Tim, on the other hand, doesn't notice that he does it. (Though he definitely notices the way Matt smiles. That's hard to miss.) It's a habit from spending so many nights at Matt's and having so many drinks and breakfasts together. As second nature as turning on the light when he walks in the room.
He's watching Matt again, watching the fingers on his tie and the hand around his wine class, before picking up his own, taking a sip. Wine isn't likely to chase away the bad dreams — he'll just have to have a glass or two of bourbon before bed.
His lips press together briefly. He wants to explain that you can't second guess your orders when you're with the military. You can't see the gray areas, it has to be black and white, because you can't live with yourself if it's not. But there is not enough wine in existence to prompt him to talk about that, so he stays quiet.
"Not particularly," he murmurs, taking another drink of wine. "You know they say there's no atheists in the foxhole? I think that's true. But I ain't in a foxhole anymore."
no subject
He's watching Matt again, watching the fingers on his tie and the hand around his wine class, before picking up his own, taking a sip. Wine isn't likely to chase away the bad dreams — he'll just have to have a glass or two of bourbon before bed.
His lips press together briefly. He wants to explain that you can't second guess your orders when you're with the military. You can't see the gray areas, it has to be black and white, because you can't live with yourself if it's not. But there is not enough wine in existence to prompt him to talk about that, so he stays quiet.
"Not particularly," he murmurs, taking another drink of wine. "You know they say there's no atheists in the foxhole? I think that's true. But I ain't in a foxhole anymore."