He looks over for the first time since they got in the car, opens his mouth to argue -- he's pretty sure that's inaccurate, mostly because he has very clear memories of Rachel calling him an insensitive ass multiple times in her posh London accent -- and laughs, instead. "I'm sensitive, huh?"
It's lacking any kind of humor, but it is a laugh, pissed off and disbelieving. Sensitive. Steve thinks he's sensitive, and that's why he thinks Rachel left, and it is, actually hilarious.
A wave of his hand at the wheel, then towards himself, and a hard grin over at Steve. "You think I'm sensitive?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, just blows past the few words being offered, and that grin is gone now, because the anger is welling up again, hard and fast. "When did you come to the conclusion that I was sensitive, huh? Was it when a bullet was tearing through my flesh, is that when I seemed sensitive to you?"
Yeah. He's still mad about it. And he has every reason to be mad about it, because they should never have been taking on a known gun-runner on their own, they should never have been caught out by that girl and suddenly thrown into a gunfight.
Look. He gets it. He does. Navy SEALs don't exist in the world of regular cops. They're off on black ops, secret missions, where people are snuffed out like candle flames and the killers melt away back into the shadows, add another redacted report to their file, move on to the next one. He gets it. He knows. "I am really happy, that you are not afraid of anything. Okay?"
That's great for him. It is. Truly. But it means fuck all on days like today, because this is not Steve's normal territory, okay, it's his. He's the one who knows what to do here. "I'm glad you have that G.I. Joe, thousand-yard stare from chasing shoebombers around the world, okay? But in civilized society, we have rules, all right?"
He's getting warmed up, now, getting into a roll, frustration bubbling out in a hard boil "It is the unspoken glue that separates us from jackals and hyenas."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-01-20 02:27 am (UTC)He looks over for the first time since they got in the car, opens his mouth to argue -- he's pretty sure that's inaccurate, mostly because he has very clear memories of Rachel calling him an insensitive ass multiple times in her posh London accent -- and laughs, instead. "I'm sensitive, huh?"
It's lacking any kind of humor, but it is a laugh, pissed off and disbelieving. Sensitive. Steve thinks he's sensitive, and that's why he thinks Rachel left, and it is, actually hilarious.
A wave of his hand at the wheel, then towards himself, and a hard grin over at Steve. "You think I'm sensitive?" But he doesn't wait for an answer, just blows past the few words being offered, and that grin is gone now, because the anger is welling up again, hard and fast. "When did you come to the conclusion that I was sensitive, huh? Was it when a bullet was tearing through my flesh, is that when I seemed sensitive to you?"
Yeah. He's still mad about it. And he has every reason to be mad about it, because they should never have been taking on a known gun-runner on their own, they should never have been caught out by that girl and suddenly thrown into a gunfight.
Look. He gets it. He does. Navy SEALs don't exist in the world of regular cops. They're off on black ops, secret missions, where people are snuffed out like candle flames and the killers melt away back into the shadows, add another redacted report to their file, move on to the next one. He gets it. He knows. "I am really happy, that you are not afraid of anything. Okay?"
That's great for him. It is. Truly. But it means fuck all on days like today, because this is not Steve's normal territory, okay, it's his. He's the one who knows what to do here. "I'm glad you have that G.I. Joe, thousand-yard stare from chasing shoebombers around the world, okay? But in civilized society, we have rules, all right?"
He's getting warmed up, now, getting into a roll, frustration bubbling out in a hard boil "It is the unspoken glue that separates us from jackals and hyenas."