[At lot of what he said was needling. Overblown statements to spur her into outrage and action. It wasn't his intention to wound her nor to open her old wounds, that happened inadvertently.
It was a mild criticism, he wasn't damning her entirely, though it sounded that way he knows his statements had little weight. All he wanted was a little backup, but he pushed at a button, hit a festering sore without realizing, and got a shitstorm instead. This wasn't his intention.
He wanted her to handle it. To say what she needed to say to both party, to watch them, to make sure they didn't kill each other. That's all. He never really processed the gender issue until she brought it up. He doesn't fully understand why it matters to her--they're children--and he probably never will.
It's stupid. It's a stupid conflict spurred by bad wording, frustration, and stung feelings. The children are fighting, there's no need for the adults to do so too. It's late and his head is throbbing and he can barely process what she's saying. He sits up as she gets off, his hands clenching and unclenching as he stamps down whatever it is he's feeling right now. Some mashup of different upsets and regrets. There's always an impulse to hit back, but he has a tight reign on it. They're opposites in that sense; He has better control over his fists than his words.
He's wiping and spitting blood into his shirt. Wincing at her apology because she doesn't need to give it.]
Don't--[he cuts her off, waving it all away. Tired. Settling it. There's no solving this, he realizes. It's too complex for him. She's already made her point. He gets it, there's just not a lot he can say about it. Not much he feels he can do.]
I don't want to talk about this shit anymore. Tissues. Beer. Ice. Icecream. Whatever. Something. [There's still a coldness in his voice, but at least he's not bolting.]
Re: +1
It was a mild criticism, he wasn't damning her entirely, though it sounded that way he knows his statements had little weight. All he wanted was a little backup, but he pushed at a button, hit a festering sore without realizing, and got a shitstorm instead. This wasn't his intention.
He wanted her to handle it. To say what she needed to say to both party, to watch them, to make sure they didn't kill each other. That's all. He never really processed the gender issue until she brought it up. He doesn't fully understand why it matters to her--they're children--and he probably never will.
It's stupid. It's a stupid conflict spurred by bad wording, frustration, and stung feelings. The children are fighting, there's no need for the adults to do so too. It's late and his head is throbbing and he can barely process what she's saying. He sits up as she gets off, his hands clenching and unclenching as he stamps down whatever it is he's feeling right now. Some mashup of different upsets and regrets. There's always an impulse to hit back, but he has a tight reign on it. They're opposites in that sense; He has better control over his fists than his words.
He's wiping and spitting blood into his shirt. Wincing at her apology because she doesn't need to give it.]
Don't--[he cuts her off, waving it all away. Tired. Settling it. There's no solving this, he realizes. It's too complex for him. She's already made her point. He gets it, there's just not a lot he can say about it. Not much he feels he can do.]
I don't want to talk about this shit anymore. Tissues. Beer. Ice. Icecream. Whatever. Something. [There's still a coldness in his voice, but at least he's not bolting.]