It's something he respects about her, how goddamn stubborn she can be. Right now it's kind of infuriating. Jesus.
He looks away first, staring at nothing in particular-- out the windshield, barely seeing the cracked pavement and faded lines.
"You wanna just..."
Not talk. Like, maybe ever, but at least for a while. He conveys this imperfectly-- with a tight half-shrug and, well, not talking. Sure as shit it'd be easier.
"Just?" Get angry, get drunk, start crying, open the car door and start walking home? Drop it, she decides, after a moment of watching him make that face. He wants you to drop it. And lucky for him, she's pretty sure that's all that's left to do.
So she says the magic words, turning back toward the window. All she wants right now is to fold herself up so small that the entire conversation stops existing. "Just forget it."
He can't help feeling if she yelled at him some it'd make them both feel better, but maybe that's not how she deals with shit. At least it's not crying, though maybe that'd make her feel better-- and he'd feel better about that, at least.
Dropping it is what he wants, mostly. Except it doesn't actually feel like it helps-- the silence is oppressive rather than contemplative, and as surely as he doesn't want to talk about what happened he'd rather not have them never talk again. She's like a little sister in his mind-- he wants to do right by that, and even if he can't be what she wants him to be right now he wants to be a friend, because it's hard enough to come by that these days and-- hell, they've been through a lot.
After a few long moments he decides on changing the subject.
"You remember I was tellin' you about the ink on my wrist?"
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no subject
He looks away first, staring at nothing in particular-- out the windshield, barely seeing the cracked pavement and faded lines.
"You wanna just..."
Not talk. Like, maybe ever, but at least for a while. He conveys this imperfectly-- with a tight half-shrug and, well, not talking. Sure as shit it'd be easier.
no subject
So she says the magic words, turning back toward the window. All she wants right now is to fold herself up so small that the entire conversation stops existing. "Just forget it."
no subject
Dropping it is what he wants, mostly. Except it doesn't actually feel like it helps-- the silence is oppressive rather than contemplative, and as surely as he doesn't want to talk about what happened he'd rather not have them never talk again. She's like a little sister in his mind-- he wants to do right by that, and even if he can't be what she wants him to be right now he wants to be a friend, because it's hard enough to come by that these days and-- hell, they've been through a lot.
After a few long moments he decides on changing the subject.
"You remember I was tellin' you about the ink on my wrist?"