That he was in deep wasn't up for debate, it simply was. On some levels, he was worried. They'd already executed, pardoned, or expelled all the men who'd been a part of his rebellion, though. It wasn't like they could do much else without compromising the ability of his population to produce for the empire.

He knew that was what Mr. Kirkland chewed over now, but he'd been taking far too much time for it. There were widows to comfort, and women who may as well have been widows. Every minute he stood there, back straight and eyes firm, was a minute he wasn't somewhere far more critical.

Oliver didn't dare move, though.

The sun had set long before Mr. Kirkland finally walked over and stared into Oliver's eyes.

"Your eyes are lighter than they should be," he said. His words were slow and deliberate. "I should have known there was getting to be too much American in you. You're forgetting that you're British first."

He kept his eyes forward. "I never abandoned my loyalties. I was following orders to open my borders to new settlers, sir. I couldn't very well turn away the only ones who were interested." He paused, and then added, "Unless I was supposed to only accept the French…"

"Don't get smart," Mr. Kirkland snapped firmly. "You've been listening too much to this democracy nonsense."

Oliver stayed quiet because he couldn't deny it. This new governmental system was immature and rowdy, but it was intriguing. He listened to stories in taverns and peeked across the border, and it sounded much better than the Family. But that was a bad position to take when your job was to prove that democracy in itself was broken. As if the one who was supposed to be watching that was paying attention anymore, with the way the War of 1812 faded as repairs on DC finished up.

Someone had to feel the brunt of that, he supposed. Condemning his men to death and Australia wasn't enough.

"I suppose in some ways this is my fault," Mr. Kirkland said. "I left you unsupervised and surrounded by hooligans."

Oliver'd had support all around him. Alfred would buy him beer from across taverns, and Jean would offer a smile that was small enough to look accidental if you didn't know him. They wouldn't do more than that because they both considered him 'too English, still'. He didn't want to give up his British heritage, though, so he wasn't quite sure how he felt about them insisting on that 'still'.

"It might be easier to resist if I wasn't left destitute, sir," Oliver said. "The canals I was ordered to invest in didn't pay off as they were predicted to."

"Are you asking for help when you put yet another rebellion on my shoulders?" Mr. Kirkland snapped.

Truth be told, of all the recent rebellions, his had been the worst. He hadn't planned it out worth a damn, and had been quashed near immediately. But, for as insignificant as it'd appeared, the Empire was worried.

Oliver, in any other situation, would have known better than to push his luck for more funding. But as long as they were scared, the door was slivered open.

"I can't guarantee that people will go back to being quiet and productive, if they're worried about where their next meal will come from," Oliver said, in what he hoped sounded as regretful as it did professional.

Every second that ticked by was one where he should have been out with his people. They had wounds to lick, collectively, and a future to plan out. Women had lost husbands, children had lost fathers, they'd all lost land and hope. There was too much to be done, and yet Mr. Kirkland took his time and again chewed over the situation.

He would have pointed out his need to leave, but Oliver was quite sure that to be any more emboldened would be very bad for everyone.

Mr. Kirkland finally took a seat and drew up some papers. "So, you're asking for a restructuring and a funding increase?" He began to write. "That's going to keep your people satisfied?"

"I believe so, sir," he said. He attempted to neither look satisfied nor hopeful. It could ruin his chances.

"How is the situation in Lower Canada?" he asked.

"Steadier, sir, than mine," Oliver admitted. "He has a larger population, so he's able to handle setbacks more easily…"

"Setbacks like failed canals and rebellions?" he asked, flatly. He looked up briefly as he continued to write.

"Yes, sir."

"Then maybe we should just combine you two."

Oliver faltered. "Combine, sir?"

"You two seem to want the same sort of things. More stable economy, a change in government, increased protection… Having you would together would make that move so much faster, wouldn't it?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile, which Oliver was forced to return.

"Maybe you'll even be able to assimilate them, finally," Mr. Kirkland said. "Perhaps things will finally calm down around here if we can at least eliminate one bad influence." He looked over his newly written treaty.

"I'll do my best."

"Good lad," Mr. Kirkland said. "Rest up, tonight. I'll bring in Matthew and Jean tomorrow morning to cement this."

Oliver's jaw tightened, "Yes, sir." He turned to begin the long walk home, to work he should have already been on.

"Oh, and Oliver?"

He paused, and turned back around.

"I expected a lot more from you," he said. Mr. Kirkland's eyes were cold. "Don't disappoint me a second time."

Oliver took a deep breath. "I won't, sir."

He headed into the night, towards the people who needed him now more than ever before.

The camaraderie he'd enjoyed would dry up and join the dreams of forming a republic. The bit of common ground he'd found with Jean would be gone as soon as he found out, but it was already tenuous so that wasn't much of a loss.

He had too much to do, now, to think about anything that wasn't his job.