[ Danger, danger. He knows this feeling, it's the slow crawl of affection that worms its way into the cracks in his heart, the silent and deadly wind of warmth that reminds him that he has it in him to feel human. An internal defense mechanism whispers the same warning that it's whispered every day since the discovery of his wife's continued infidelity— that it'll hurt if he loses this— and the pit in his stomach says more of the same: you couldn't even save your subordinates, could you?

It hurts, to have someone be kind to him. But he's still foolish enough to feel saved by a warm smile, feel marginally less lost when he says something and Oona laughs in return. Even if it's at his own expense.

He thinks about all that, and that's enough for the fluster to leave his expression, only to be replaced by something...contemplative? Evaluative. Searching. Appreciative? Even he doesn't know. ]

I'm not too good at talking. [ So, yeah, he returns her truth with a truth of his own. ] ...Someone once said that even animals have a difficult time holding conversations with me. And they don't even talk.

[ That's an old memory, a bitter one, and it's actually a small miracle that Oona got him to admit that at all. ]