Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
The piercing cold of marble creeping into his hand stretched time out a little, seconds unfolding like crumpled paper: reluctant to smooth out and flatten as expected. He couldn’t say that he was caught off guard by the way that stormcloud of anger had roiled up, because that was always how it happened. The chloer was just there, all the time, rankling inches beneath the surface and leaving ripples that skipped across whatever else he touched. So unsurprised, yeah, but more than a little deflated from the bubble of chill, of relief, whatever had swelled up after he hung up that dead line echoed with Marta’s venom that finally, finally matched what Seven had felt for so fucking long. Yeah, he felt deflated, with the anger having been punctured as quickly as it came and dragging down the slopes of his shoulders with its weight.
He pushed off the bar and pivoted on a bare heel to cross hardwood and expensive carpet, coming back to the sitting area but dropping down on the couch opposite Jamie, his movements deliberately slow and pulled in tight with reserve, but definitely slumping into a -- well, slump. Decidedly not looking at Jamie decidedly not looking at him, ftr. He sank into leather until his head tipped back against the top edge of the cushion behind him, skull cradled in leather buttery-soft and cool. Not as cold as the marble, which he still felt echoed against the heel of his palm.
“No,” he repeated for the third time, unflinching under the severity of Jamie’s voice. Eyes closed, both hands coming up to scrub over his face where it was tipped up to the ceiling. “I mean, I don’t know. Where that came from,” the words came a little muffled, splintered as he took a breath. He dropped his hands again and they fell in his lap, fingers stiff against his thighs with curled tension. His eyes stayed closed. “Sorry. For being an asshole.”