"Yeah, works for me. I need something to clear away Grace's latest G-rated favorites, anyway."
Bluffing, because there's something he loves about what used to be family movie night and what is now just him and Grace's movie night, heavily featuring Disney characters and the newest tween heartthrobs, none of whom he ever recognizes. He loves settling her in a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, balancing a bowl of popcorn between them, making Grace laugh when he tries to determine the usually vague and inconsistent motivations of the various characters.
It's worth it all to see the smile on her face, feel the way she tucks into him when she gets sleepy.
So he's okay with the whole idea of relaxing on the couch for a while, letting some stupid movie or game wash over him. If they're lucky, something like a James Bond marathon will be on, and he won't even have to get worked up about terrible calls by refs who must be blind or brain-damaged, can just sit there and finish his beer and let the exhaustion stealing over him fade itself out.
Because it's tiring. The panic and the fear and the anger. He doesn't feed on it, the way Steve seems to think he does; not when it's like this, not when it means something. When it hasn't even been a fight, but he still feels like he'd been tossed into a cage match and had to grapple with a monster three times his size. It's just draining, okay? And right now, he doesn't want to relive it, think it over, second-guess himself or Steve. He wants Steve next to him, or draped over him, and he wants a beer, and he wants a mindless action film with an eyebrow-raising premise and unlikely, tacked on love interest, and that'll do him just fine for a Sunday night.
So when Steve nudges him, he goes, bending to grab his beer, the other hand fitting against the small of Steve's back like it was never going to be anywhere else, even as he's nodding to the abandoned bottle of earlier.
"You gonna pick that up, or am I gonna have to issue a citation for littering?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-05 04:31 pm (UTC)Bluffing, because there's something he loves about what used to be family movie night and what is now just him and Grace's movie night, heavily featuring Disney characters and the newest tween heartthrobs, none of whom he ever recognizes. He loves settling her in a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, balancing a bowl of popcorn between them, making Grace laugh when he tries to determine the usually vague and inconsistent motivations of the various characters.
It's worth it all to see the smile on her face, feel the way she tucks into him when she gets sleepy.
So he's okay with the whole idea of relaxing on the couch for a while, letting some stupid movie or game wash over him. If they're lucky, something like a James Bond marathon will be on, and he won't even have to get worked up about terrible calls by refs who must be blind or brain-damaged, can just sit there and finish his beer and let the exhaustion stealing over him fade itself out.
Because it's tiring. The panic and the fear and the anger. He doesn't feed on it, the way Steve seems to think he does; not when it's like this, not when it means something. When it hasn't even been a fight, but he still feels like he'd been tossed into a cage match and had to grapple with a monster three times his size. It's just draining, okay? And right now, he doesn't want to relive it, think it over, second-guess himself or Steve. He wants Steve next to him, or draped over him, and he wants a beer, and he wants a mindless action film with an eyebrow-raising premise and unlikely, tacked on love interest, and that'll do him just fine for a Sunday night.
So when Steve nudges him, he goes, bending to grab his beer, the other hand fitting against the small of Steve's back like it was never going to be anywhere else, even as he's nodding to the abandoned bottle of earlier.
"You gonna pick that up, or am I gonna have to issue a citation for littering?"