Time goes by, and things about Bruce that can be forgotten in the heat of his passion, or strategically applied humor, risk bubbling to the surface like the ripples in the pond beside him; pathological rudeness, shutting down, shutting out.

He taps his fingers against the table, alongside the mostly-empty margarita cup. A little anxious, a little decisive. A very human mix.

"I don't know how I'm feeling."

And I hate that.

All his control, all his planning. Bruce has let go of a lot over the past two years, between his blind dive into faith and hope and striking out in the dark to make this team and fight an unknown power. Even their collective relationship is sailing into uncharted territory. Exposing himself like this - the dreams, his poor reaction to them - makes him vulnerable. Unsteady. He should find solace in support, but he's so unfamiliar that it's just strange.

"I've loved you for a long time," he continues abruptly. "It was something I accepted and then set aside as private, because I didn't think it would ever come up. Or that it was—"

Ah. Hm.

"Your business. I guess. I thought it would be intrusive for both of us. I don't think about it too closely anymore. You startled me. I'm sorry about this morning, it was just." He twists the plastic cup where it sits on the table. "Unfortunate timing on my part."