He can sense it too, the turning tide of the room. Not that it does much for the state of his emotions, mind, but he notices it in the same distant way that he can sense people's heartbeats, if he doesn't make an effort to not hear them. Like it's a quiet background, or a current hidden just under the surface. But he knows that to actually acknowledge it at this point would be to shatter the moment; to dam up the current and leave everything not yet said to fester slowly, a poison neither of them needs.
And in any case, he's too stubborn to back down just because the feel of the room has changed.
"No," he counters, and now the anger comes out in his voice, fierce and defiant, rising to a crescendo as he continues on. "I was hoping that you'd be willing to help, but maybe I was mistaken in that."
He manages, fortunately, to cut himself off before doing more than simply imply that it's not - wouldn't be - the first time he's asked for help and been denied, even if those had been associated with the very same ill-advised mistakes that she's just brought up. But that's not the barb that hurts the most. No, it's her comment about his hands that wounds him; the subtle rejection he knows she's implying - that he doesn't care, hasn't searched as long as he can, and for a moment it's almost like he doesn't know what to say, nor how to say it.
"Helen," he begins halting, and the sound of it is raw and aching, like it's halfway a plea but one that's been been torn out of him against his will. "Helen, please."
The rest of the words die in his throat, but by the look in his eyes the tide may be more turned than turning; it's not anger there, not any more. No, this is the pain, the sorrow, everything he's tried so, so hard to keep hidden these last months. To drown away in the bottle, and when that had - as ever - failed to prove any solace, had tried to shove away so that he'd never have to look at it again and the truth of it this, for all he can't find the words. He has never been able to search as long as she could, not even if he'd wanted to, for all that her loss had stung more keenly than he expects anyone to know. Except, perhaps, for her and now that he's made more than an oblique reference to it, he will likely never speak of it again when this moment has been and gone.
no subject
And in any case, he's too stubborn to back down just because the feel of the room has changed.
"No," he counters, and now the anger comes out in his voice, fierce and defiant, rising to a crescendo as he continues on. "I was hoping that you'd be willing to help, but maybe I was mistaken in that."
He manages, fortunately, to cut himself off before doing more than simply imply that it's not - wouldn't be - the first time he's asked for help and been denied, even if those had been associated with the very same ill-advised mistakes that she's just brought up. But that's not the barb that hurts the most. No, it's her comment about his hands that wounds him; the subtle rejection he knows she's implying - that he doesn't care, hasn't searched as long as he can, and for a moment it's almost like he doesn't know what to say, nor how to say it.
"Helen," he begins halting, and the sound of it is raw and aching, like it's halfway a plea but one that's been been torn out of him against his will. "Helen, please."
The rest of the words die in his throat, but by the look in his eyes the tide may be more turned than turning; it's not anger there, not any more. No, this is the pain, the sorrow, everything he's tried so, so hard to keep hidden these last months. To drown away in the bottle, and when that had - as ever - failed to prove any solace, had tried to shove away so that he'd never have to look at it again and the truth of it this, for all he can't find the words. He has never been able to search as long as she could, not even if he'd wanted to, for all that her loss had stung more keenly than he expects anyone to know. Except, perhaps, for her and now that he's made more than an oblique reference to it, he will likely never speak of it again when this moment has been and gone.