edges of her voice, but it doesn't rise. She isn't moving. She isn't changing her mind. This is the course she'd set - the course he'd started - and she might as well give up leading SEC if she couldn't follow it through.]
[What? Submit? Well, yeah, that makes sense. Who wants to be in charge of a fellow who can't take orders? Who could take you seriously? She's got to do something, and he's pushed her into a place that doesn't leave her a lot of options.
And, logically, Sirius can comprehend that. He can see the sense of it. But he doesn't like it. And some dark little piece of him wants to call her on it. Fine, if that's the way it's going to be, then: fine. He's out.
But he can't. He stares at Tyke a moment longer, in seething mutinous silence--and then he shoves himself forward and throws himself into the chair with unnecessary force, where he sits, slumped, and waiting.]
[She thinks, for a second, that that's it. He's going to turn and leave. She wouldn't be surprised - she'd been surprised when he signed up for SEC in the first place. Maybe part of her had always expected this, but put it off, tried to give him as much room as possible to figure it out himself.
Only he doesn't leave. He crosses the room and throws himself into the chair with enough force that it skids back against her legs slightly. Looking down at his head, she has to wonder if he's done it out of actual acceptance of the situation or to belligerently meet the challenge.
It's not a challenge. It's a punishment. She turns to pick up the scissors, giving no further comment or warning (or room for hesitation) as she sections out a chunk of his hair, gripping the length in one hand as she cuts through it half an inch from his scalp.
The half an inch that's left won't matter. She'll be shaving it off in a minute.]
[He doesn't flinch when she takes hold of his hair, but the swift cut makes his shoulders hike up a little, defensively. He's turned resolutely forward so she doesn't see the way that his eyes narrow sharply. The clench of his jaw keeps any comment bitten back.
It feels more like a punishment--less like a stupid dare, less like an answer to a challenge. The back of his neck prickles, but he stays resolutely still and silent, waiting for the rest of it.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
an incredibly late pizza
[Because this still isn't about Snape. Or about the specific incident. And she isn't going to spend time laying out a pattern of Sirius' behaviours, trying to explain it that way. It's come too far for that, left just the base, raw core of things.]
I want to be able to trust you. I want to be able to trust that you trust me. That you give enough of a shit about this job, about what we're trying to do, that you'll follow your fucking orders.
[And care that he'd disobeyed. That in disobeying he'd fucked up, played around in one of the ship's games, almost got someone killed. She shoves the chair forward slightly, towards him.]
You sit down, or you're off the team.
aged and delicious
[--He says, first, talking over her before she's actually issued her order. Talking over her in of itself is disrespectful, but she's got to know that he's trustworthy. He's proved that much, at least, where it counts. Not in cases like this, but in cases where it actually matters.
The scrape of the chair against the floor isn't all that loud, but it's enough to get Sirius' attention, for a moment--and only a moment, because then Tyke gives that order, and that final consequence afterwards. And some expression jumps across Sirius' face, a flicker like surprise, and a little touch like fear, brief, there and then gone--before his face clouds, belligerent and dark.
He doesn't move. The urge to follow her command is there, in the lines of his stance--but he stays where he is, for a moment longer.]
You're joking.
[She's not. He can tell.]
no subject
[There's anger still, in the edges of her voice, but it doesn't rise. She isn't moving. She isn't changing her mind. This is the course she'd set - the course he'd started - and she might as well give up leading SEC if she couldn't follow it through.]
no subject
[What? Submit? Well, yeah, that makes sense. Who wants to be in charge of a fellow who can't take orders? Who could take you seriously? She's got to do something, and he's pushed her into a place that doesn't leave her a lot of options.
And, logically, Sirius can comprehend that. He can see the sense of it. But he doesn't like it. And some dark little piece of him wants to call her on it. Fine, if that's the way it's going to be, then: fine. He's out.
But he can't. He stares at Tyke a moment longer, in seething mutinous silence--and then he shoves himself forward and throws himself into the chair with unnecessary force, where he sits, slumped, and waiting.]
no subject
Only he doesn't leave. He crosses the room and throws himself into the chair with enough force that it skids back against her legs slightly. Looking down at his head, she has to wonder if he's done it out of actual acceptance of the situation or to belligerently meet the challenge.
It's not a challenge. It's a punishment. She turns to pick up the scissors, giving no further comment or warning (or room for hesitation) as she sections out a chunk of his hair, gripping the length in one hand as she cuts through it half an inch from his scalp.
The half an inch that's left won't matter. She'll be shaving it off in a minute.]
no subject
It feels more like a punishment--less like a stupid dare, less like an answer to a challenge. The back of his neck prickles, but he stays resolutely still and silent, waiting for the rest of it.]