He understands it. To some extent. Maybe not fully. Perhaps he owes Don an apology. He, too, had pushed things too far. It's an ingrained habit, and even when he'd been over there, he'd been guilty of doing it. He was always treading that line of insubordination just a little too closely, always trying to see how far over the line he could edge himself before someone yelled at him or threatened him. It had been his talent as a medic that had stopped him from getting in trouble more than he did, he suspects, just as it's his talent as an advertiser that saves his ass over and over again at SC&P. There shouldn't be so many similarities between the places and the people, but there are. Is that reassuring or concerning? He's not sure.
"I'm..."
But he's not sorry, not really. And whether Don had meant what he'd said about him being... crazy -- deranged, yes, that's what he'd said, and it's not a word that should strike him so hard since he's heard it so many times before in so many different iterations -- it had served its purpose. He never feels certain of anything anymore, but he feels even more uncertain now.
And yet, and yet, when Don tells him to sit down, he doesn't even think about questioning it. He just sits -- slides, really, slides his back down the cabinet slowly -- and sits on the floor, knees up against his chest, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around them and rock back and forth. He can't let Don see him like that. Not when Don already thinks he's deranged (no matter that he says he hadn't meant it. He knows exactly what words can do. It hadn't been unintentional. He could have used any other word.) He should be angry at Don, maybe.
He's not.
"I used to want to be you," he points out, almost conversationally, despite his visible trembling. "I thought you were a genius. I still think you're a genius, but I think I've started to realize what it really means to be a natural at something, what it means to have a talent. And now I'm..."
Now he's what? Now he's becoming Don? No, that's a little too simple of an answer. He'll never be exactly like Don, not just because he'll never possess Don's ability for subjugating his own emotions but because he never expects to be half as charming or commanding as Don. There had been a time he'd probably have been sad about that fact, have wished that he could change it. Now, he's almost glad. He may not know who he is, but he knows he doesn't want to be the next Don Draper.
And yet he still wants to please him.
"I don't want to dissect you."
Is that true? Maybe. He likes getting inside of peoples' heads, seeing what makes them tick, trying to form some kind of understanding, but sometimes it's... too close. Sometimes the intensity of emotion he feels from other people once he starts exploring them practically physically injures him. It had happened all the time over there. He'd always been good at getting guys to talk, either to distract themselves from their wounds or to distract themselves from their fear or just to pass the time, and people had appreciated it, they had, the opportunity to get things off their chests, the opportunity to let out some of that choking, stifling fear and pain, but what had the tradeoff been?
The tradeoff had been that he had taken it all upon himself, of course. He doesn't even have to think about that for long to recognize that that's exactly what he'd done. When he'd been confronted with a man who had a bullet through his knee, he couldn't take the physical wound away from him, couldn't give it to himself instead (but he would have, he would have) but he could take some of the emotional turmoil. He was just so goddamn good at understanding what people wanted, what they needed.
And he doesn't want to take on Don's darkness, so no, perhaps he doesn't want to dissect him. That darkness, combined with his own, would drown him. He knows it, the same way he knows anything else: pure, unfettered emotional instinct. Maybe that's the only talent he truly has.
"Can we just... talk? I won't pry--" As though that's possible, as though he's capable of restraining that instinct. "--and you won't... you won't call me crazy. I just want to have a conversation with someone. I can't talk to anyone else."
Has he tried to talk to anyone else? Or has he just locked himself in his office and avoided everyone? It's a good question, and yet he doesn't even have an answer to something that simple.
"Just... if you don't want to talk to me about the big stuff, if you don't want to tell me who you are, if you don't want to talk about my war or your war or any war, just tell me what's been going on around the office. Tell me anything. I can't stand the silence."
He hates the plaintive tone in his voice, but there's no erasing it. He's always been so pathetic at hiding his feelings. And what's the alternative? Talking to himself? He'll do it, and they both know it. He needs noise. He needs conversation, even something inane, to smooth over the jagged edges of everything else. It may not help him find perspective, but it'll help him from becoming more... deranged.
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"I'm..."
But he's not sorry, not really. And whether Don had meant what he'd said about him being... crazy -- deranged, yes, that's what he'd said, and it's not a word that should strike him so hard since he's heard it so many times before in so many different iterations -- it had served its purpose. He never feels certain of anything anymore, but he feels even more uncertain now.
And yet, and yet, when Don tells him to sit down, he doesn't even think about questioning it. He just sits -- slides, really, slides his back down the cabinet slowly -- and sits on the floor, knees up against his chest, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around them and rock back and forth. He can't let Don see him like that. Not when Don already thinks he's deranged (no matter that he says he hadn't meant it. He knows exactly what words can do. It hadn't been unintentional. He could have used any other word.) He should be angry at Don, maybe.
He's not.
"I used to want to be you," he points out, almost conversationally, despite his visible trembling. "I thought you were a genius. I still think you're a genius, but I think I've started to realize what it really means to be a natural at something, what it means to have a talent. And now I'm..."
Now he's what? Now he's becoming Don? No, that's a little too simple of an answer. He'll never be exactly like Don, not just because he'll never possess Don's ability for subjugating his own emotions but because he never expects to be half as charming or commanding as Don. There had been a time he'd probably have been sad about that fact, have wished that he could change it. Now, he's almost glad. He may not know who he is, but he knows he doesn't want to be the next Don Draper.
And yet he still wants to please him.
"I don't want to dissect you."
Is that true? Maybe. He likes getting inside of peoples' heads, seeing what makes them tick, trying to form some kind of understanding, but sometimes it's... too close. Sometimes the intensity of emotion he feels from other people once he starts exploring them practically physically injures him. It had happened all the time over there. He'd always been good at getting guys to talk, either to distract themselves from their wounds or to distract themselves from their fear or just to pass the time, and people had appreciated it, they had, the opportunity to get things off their chests, the opportunity to let out some of that choking, stifling fear and pain, but what had the tradeoff been?
The tradeoff had been that he had taken it all upon himself, of course. He doesn't even have to think about that for long to recognize that that's exactly what he'd done. When he'd been confronted with a man who had a bullet through his knee, he couldn't take the physical wound away from him, couldn't give it to himself instead (but he would have, he would have) but he could take some of the emotional turmoil. He was just so goddamn good at understanding what people wanted, what they needed.
And he doesn't want to take on Don's darkness, so no, perhaps he doesn't want to dissect him. That darkness, combined with his own, would drown him. He knows it, the same way he knows anything else: pure, unfettered emotional instinct. Maybe that's the only talent he truly has.
"Can we just... talk? I won't pry--" As though that's possible, as though he's capable of restraining that instinct. "--and you won't... you won't call me crazy. I just want to have a conversation with someone. I can't talk to anyone else."
Has he tried to talk to anyone else? Or has he just locked himself in his office and avoided everyone? It's a good question, and yet he doesn't even have an answer to something that simple.
"Just... if you don't want to talk to me about the big stuff, if you don't want to tell me who you are, if you don't want to talk about my war or your war or any war, just tell me what's been going on around the office. Tell me anything. I can't stand the silence."
He hates the plaintive tone in his voice, but there's no erasing it. He's always been so pathetic at hiding his feelings. And what's the alternative? Talking to himself? He'll do it, and they both know it. He needs noise. He needs conversation, even something inane, to smooth over the jagged edges of everything else. It may not help him find perspective, but it'll help him from becoming more... deranged.