While she babbled about the etymology of sallying forth, he recognised the telltale signs of a woman under pressure and he broke into an indulgent smile, which he turned aside in order to hide his amusement. No need to make it too obvious that he found the rambling endearing, lest it be misinterpreted as laughing at her. (He did have more than enough dating experience to know what she was going through, after all -- Graveley was the serial monogamist, slow to wrangle into a relationship, slow to elicit affection from. But once he tipped into relationship mode, the deal was nigh-cinched and he was like a rolling snowball gathering speed and permanence. He'd be yours for months. Or years.)
He was the very picture of unflappable composure as he guided them to their seats -- all of which dissolved as soon as they were in the booth and she responded. Aidan almost did a spittake, choking on his drink. When he raised his pale blue eyes to look at her, he was grinning. Self-effacing humour indeed.
"I meant your shift at the diner, but the eighties confession was -- more surprising than horrifying," he said, diplomatically (ever the goddamn diplomat). "Never had anyone make me a mix CD before, ever. Apologies if I handled it badly. I didn't really know what to say about it -- and didn't have time to make my own and express my feelings through song. Not exactly my strong suit."
Well. This was rambling, by his standards, and being fairly evasive. He took a drink.