"I'd kill for a cuppa," said Stutely, sinking into an armchair. He slumped forward, rubbing his face wearily. The adrenaline had drained out of him, all the urgency and the cold fear dissolving into so much smoke, and though he ought to be relieved that nobody was hurt, all he was able to muster at the moment was a tired anger.
He gazed moodily across at Much, who was flopped out on the couch as though he hadn't a bloody care in the world.
"The fuck were you fucking thinking?" He demanded. It was the part he still couldn't comprehend. The stupidity and the selfishness of it. It was like he didn't even give a shit, and, fuck, you could chew out Much for a lot of dumb follies but his not caring enough was never the problem.