[Slowly he nods, keeps chopping, and quietly something stirs in him, a subtle jitter of feeling behind his ribs as again, her emotional state pushes against him like something almost physically felt. A strange thing, for something like him, who tends to walk around as though he's the only solid inhabitant in a world of ghosts, or perhaps as though he himself is the spectre, the haunt, unseen and removed from all those around him. And yet here he is, aware of her quiet unhappiness rather than mired so deeply within his own that he's unable to see outside of himself. It seems there's something he ought to be saying, or doing, and when he can't think of the right way to respond there comes a subtle rush of frustration through him, though outwardly it barely shows outside of the length of his silence, the slight tightening of his brow.]
My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
no subject
My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]