The flash of hurt is unmistakably loud and clear before he manages to lock it down to something less. Can't hide it all the way, but there's a veneer of anger layered overtop, a different kind of hurt.
Silently, he takes up his wine glass, gets across the dining room, and stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his free hand flexing. Apparently he makes a decision a few moments later and turns back, a sentient stormcloud, and takes up Phil's glass, too. And then goes into the kitchen to refresh their glasses. Too full. He does not care.
Probably stays there longer than he should, too.
When he does come back to the table and sets the glasses down, even he's amazed it isn't with enough force to slosh wine over the sides.
"What a fucking thing to say when we're finally making some progress. Sorry, am I ruining some imagined timetable? Were we supposed to be having a honeymoon in Tahiti by now?"
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Silently, he takes up his wine glass, gets across the dining room, and stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his free hand flexing. Apparently he makes a decision a few moments later and turns back, a sentient stormcloud, and takes up Phil's glass, too. And then goes into the kitchen to refresh their glasses. Too full. He does not care.
Probably stays there longer than he should, too.
When he does come back to the table and sets the glasses down, even he's amazed it isn't with enough force to slosh wine over the sides.
"What a fucking thing to say when we're finally making some progress. Sorry, am I ruining some imagined timetable? Were we supposed to be having a honeymoon in Tahiti by now?"