His continued mutism is a deliberate choice, but for once it's one that has nothing to do with looking cool or stoic or mysterious--or very little to do with it, anyway. The tension in him is all him--he has so much he wants to say, to interject or introduce, even just to say that, hey, incidentally, he wanted to say some shit himself.
But that statement about chickening out was his cue to shut up and let them say what they need to--a logic he kind of understands, frankly, but they got their words out first, and he has no one to blame for that but himself. Call it curiosity, courtesy, or cowardice, but he held back, and they went for it--those are just the facts, and no amount of post-introductory regret will change what he didn't do.
It shouldn't even be a big deal. If he was capable of being remotely normal as a human being, it wouldn't matter. But he's not. And he knows he's not. He knows his own personality, and his own flaws, and he knows that if he says one thing, he'll say another, and so if he says anything, he won't stop saying things. The only way not to continue is not to start, so to keep himself from interrupting--from dictating, or directing, or prying, or overwhelming them--he keeps his mouth the fuck shut, following them in not-entirely-intentionally menacing silence until they reach what Pandora must consider a suitable spot.
He doesn't know why they couldn't have at least started this where they were--
And then, he knows exactly why.
His eyebrows lift, just slightly, in disbelief. Hope. Is that seriously their name? He wants to ask, but he has to stow it for later. Along with everything else. He's reeling privately, battling an internal wave of bewilderment and slight dismay, but they keep going, and this might be for the better. Because while they're making points he's much more prepared to be walking, that means he has a chance to get his shit together on the inside.
He stands, awkwardly--or imposingly--and glances at Cal briefly, as though asking do you see this shit?
Or maybe he's hoping for a cue--puppet to puppeteer.
But eventually, he steps closer and lowers his ass onto the bench, sitting slowly in a way that radiates deliberateness. He's trying to figure out the best way--the best time--the best strategy to speaking up. There's so much he wants to say that sitting quietly and politely (or what he thinks is politely) is fairly excruciating.
"You did do that," he agrees, his voice low. "Although by the end of it, I'd say it was more that you only heard what you didn't want to hear." He is being as restrained as possible, mostly out of desperation.
no subject
His continued mutism is a deliberate choice, but for once it's one that has nothing to do with looking cool or stoic or mysterious--or very little to do with it, anyway. The tension in him is all him--he has so much he wants to say, to interject or introduce, even just to say that, hey, incidentally, he wanted to say some shit himself.
But that statement about chickening out was his cue to shut up and let them say what they need to--a logic he kind of understands, frankly, but they got their words out first, and he has no one to blame for that but himself. Call it curiosity, courtesy, or cowardice, but he held back, and they went for it--those are just the facts, and no amount of post-introductory regret will change what he didn't do.
It shouldn't even be a big deal. If he was capable of being remotely normal as a human being, it wouldn't matter. But he's not. And he knows he's not. He knows his own personality, and his own flaws, and he knows that if he says one thing, he'll say another, and so if he says anything, he won't stop saying things. The only way not to continue is not to start, so to keep himself from interrupting--from dictating, or directing, or prying, or overwhelming them--he keeps his mouth the fuck shut, following them in not-entirely-intentionally menacing silence until they reach what Pandora must consider a suitable spot.
He doesn't know why they couldn't have at least started this where they were--
And then, he knows exactly why.
His eyebrows lift, just slightly, in disbelief. Hope. Is that seriously their name? He wants to ask, but he has to stow it for later. Along with everything else. He's reeling privately, battling an internal wave of bewilderment and slight dismay, but they keep going, and this might be for the better. Because while they're making points he's much more prepared to be walking, that means he has a chance to get his shit together on the inside.
He stands, awkwardly--or imposingly--and glances at Cal briefly, as though asking do you see this shit?
Or maybe he's hoping for a cue--puppet to puppeteer.
But eventually, he steps closer and lowers his ass onto the bench, sitting slowly in a way that radiates deliberateness. He's trying to figure out the best way--the best time--the best strategy to speaking up. There's so much he wants to say that sitting quietly and politely (or what he thinks is politely) is fairly excruciating.
"You did do that," he agrees, his voice low. "Although by the end of it, I'd say it was more that you only heard what you didn't want to hear." He is being as restrained as possible, mostly out of desperation.