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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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?"