He notices it. First the anger and then the way it slides into something more than anger, and in neither case does he he deny the emotions that her anger brings in its wake; first a subtle sort of satisfaction at having managed to get her to rise to the bait and then the briefest flicker of realization as the anger turns to stone. He knows what's coming next and while he can't say he'd meant to push quite that far (or not consciously at least), neither does he apologize. Not just because he's almost positive that Helen isn't likely to listen at this point, but also because he's not sure that he'd be able to make it sound sincere just and the moment. To say nothing of the fact that he has never been particularly inclined to apologize and is very nearly certain that it would cause him actual pain to swallow as much of his pride as he'd need to to say those particular words.
Instead, he lets her anger call to his, even as his expression darkens at her words, and if the effect is rather like a stormfront coming in, it's not entirely inaccurate - her anger might be a volcano but his has ever been a thunderstorm, even before the lightning took root under his skin.
"I had it under control," he snaps back without so much as missing a beat or a hint of irony. "It worked. And just because some... some over-privileged teenagers with absolutely no sense of morals or- or common sense couldn't leave well enough alone much less manage to not die in the first place doesn't change that."
He makes it about halfway to throwing up his hands, before the gesture peters out as it runs straight into his sense of propriety; without any other release they fall into any of a number of small gestures to underscore his words. He takes to pacing through the holographic city not long after that, the restless energy finding an outlet however it can.
And if he's focusing more on his second attempt than his first, it's only reasonable, to him. Yes, the first had hardly ended well either, but it was a first attempt. Even he can't always get things right the first time, and it's not his fault Helen hadn't wanted to help him improve his mini-hims.
(Or so he tells himself anyway. Whether or not he genuinely believes it is another matter and not entirely relevant to the matters at hand, besides.)
"No, I'm not," he answers, when at last her comments turn accusing, and though it's characteristically blunt, it's as soft as he knows how to be, in the grip of anger. "I mean what I said, about him being uncommonly stubborn. And..." there's a pause as his face wrenches into an expression as if he can hardly believe he's going to say what comes next, "he did the right thing, I think. Not in dying but in... choosing to do what he did, even despite the cost."
His voice keeps on the same even keel as he says it, restless pacing slowing until he's standing before Helen again and this - the moment, and his actions - are the apology he couldn't, and wouldn't, give before. Not in words, but that he can recognize the hurt; has offered her as much as he can, his anger transmuted - briefly - into something no less deadly, but approachable. A thunderstorm held in metal and wires, like the ones he used to build, so long ago.
It's a gentle nudge too, although he's not sure if it will come through as well as he'd like. She's not the only one who's lost, recently, and he'd thought he'd lost her as permanently as she'd lost her old friend.
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Instead, he lets her anger call to his, even as his expression darkens at her words, and if the effect is rather like a stormfront coming in, it's not entirely inaccurate - her anger might be a volcano but his has ever been a thunderstorm, even before the lightning took root under his skin.
"I had it under control," he snaps back without so much as missing a beat or a hint of irony. "It worked. And just because some... some over-privileged teenagers with absolutely no sense of morals or- or common sense couldn't leave well enough alone much less manage to not die in the first place doesn't change that."
He makes it about halfway to throwing up his hands, before the gesture peters out as it runs straight into his sense of propriety; without any other release they fall into any of a number of small gestures to underscore his words. He takes to pacing through the holographic city not long after that, the restless energy finding an outlet however it can.
And if he's focusing more on his second attempt than his first, it's only reasonable, to him. Yes, the first had hardly ended well either, but it was a first attempt. Even he can't always get things right the first time, and it's not his fault Helen hadn't wanted to help him improve his mini-hims.
(Or so he tells himself anyway. Whether or not he genuinely believes it is another matter and not entirely relevant to the matters at hand, besides.)
"No, I'm not," he answers, when at last her comments turn accusing, and though it's characteristically blunt, it's as soft as he knows how to be, in the grip of anger. "I mean what I said, about him being uncommonly stubborn. And..." there's a pause as his face wrenches into an expression as if he can hardly believe he's going to say what comes next, "he did the right thing, I think. Not in dying but in... choosing to do what he did, even despite the cost."
His voice keeps on the same even keel as he says it, restless pacing slowing until he's standing before Helen again and this - the moment, and his actions - are the apology he couldn't, and wouldn't, give before. Not in words, but that he can recognize the hurt; has offered her as much as he can, his anger transmuted - briefly - into something no less deadly, but approachable. A thunderstorm held in metal and wires, like the ones he used to build, so long ago.
It's a gentle nudge too, although he's not sure if it will come through as well as he'd like. She's not the only one who's lost, recently, and he'd thought he'd lost her as permanently as she'd lost her old friend.