[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.]
[ a few beats of silence pass, during which nothing but the steady sound of giovanni's rhythmic chopping can be heard. for a while there she seems lost in her own world, eyes glazed and distant — or are they simply glossy from unshed tears?
whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
[There's a moment of growing tension in him, quietly aware of her continued silence and the odd glassy sparkle of her eyes, something he thinks he recognises from a long long time ago in himself (or perhaps that was never really him just a dream just a nightmare something forgotten and distant and sad but--) then she's reaching out to him, lips curling, the gentle feel of her hand on his making him pause in his rhythmic movements. And it's there in him, just vaguely, the desire to shake her off or resort to the violence so deeply ingrained in him it sometimes feels like an inborn part of himself rather than something conditioned and branded into his bones over time. But it passes, and instead, he turns to look down at her, the movement subtle but no less discernible for it.
His own smile, when it comes, is a little perplexed, a little puzzled, but it's a smile all the same.]
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My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
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whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
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His own smile, when it comes, is a little perplexed, a little puzzled, but it's a smile all the same.]
Well. You're quite welcome, then.