Steve doesn't actually reply; doesn't toss anything back or insinuate that she might not see any of those sights this time, either. Doesn't protest that it's hardly his fault she hasn't before, even though she really could pin that on him just as much as on the United States Navy, and when she looks over at him, there's a thin line to his lips that wasn't there before, and distance in his eyes that has nothing to do with watching the road he's currently following.
"Hello? Steve?"
Her eyebrows lift, but it's as much concern as it is curiosity. Look, it's too much to expect Steve to be lighthearted and all aloha this weekend, and she doesn't, but when he goes quiet like that, it's hard to know the best steps to take. She's never been great at pretending things are fine when they're not, gets mired in awkwardness and second-guessing herself. Neither of them are strangers to personal or professional tragedy, but this is different -- like a death in the family, but without any prescribed actions or offers. The loco moco she'd brought sitting in his fridge like the casseroles church ladies bring to a house in mourning -- or just leftovers, she doesn't know.
Of course he's going to detach, distance himself. And there's nothing wrong with that, except it makes her think of the lost look on his face when he opened the door two days ago, the way he'd reached for her wrists, belatedly, after she'd put her hands on his chest.
"So are we almost there?"
It's what she goes with in the end, because there's nothing she can say to make it better -- at least, nothing that will ever have the same effect as physical exertion, endorphins, sunshine, fresh air. Not exactly doctor's orders, maybe, but they've both always felt best when being active.
no subject
"Hello? Steve?"
Her eyebrows lift, but it's as much concern as it is curiosity. Look, it's too much to expect Steve to be lighthearted and all aloha this weekend, and she doesn't, but when he goes quiet like that, it's hard to know the best steps to take. She's never been great at pretending things are fine when they're not, gets mired in awkwardness and second-guessing herself. Neither of them are strangers to personal or professional tragedy, but this is different -- like a death in the family, but without any prescribed actions or offers. The loco moco she'd brought sitting in his fridge like the casseroles church ladies bring to a house in mourning -- or just leftovers, she doesn't know.
Of course he's going to detach, distance himself. And there's nothing wrong with that, except it makes her think of the lost look on his face when he opened the door two days ago, the way he'd reached for her wrists, belatedly, after she'd put her hands on his chest.
"So are we almost there?"
It's what she goes with in the end, because there's nothing she can say to make it better -- at least, nothing that will ever have the same effect as physical exertion, endorphins, sunshine, fresh air. Not exactly doctor's orders, maybe, but they've both always felt best when being active.