It's clear by the intent look in his eyes that he's got thoughts, even if his expression stays mostly blank and carefully guarded. Even though he doesn't say anything. The sharpness in his perception as he studies her profile, visible in the rearview mirror, is plenty telling if she knows how to look.
Also probably visible is his scathing amusement at the seatbelt thing — still no argument from him, but everything in his body language is facetious, sarcastically flippant, as he pulls the belt over from where it hangs and deliberately clicks it into place. Look, see. All buckled in. Safe and sound.
Like going head-first out the windshield would be the worst thing in the world for a man who just made it clear he'd be fine with swallowing a bullet.
The ride's quiet for a while. Maybe awkward or tense for her, but no such tension shows in him. He reclines in the seat, legs comfortably spread, elbow perched on the faux leather of the window frame, eyes never really leaving her for very long throughout the length of the drive. Not like there's much to see out the window; shitty warehouses and shitty projects and shitty buildings. The grime coating this city on an atomic level doesn't make for a particularly compelling view, and anyway, it's not the city he's trying to understand right now. Every little shift in her body language is a glimpse of deeper insight into what's going on in her head.
She might wanna get used to it. She's the person he's going to be keyed in to until she either passes him off or he bites the bullet. Every scrap of that scrutiny's going to her until he feels like he knows her, because that's how this works. You learn to read your owner. You learn to figure out what they want before they ask for it. It's a survival mechanism, sometimes. It's a weapon other times.
What he's reading from her right now, what he's picking up on that she wants, is for him to not be in the back of her fucking car. It's guilt, or obligation — either way, it's misplaced. The question is how long she plans on doubling down despite that, how committed she is to tethering herself to this lost cause. How deep does that stubbornness really run?
Unless he's spoken to first, he doesn't speak again.
no subject
It's clear by the intent look in his eyes that he's got thoughts, even if his expression stays mostly blank and carefully guarded. Even though he doesn't say anything. The sharpness in his perception as he studies her profile, visible in the rearview mirror, is plenty telling if she knows how to look.
Also probably visible is his scathing amusement at the seatbelt thing — still no argument from him, but everything in his body language is facetious, sarcastically flippant, as he pulls the belt over from where it hangs and deliberately clicks it into place. Look, see. All buckled in. Safe and sound.
Like going head-first out the windshield would be the worst thing in the world for a man who just made it clear he'd be fine with swallowing a bullet.
The ride's quiet for a while. Maybe awkward or tense for her, but no such tension shows in him. He reclines in the seat, legs comfortably spread, elbow perched on the faux leather of the window frame, eyes never really leaving her for very long throughout the length of the drive. Not like there's much to see out the window; shitty warehouses and shitty projects and shitty buildings. The grime coating this city on an atomic level doesn't make for a particularly compelling view, and anyway, it's not the city he's trying to understand right now. Every little shift in her body language is a glimpse of deeper insight into what's going on in her head.
She might wanna get used to it. She's the person he's going to be keyed in to until she either passes him off or he bites the bullet. Every scrap of that scrutiny's going to her until he feels like he knows her, because that's how this works. You learn to read your owner. You learn to figure out what they want before they ask for it. It's a survival mechanism, sometimes. It's a weapon other times.
What he's reading from her right now, what he's picking up on that she wants, is for him to not be in the back of her fucking car. It's guilt, or obligation — either way, it's misplaced. The question is how long she plans on doubling down despite that, how committed she is to tethering herself to this lost cause. How deep does that stubbornness really run?
Unless he's spoken to first, he doesn't speak again.