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The Circle had a surprisingly efficient (if paranoid) mail system for the quantity of its members. Bentley supposed you had to be careful with your mail in a business like this, after all. In fact, his packages were a few days late as it was - unsurprisingly, considering the contents could seem suspicious. Not to mention that you had to use certain sellers that wouldn't abuse the knowledge of a giant mafia station's location, but he guessed there was some middle man that did the pick up then brought it to them. (Maybe he'll ask the boss about that later.) It finally checked out, and the doctor was notified that all was good for pick up. Bentley's mood was particularly cheery as he made his way to the meager 'post office,' ID ready.

Luckily, the office wasn't busy today. Most people were working, while Bentley had other duties to perform today; duties that involved the packages that were almost in his possession. Bentley checked the small slip of paper in his pocket, confirming the locker number his mail would be in. Approaching the tall locker marked A-23, the doctor lifted out his ID, sliding it into a small slot and pressing his hand to a small monitor on the door of the locker. His fingers widened, then closed in together, and the computer gave a beep and displayed the words, 'Identification Confirmed. Please wait.'

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The lack of answer was answer enough. "Oh," Evan said, benignly helpful as he pushed off the counter and approached the doctor. "Then you haven't seen this sort of thing before, have you? Want a look?" He began unfolding his papers, right in front of the other man.

Do you, Bentley? A glimpse into the illicit intimate affairs between men and women in the space age?!

No! No, he did not want to glimpse into vulgar writings. How improper.

Perhaps in a show of surprising gentleness, Bentley clamped metal fingers over the letter, keeping it folded. His brow was wrinkled and cheeks still reddened with warmth.

"N-no. That's all right."

Evan stared down at Bentley's iron grip for a second, the hold just strong enough to keep the words out of sight, without even putting a wrinkle or fold in the sheets. For a second, they stood at standstill like that, before, at length, Evan took his other hand, flipping up one corner of the sheet, bending it back over Bentley's fingers until the text could be plainly read. The script was printed, not handwritten, in curt, mechanical letters as opposed to the cursive, flowing handwriting that was so stereotypically indicative of a woman's delicate pen, and rather than mentions of love, passion, and longing, there was only, "Order #35NAS35F: Men's Running Shoes (size 8.5)" in the corner of a straight, proper table.

For a moment, the text didn't register as something separate from the topic. (Who would talk dirty about running shoes?) And then, slowly, Bentley released the paper, still staring down at it.

Oh. He had been teasing.

Bentley opened his mouth to say something, but it never quite made it out, hand falling to his side. His right hand raised instead as he took a step back, rubbing his face abashedly as his shoulders sagged.

"You're awful, Evan."

Now, Evan started laughing, leaving the papers on Bentley's table as he leaned back, one arm around his middle, and a hand slapped over his mouth in a feeble attempt to at least stay in control. The letters spread out for clear viewing, and though it was surprising that companies in this day and age still used archaic paper-confirmations, a glance at the sending address revealed that apparently, this particular vintage store in Erclesse still took pride in its vintage techniques, too. "Did you really-...wow, you honestly thought that I-...hahaha!"

"W-what's so funny about that? I don't know what you do in your spare time! It's not my business!" Bentley threw his hands up, true to dramatic stereotypical fashion, returning to his three-fourths full box, huffing to himself. Should've known, Bentley. (Although, now he knew one thing: apparently, Evan liked to run. Or maybe it was for stealth operations, considering his Circle.)

Quieting eventually, Evan still kept one hand on his stomach as he retrieved his mail. "Believe me, doc, if it were actually my private business, no one here would be tellin' you about. Our type of people...as you probably know too, considering you're one of us now - we're not too keen on sharing."

Actually, that caught Bentley's interest. He looked up, and though he still looked laughably embarrassed, he asked in honest curiosity. "Even though you all seem rather tight knit?"

Evening the edges of his stack, Evan hardly had to think before answering. "It's more like...you don't need to know a guy's history to know if they can do the job or not. Of course, there's nothing stopping you from telling either, but it's just something we never feel the need to bring up." He looked up. "Why? You got some deep, dark past you're hidin' there, doc?"

Edited 2010-11-10 18:32 (UTC)

"I see." Bentley gave a sharp exhale as his eyes lowered back down to his desk. His smile was disarming, no doubt, but that bitter tightening in his brow could be easily missed under all that hair. "Doesn't everyone here have something to that extent?"

Evan knew a withdrawal when he saw one. After all, his job was to extract information from people; he'd be rather awful at it if he couldn't read a sign like that. Sometimes, he had found, it was the very denial of information that was the most telling - people, regardless of race, were more telling than they could possibly know. In not showing, they showed, and in not telling, they told, but Evan had meant what he said - though anyone would be curious, he didn't need to pry into someone's record to know whether they were reliable or not, and judging from the impossible complicated gadgetry being laid out in some organized mess on the counter, Bentley was good enough at this stuff to have warranted that respect.

"Probably!" he said brightly, neither prying nor pushing, and simply enough, he let it go at that. "But should I ever have any real steamy love letters from a current planetside sweetheart, I'll be sure to show you first, doc. And should you ever need advice for letters of your own, my door is always open."

"I assure you, that won't be necessary," Bentley scoffed in response, straightening his vest as though to ensure that he was as proper looking as he was proper mannered. (It was almost comical, the way he held his nose up in the air, too, wearing his damaged pride on his sleeve.) Indeed, Bentley had enough secrets for one man, and while not open about it, he was smart enough to admit it, because everyone hides something - intentionally or not.

After a moment of silence, in which he seemed to be contemplating something, mouth twitching left to right, he added, "Maybe with different matters, though. If your offer stands for other things." For Bentley, this was going out on a limb. As surrounded and crowded as life was in the Circle Station, by strangers and patients alike, and as long as he had been here, he was still much of a loner, and didn't have experience with asking for someone's company.

Evan blinked at him, caught by surprise for once in this conversation. His hands, holding the letters, had stopped in mid-air. "You-...what? Really?" A pause, and then suspiciously, Evan glanced at he heavy boxes. "...With what, exactly?"

"So I can turn you into a robot, of course." Bentley glanced over his shoulder, expression serious.

Because honestly, Evan wouldn't have put it past him, the other man stared, equally seriously flat, before he broke into a smile. "Almost got me there, doc - close, but no cigar."

The doctor smiled in turn. "Simple conversation will do, then."

"I can provide that," Evan answered easily, slipping his letters neatly back into the padded envelope they came from. "But it's a shame that we can't talk about your torrid love affairs."

This time around, Bentley simply rolled his eyes. "One less thing to worry about, to me."

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