The slightly sheepish, almost apologetic way she answers the question, obviously trying not to make too big a deal of it, probably tells him all he needs to know.
He wonders, for a moment, if he should leave it at that and look desperately for another topic, pretend he didn't just hear that, that he doesn't think that musky smell came from her mysterious pilot, the man she spent the whole time she was at that strange party with him longing for, gazing at the door like she expected every person who walked through to be that guy. John, the military officer, the pilot, the guy who's kind and a little goofy and makes her feel like herself. The guy who is all the things he's always wanted to be to her.
The guy she'd been so worried about.
Surely he can muster the decency to ask her about him, because like he'd told himself yesterday, before everything went so wrong and she wound up so angry at him, he just wants to see her happy. And if this pilot makes her happy, he doesn't want anything to have happened to him.
She's lost enough people already.
Beside him, the water in the kettle is bubbling ever more frantically, and watching it gives him an excuse to look somewhere other than her without it looking too obvious.
"So, was your guy there?" he asks, knowing he can't make it sound as casual as he wishes he could, wishing he didn't always have his heart on his damn sleeve when she's around. But that's like wishing he didn't love her, and for all the trouble it's caused him, he can't just wish it away. "What was his name again?" (He remembers, of course he does, but he doesn't want her to know just how much that conversation's stuck in his head ever since they had it.)
He's glad when the kettle's boiled and gives him an excuse to take it off the burner, pour the water into the mugs, and stare down at the steeping tea like it's the most fascinating thing here.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-02-19 01:56 pm (UTC)He wonders, for a moment, if he should leave it at that and look desperately for another topic, pretend he didn't just hear that, that he doesn't think that musky smell came from her mysterious pilot, the man she spent the whole time she was at that strange party with him longing for, gazing at the door like she expected every person who walked through to be that guy. John, the military officer, the pilot, the guy who's kind and a little goofy and makes her feel like herself. The guy who is all the things he's always wanted to be to her.
The guy she'd been so worried about.
Surely he can muster the decency to ask her about him, because like he'd told himself yesterday, before everything went so wrong and she wound up so angry at him, he just wants to see her happy. And if this pilot makes her happy, he doesn't want anything to have happened to him.
She's lost enough people already.
Beside him, the water in the kettle is bubbling ever more frantically, and watching it gives him an excuse to look somewhere other than her without it looking too obvious.
"So, was your guy there?" he asks, knowing he can't make it sound as casual as he wishes he could, wishing he didn't always have his heart on his damn sleeve when she's around. But that's like wishing he didn't love her, and for all the trouble it's caused him, he can't just wish it away. "What was his name again?" (He remembers, of course he does, but he doesn't want her to know just how much that conversation's stuck in his head ever since they had it.)
He's glad when the kettle's boiled and gives him an excuse to take it off the burner, pour the water into the mugs, and stare down at the steeping tea like it's the most fascinating thing here.
Anything but see the look on Sookie's face.