[There's a moment of silence then, something complex and difficult written in the lines of his face, a quick pulse of frustration and exasperation and confused perplexity, the vague twitch of his free hand as it hangs by his side because her attitude is confounding to him, irritating. But there's also that feeling in him, the one he knows so well but has never really been able to understand, the open wound at the centre of his chest, something steadily bleeding. A strange kind of emptiness, and he doesn't know what to do with it, pushes it roughly to one side. Swallows it back.
no subject
Quietly, he looks down and away.]
You're welcome to do what you like, I suppose.