In which Zach tries to make up for previous behaviour and Callahan still isn't having any of it.

Initial Setting: RED base away from all the cold.

Timeline: Preceded by Head Games Part 2.

Okay, he'd left it too long. Again. Shielded by his posture, Tailor held a small cardboard box in hand. Inside it sat a plastic zipper bag with a complicated jumble of delicate-looking parts. It made him angry just looking at the thing. Smaller than he remembered. Zach shuts the lid and slips it back into a pocket in his labcoat, intent on finding Callahan and making... to hell with it, he'd decide whether it was 'amends' or 'a mistake' later. What was he even going to say? Observations of his coworker told him saying anything wasn't going to be particularly helpful. Now where the hell /was/ the man? Patrolling more than likely. He takes to the halls and keeps any sense of urgency confined to his pace.

Callahan's just shuffling through the hallways, seeking the outside chilly air. The long, only-mildly grungy overcoat is hanging loosely from his shoulders as he fumbles with knotting the scarf to cover as much of his pointy face bits as possible. He really really needs these walks - a semblance of 'getting away' from all these fagdicks and their needless drama and bitching.

Tailor is about to ruin yet another somebody's day. He can see from the winter outfit and lack of medigun that Callahan is not on duty, and probably wants to be bothered slightly less than his usual baseline. So slightly less than never.

  "Doctor Callahan-" one beat missed, and the next words become a confession instead of a demand. "We need to talk."

      "Not now honey I have a headache." Callahan continues his stride down the hallway with a little extra ardour - which isn't saying much. Maybe more of a bit of intensified shuffle.

Tailor should have expected that. Silence behind Callahan, then the footsteps resume and follow after him.

  "Well that makes two of us, but this is about Harvey." The guy just keeps walking away from him. Practice keeps his voice level while his heart considers taking up residence in his throat. "The headset."

      "That's work relat'd. 'm off shit y'little git." Callahan blinks at the whitish sunlight and steps outside. Huffs and buttons up the sorry excuse of a coat to hide the sorry excuse of a doctor.

Tailor resists raising his voice, that wouldn't do anything useful. He sighs calmly instead, his own winter coat wasn't here. Judging how cold it is out and deciding he probably deserves this anyhow, he keeps following.

  "Well I can /see/ that you bint, I'm not blind!" Just thick as pudding. "Look I don't make a habit of apologizing and I'm damn well trying here, would you just listen?" The cold air bit in his throat.

How the hell did he manage to get so far ahead? Tall people.

Callahan keeps walking without looking back at the shorter, stockier man hurrying after him.

  "What ye be apologisin' fer? An' t'me no less? I ken y'gottahold o' th' wrong asshole, here."

There was an upside to this, Tailor thinks. The longer Callahan keeps doing this, the more his own irritatingly-primed nerves lent themselves to being mad instead of nervous. Easier to manage by the longest stretch. He ignores the questions and the assumption.

  "I didn't destroy the headset." Did he really have to be having this conversation out of doors in the damn open? It felt like bad practice.

  "Ye must be sae proud o' yerself, Tailor. Well done."

      "Not really." and the smarmily bored smile he pulls remains in private. Cheers, Callahan's back. His fingers are starting to go numb already. "I'd have thought after how swimmingly the last discussion went, I'd have a go at not making things worse. Do you want the blasted thing or not."

It would be implausibly nice, he thinks, if Callahan said no.

Callahan turns around, suddenly, and then Tailor is face to scarf with the Irishman.

  "What d'ye imagine I kin do wi' it ye goddamn little pest? Ye'd be wantin' to give it t'some o' th' engineers, they's be the ones who'd know where t'start on th' thing."

Tailor stands there, a head shorter, and blinks. He's trying very hard not to shiver, even if it is just the weather and a very thin labcoat. So the following words come through a clenched, thin smile.

  "I don't bother with the engineers because I already know what it does." and this conversation was getting away from him.

      "Ain't tha' a big help," comes the blank answer. Callahan's tone is not prodding, not encouraging. Just... seemingly content with pulling out of the disapproval and bullshit of the situation.

Tailor remains wordless. His posture stiff with ignoring the temperature, his expression patient. He knows Callahan is clever when it comes to picking his words, so he finally chooses to stop letting the reactionary part of himself have at. Just ignore it. Ignore the headache, ignore the embarrassment, ignore what a bad idea this is. He takes out the small box, eyes it doubtfully, and offers it.

  "You can ask me about it whenever suits you."

Callahan squints at the box.

  "Y'shou'd be givin' this t'the engineers. Y'might know part o' wha' it does, but the components, the metals, the tech, figurin' out if any o' that had unforeseen side-effects -- shite, there's no way 'round it. If ye found dis thing inside th' boy's noggin' ye canna continue treatment without teamin' up wi' an engineer." He sounds tired and slightly annoyed, like he's talking to a small child.

Tailor pockets the box with renewed faith in Callahan's unwavering rationale.

  "Then I have nothing more to discuss." he tried.

Callahan raises a sharp eyebrow at Tailor.

  "Y'ever see fit t'share any o' those goldnuggets o' information, ye'd be makin damn fockin' sure it happens while I'm bein' paid t'care."

Being awake and honest when he ought to be asleep, now there's a novel idea.

  "Ffine." a puff of breath hangs in front of Zach's face. He doesn't see any point demanding otherwise. Neither of them were paid to be nice. Take from that what you will Callahan, I am getting my arse back indoors.

Callahan says matter-of-factly:

  "Yer a cockup. Y'shou'd have done this months ago. Stop followin' me aroun' unless there's actually a problem y'can't solve an' it's not jus' yer own issues gettin' in th' way," and he pulls up his scarf around his mouth, like a definite full stop to the situation.

Tailor has his back turned and several crunching footsteps between them come that declaration of the obvious. He stops, turns his head not far enough to make eye contact, then seemingly changes his mind and keeps walking.

He'll decide later if that was meant to be scolding or helpful.

Callahan shakes his head. This probably won't be the last time he has a walk be interrupted. But hopefully the little twat will think twice before he comes to embarrass himself again.