"Yeah, I think I'm okay with not checking any of those, thanks."
He's pretty good with never wanting to think about any of those references, or what Steve did with them, or what glowing reviews they might be able to paint. It shutters something close in his chest, that wants to be held jealously in a closed hand, hidden, protected. He knows there have been other people, women, men. He's seen a few of them. Can't forget the sick surge of annoyance that climbed into his throat every time Kaila smiled at Steve, the way he'd wanted to shred the napkin with her number on it.
He might not get to keep this, and there will probably be plenty more through the revolving door, but for now, it's his. Steve is. And he doesn't feel like sharing, even with people long gone -- or not so long, considering Catherine's back on the island.
So the comment comes with a twisted grimace, exasperated, but falling short of being actually annoyed or unhappy. "I'll come to my own conclusions."
Which is what he does every day, for his job, and this is no different.
Nobody's pushing anything right now, though, unless he counts sleep that's starting to weigh down his eyelids and muffle the world into something hazy and forgettable, existing somewhere outside the heavy half-circle of Steve's arm. Nothing he needs to deal with, nothing to worry about. Stress leaves behind a kind of dulled drowsiness as it seeps away, and he's feeling a little dopey now that he's not continually hooking himself further and further up the rungs of self-conscious fear.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-06-07 03:31 pm (UTC)He's pretty good with never wanting to think about any of those references, or what Steve did with them, or what glowing reviews they might be able to paint. It shutters something close in his chest, that wants to be held jealously in a closed hand, hidden, protected. He knows there have been other people, women, men. He's seen a few of them. Can't forget the sick surge of annoyance that climbed into his throat every time Kaila smiled at Steve, the way he'd wanted to shred the napkin with her number on it.
He might not get to keep this, and there will probably be plenty more through the revolving door, but for now, it's his. Steve is. And he doesn't feel like sharing, even with people long gone -- or not so long, considering Catherine's back on the island.
So the comment comes with a twisted grimace, exasperated, but falling short of being actually annoyed or unhappy. "I'll come to my own conclusions."
Which is what he does every day, for his job, and this is no different.
Nobody's pushing anything right now, though, unless he counts sleep that's starting to weigh down his eyelids and muffle the world into something hazy and forgettable, existing somewhere outside the heavy half-circle of Steve's arm. Nothing he needs to deal with, nothing to worry about. Stress leaves behind a kind of dulled drowsiness as it seeps away, and he's feeling a little dopey now that he's not continually hooking himself further and further up the rungs of self-conscious fear.