What? An eyebrow twitch.
'For my dismissal and condescension of you, Jack, I am sorry.
Why? He stopped his eyebrow twitching with a finger.
'Thank you, for your loyalty.'
Proustite levelled his gaze on Still's mouth, stared like a chess player trying to guess his opponent's next move. He pressed a finger to his own lips. Eyes narrowed. There was a rising inside of him - a sudden, inexplicable rush of regret that pushed his tongue up against the roof of his mouth.
Olga had tattled on him once before. There was no reason to trust she wouldn't do it again. He'd assumed she was planning an exit - had seen the clues, and made a deduction, and decided he would share this last thing with her before she became someone else again.
But Still's apology reminded Proustite - she was rather clever, sometimes, wasn't she?
Nobody had ever apologized to him before. He did not know what to do with it. Did not really care that it had happened, beyond trying to connect the dots of what the <********> she was up to.
"So that's why you're leaving," he drawled at last, "you're upset about how you got here. As if any of us get to choose our parents. Sorry, left the bourbon in my other coat."
Lucyal
