[Bones heaves a sigh at that that he feels all the way down to... well, to his damn bones. Shoulders hunching, taking just one more moment to himself, he'd angle his body a little away from Jim; force of habit, when he wasn't altogether comfortable with what was brewing in his gut that he was bound to say out loud anyway; and looking up at him from halfway over a shoulder, he'd posit:]
Well, guess I can't say 'it wouldn't have killed you to be more romantic about it', if you're here thinking I'd set you on fire. Know who'd have to deal with that kind of clean-up? Me. Know who'd bitch the whole time about the smell of dermaline gel? You.
[Okay, so that was partially getting it off of his chest, and partial avoidance right there. A vintage blend, for Leonard.
But it just wouldn't seem to unstick from his damn tongue. He'd said to Jim, 'hell, you don't want to marry me'; and there hadn't been a note of argument. A phantom of it. And why should that upset him? It wasn't as if he'd responded to the proposition with abject enthusiasm. He'd treated it as if Jim had asked him how he'd like to die, or if he wanted to play Russian Roulette, just the two of them. So maybe he didn't deserve to be indignant.
But when it came down to it, he also wasn't the one who had decided to ask. Jim didn't do anything half-assed that he really cared about-- rule breaking, hair-brained schemes to save the universe, arguing with superior officers. Hell, he'd seen the man give more heart to a bar fight. And he knew how Bones felt about a suggestion like that. What it had done to him before. They both knew each other's pasts too well, old, favoured books they read over and over in the lines of each other's foundations and decisions and reactions.
It hurt, was what it came down to. It felt like he'd asked because he had to, and that Jim thought it was as damn stupid an idea as it sounded, and for some hypocritical, nonsensical, blasted god-damn reason, that hurt, and it hurt bad, and that sting wasn't ebbing just yet.
It'd take a few hours, and few more drinks. To be able to pretend it had, anyway.]
...I'm done having a heart attack. [He settled on, with a roll of eyes, before going for the bottle himself.] AND I need another drink, but I'll nurse this one, and I know how to pour.
Are you ready to go back to discussing our 'options', or was that the only thing in your arsenal?
I took you up on that waiting a year thing, I am so sorry.
Well, guess I can't say 'it wouldn't have killed you to be more romantic about it', if you're here thinking I'd set you on fire. Know who'd have to deal with that kind of clean-up? Me. Know who'd bitch the whole time about the smell of dermaline gel? You.
[Okay, so that was partially getting it off of his chest, and partial avoidance right there. A vintage blend, for Leonard.
But it just wouldn't seem to unstick from his damn tongue. He'd said to Jim, 'hell, you don't want to marry me'; and there hadn't been a note of argument. A phantom of it. And why should that upset him? It wasn't as if he'd responded to the proposition with abject enthusiasm. He'd treated it as if Jim had asked him how he'd like to die, or if he wanted to play Russian Roulette, just the two of them. So maybe he didn't deserve to be indignant.
But when it came down to it, he also wasn't the one who had decided to ask. Jim didn't do anything half-assed that he really cared about-- rule breaking, hair-brained schemes to save the universe, arguing with superior officers. Hell, he'd seen the man give more heart to a bar fight. And he knew how Bones felt about a suggestion like that. What it had done to him before. They both knew each other's pasts too well, old, favoured books they read over and over in the lines of each other's foundations and decisions and reactions.
It hurt, was what it came down to. It felt like he'd asked because he had to, and that Jim thought it was as damn stupid an idea as it sounded, and for some hypocritical, nonsensical, blasted god-damn reason, that hurt, and it hurt bad, and that sting wasn't ebbing just yet.
It'd take a few hours, and few more drinks. To be able to pretend it had, anyway.]
...I'm done having a heart attack. [He settled on, with a roll of eyes, before going for the bottle himself.] AND I need another drink, but I'll nurse this one, and I know how to pour.
Are you ready to go back to discussing our 'options', or was that the only thing in your arsenal?