Re: Jack/Dahlia: quicklog at the gym
[Dahlia stared at him. Slowly, she leaned deep in the desk chair, enough so she could throw her trainers up on the desk, heels hitting one-two—carelessly, making the desk and everything on it rattle. The chair creaked as she folded her arms, shoulders squared like donned armor. She breathed a deep, heavy sigh through her nose.] For fuck's sake. [Growl. Teeth. Stare.] Then be fucking mad, dude. Don't walk in here with fake ass banter after lying why you were stoppin' by and then wonder why I'm fuckin' mad. [Or, well, madder than before, anyway.
It weren't so much that Dahlia didn't permit anger—she just couldn't read Jack's. Dude was a fucking grouch, just like she was, but his aggravation was a whole different beast than hers. His was milder, subtler, reasoned, passive—all shit she didn't get. Even if she had encountered anger like that many times before. It was in the same family as her mother's, her mentor's, even Connie's. Compared to her ripcord sarcasm and simmering resentment—the heat of which was palatable now between them—that oft turned to explosive anger, hers was unlikely to move aside and make space for anger so fucking cold—at least, not without melting it first.
So, Dahlia didn't know Jack was actually annoyed with her 'til that very moment. She hated that she had to guess when he was, and what it was 'bout. All of which just pissed her off further.] So talk, Jack. Answer my fuckin' question from before. Literally what th'fuck you want from me? I actually wanna know. [Not hyperbole.]