He really had expected to spend any number of hours sitting out in the corridor until an officer stumbled across him, so Jack is more than happy to take the couch opposite General Pitchiner — even if it is a more casual situation than he would ever have imagined himself in with a superior. It's hard not to stare at the General for too long, wanting to examine his face closely for anything to be found there. Jack manages to keep his eyes on the table, mostly, on his fingers where they drum at his knees, only darting quick glances up every now and then.
It doesn't take long for the quiet to make him crack. With a huff of exasperation, more for himself than Pitchiner, he throws his hands up, slumps back in his seat and declares, blunt and determined, "Alright, I'm going to be insanely candid about everything so that I didn't risk my neck just for awkward silences. Here we go: I have no idea what to say."
For all the dramatic intent in that statement, though, it's followed by more silence. Jack fidgets with his right sleeve; not the cuff but a little higher, fingers circling his arm, rubbing over something there that Pitchiner can't see. It does feel easier to keep going with that announcement made, at least, an anxious tension in him loosened. Like he doesn't need to be careful about what he says, now that he's pre-emptively dismissed it all as total bullshit, trying to file himself away as some idiot that isn't thinking about his words, isn't agonising over every single one as they shape on his tongue. And because his nerves are eased, his tone gentles somewhat when he picks up again, "I don't know how you feel because I haven't been through that, and I don't know how to even start making it any better. It just felt like— like the shittiest thing in the world to be off doing something else when you're going through hell."
There's no way he could have managed doing anything else, anyway. He's been thinking about General Pitchiner ceaselessly since the battle (the lack thereof) and anything else has to simmer quietly underneath; his cold fury directed at the fearlings, his horror for what they had done, his dread about what is to come after this, all of it takes a back seat until this is dealt with. There isn't any room in his mind for duties and chores and procedures, not now.
One thing concerns him more than any other. He might not know how this feels, a grief of this terrible magnitude, but he remembers how he felt when Emma was hurt in the attack, and again when his mother took her away, and there's a part of that which could be so much worse than the rest in this situation. His hesitation is a palpable thing, a stillness and a heavy uncertainty, but he pushes through. He has to.
"It's not... your fault," he says, because he has to. "You know that, right?"
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It doesn't take long for the quiet to make him crack. With a huff of exasperation, more for himself than Pitchiner, he throws his hands up, slumps back in his seat and declares, blunt and determined, "Alright, I'm going to be insanely candid about everything so that I didn't risk my neck just for awkward silences. Here we go: I have no idea what to say."
For all the dramatic intent in that statement, though, it's followed by more silence. Jack fidgets with his right sleeve; not the cuff but a little higher, fingers circling his arm, rubbing over something there that Pitchiner can't see. It does feel easier to keep going with that announcement made, at least, an anxious tension in him loosened. Like he doesn't need to be careful about what he says, now that he's pre-emptively dismissed it all as total bullshit, trying to file himself away as some idiot that isn't thinking about his words, isn't agonising over every single one as they shape on his tongue. And because his nerves are eased, his tone gentles somewhat when he picks up again, "I don't know how you feel because I haven't been through that, and I don't know how to even start making it any better. It just felt like— like the shittiest thing in the world to be off doing something else when you're going through hell."
There's no way he could have managed doing anything else, anyway. He's been thinking about General Pitchiner ceaselessly since the battle (the lack thereof) and anything else has to simmer quietly underneath; his cold fury directed at the fearlings, his horror for what they had done, his dread about what is to come after this, all of it takes a back seat until this is dealt with. There isn't any room in his mind for duties and chores and procedures, not now.
One thing concerns him more than any other. He might not know how this feels, a grief of this terrible magnitude, but he remembers how he felt when Emma was hurt in the attack, and again when his mother took her away, and there's a part of that which could be so much worse than the rest in this situation. His hesitation is a palpable thing, a stillness and a heavy uncertainty, but he pushes through. He has to.
"It's not... your fault," he says, because he has to. "You know that, right?"