She grimaces faintly, though she's not sure if it's in anticipation or something closer to self-recrimination. With every passing moment, her original presumption seems increasingly, hilariously foolish. His acknowledgment almost makes it worse, and she wonders, for a mortifying beat, if he's guessed at her own misunderstanding.
But no, he's just being polite. Insisting that he owes her this. Under less ominous circumstances, she'd probably be moved; she hasn't exactly suffered an overabundance of people presuming she was owed much of anything. But she's still making the mental adjustment from where she thought the evening was going to the actual direction they're headed in, and it's not a comfortable switch.
As Thomas excuses himself, Greta resignedly settles herself into a chair. She gives the gin a considering look, but decides to start with tea (and thank goodness she's partial to it, anyway, because it's starting to seem like the patron drink of unpleasant conversations).
By the time he's settled himself, though, she's given herself a stern, mental shake. She's told him things she isn't proud of, and he's been nothing but good to her and Saoirse. She owes him, too. If he wants to be honest with her, the least she can do is listen, and try to reserve judgment. So she reaches across the table and takes his hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.
"I would rather hear it from you," she allows. It would be awful if some cruel trick of the city had aired it for him. Even her own secrets, such as they are (and as relatively unremarkable as they might be), aren't anything she'd want broadcast without her consent. "And have it not be... forced."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-03-11 01:14 am (UTC)But no, he's just being polite. Insisting that he owes her this. Under less ominous circumstances, she'd probably be moved; she hasn't exactly suffered an overabundance of people presuming she was owed much of anything. But she's still making the mental adjustment from where she thought the evening was going to the actual direction they're headed in, and it's not a comfortable switch.
As Thomas excuses himself, Greta resignedly settles herself into a chair. She gives the gin a considering look, but decides to start with tea (and thank goodness she's partial to it, anyway, because it's starting to seem like the patron drink of unpleasant conversations).
By the time he's settled himself, though, she's given herself a stern, mental shake. She's told him things she isn't proud of, and he's been nothing but good to her and Saoirse. She owes him, too. If he wants to be honest with her, the least she can do is listen, and try to reserve judgment. So she reaches across the table and takes his hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.
"I would rather hear it from you," she allows. It would be awful if some cruel trick of the city had aired it for him. Even her own secrets, such as they are (and as relatively unremarkable as they might be), aren't anything she'd want broadcast without her consent. "And have it not be... forced."