Re: Times Square: Ronan/Ben
[There's a part of him that wishes that he had that type of anger where he could slam his fist into the wheel until his skin breaks and his flesh bruises and he'd feel better, but he doesn't. It wouldn't make him feel any better, only worse.
He breathes in, gets in the car and doesn't reach for Ronan like he usually does, but for his seat belt. It's focused, every action broken down into individual movements and he can still feel guilt and shame crawling up his neck and it's not his.
He breathes out. Gets back into traffic, both hands on the wheel, not looking anywhere else but the road, the mirrors, and the dashboard. Road, right mirror, road, rear view, road, left, road, dashboard, road, right.
A few minutes later, it's easier to breathe, to find balance, and while he can still feel whatever Ronan is feeling, he knows it isn't his and sorts it to the back of his mind, unwilling to play spy. But he doesn't yell, he doesn't snap, he doesn't speak, he doesn't even look over at Ronan until a half hour later when he pulls into their drive way.] I'll go in first and let the dogs out. They're probably dancing on their hind legs by now.