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They're sitting together, not making conversation. How could they, over the rushing, buzzing noise flooding the room, eating into Kimblee's eardrums? He hums- no particular tune, just makes noise until the static dies down. Once he can hear himself, he bothers turning it into a song. A lullaby he heard a few years ago; it's the first thing that comes to mind.
Clearly and predictably, this is grating on the Major's nerves. Kimblee feels even less obliged to stop, knowing that. Not until Miles is glaring at him, ungritting his teeth to bark deep but reasonably quiet commands at him. But he doesn't.
"What song is that?" he asks instead, no doubt only asking because Kimblee would have to stop humming in order to tell him.
"No idea," he answers honestly, "I picked it up a few years ago. Some woman singing to her children. She had an older kid resting their head on her lap and a newborn in her arms. They were sitting on a park bench in the evening."
"Your memory is impressive," Miles notes more than compliments.
"It's always been photographic," Kimblee says.
He lets silence swallow the room for a few difficult seconds before tapping his foot twice and continuing his humming. He's sure to keep it to the same song so Miles can't stop him with the same question again. He'll have to actually make conversation this time.
"Shouldn't be too much longer," Miles assures. It sounds like it's more for himself than for Kimblee. He changes his expression vaguely to acknowledge that he heard Miles, but otherwise ignores him.
"So no silence is comfortable for you, then?" Miles asks a little suddenly, and it's interesting how he's managed to hit the nail on the head.
"Consider my field of specialization. Aside from that, even, consider the war. I've been around exceedingly loud noises for too long not to suffer some damage," Kimblee explains. His legs and arms are crossed and he's only looking at Miles out of the corner of his eye; before closing them, that is.
"I'm not sure I follow," Miles says, maybe not as educated as he is perceptive. That's fine; the latter is often preferable to the former, Kimblee finds.
"Silence is very loud to me. There's this pressure, as well. All in all, unpleasant."
"What do you do when you're alone? How do you manage to fall asleep, for that matter?"
"Fans go a long way. I don't even mind if they're particularly noisy; it's not like I need soothing white noise to fall asleep. Anything will do."
"There aren't fans here in Briggs, it's cold enough as it is," Miles points out. "So what have you been doing here?"
"I occupy myself until I'm thoroughly exhausted. Then I take a coin and spin it on the nightstand. If I don't fall asleep before the room goes quiet, I'll do it again and again until I do."
"That's... something," Miles says. "I was convinced for a moment you were going to say you've created your own fireplace in the room we've provided you with."
Kimblee offers a brief laugh.
"Is that any way to repay your hospitality?" he jokes, as if the people at Briggs aren't being forced to accommodate him. Miles doesn't seem to appreciate the reminder, but he doesn't glare for long before standing and saluting at his superior who just walked out.
About time.