The looks of disgust were noted, Bronev wasnât exactly surprised by any of this, being that he was entirely expecting to have his so-called offer thrown back in his face after everything that had happened between the two and he couldnât really blame him for it if he did. Such were the repercussions of his actions and he had to live with them.
The question is almost startling when it isnât a direct no or an insult flung at him and his eyebrows raised briefly before he nodded, releasing the breath heâd been holding in wait for a response.
      âYes,â he confirmed steadily. âIf you have someone expecting you or simply a ride to a motel. Whatever youâd like.â
Itâs open, a strange attempt to be friendly, and it definitely sounds weird to himself and no less Descole, but heâs trying, for some reason. Why, isnât very obvious now, yet it seems he feels kind of bad and thatâs understandable, if not pathetic, that he would hope for some semblance of acceptance.
The front of hostility had been dropped, instead pulled to the back right burner to simmer. He had time, to stew over his own emotions. His feelings on the matter. His sense of increasing wrongness about the situation. Currently, there was more a need to take advantage of whatever kindness Bronev was willing to give.Â
   Jean had nothing, at the moment. Accounts, assets, accoutrements and research had all been seized months ago by the Scotland Yard. His release had been a surprise to everyone, and so the Yard had fought tooth and nail to keep the items that they had decided âenabledâ his acts of terrorism. Jean Descole may be allowed to leave prison, and live whatever semblance of a life was available to him, but he must start over. Bitterness crept over his tongue. He was to be dependent on whatever kindness he was allowed. Working with Bronev was necessary, even if his skin crawled.
   âI donât have anyone expecting me, at the moment. Only an address.â
  The Commander. Fallen so low as to look small. Like a concerned father, the far reaches of his hindbrain supply. The ache in his wrist that wonât leave argues against this. Jean can hear Bronevâs voice, taunting and deriding. It too, argues against this conclusion. He breathes, a slow blink as he funnels this nervous energy- this internal argument into fidgeting with a loose thread at his right cuff.Â
   Here he is, humbled again by the commander. At least this time it isnât with his back against the pavement, waiting for the bullet to come.