What she read came across as no complete surprise; Jefferson realized that much of what she'd written had already been admitted to him one way or another or the cyclops had seen and figured out in his head without the use of words. Geneva was incredibly expressive--her fear, her happiness, her anger were impossible for her to mask, at least from him. He'd become familiar with the workings of her expressions, what manufactured them, what cooed at them and what eased them away. But why had Jefferson even bothered to learn? Why was he starting to act so that he didn't affect her wrongly? When had he ever cared enough to do that?
Just as they had the first time, the affirmation that she wanted to see him again still came across as a surprise and misguided notion. His scowl lengthened somewhat at that, as if he refused to even try believing. Though, when she continued and reported him as being impossible to understand and grasp, the cyclops pushed his back further into the chair, tipped his eyes, and tried to relax. He tried to absorb those words, he tried to make them sound better than they did. He was... impossible. The beast knew it was true, but hated to think of it as such. For a long while he said nothing, the old, habitual scowl not as darkened and grim as it normally was. Instead, the frown seemed... hollow. Empty, perhaps. Sad. "You're a good writer," was all he could mumble in the midst of his thoughts. It was the only thing he could think to reply within the stormclouds and torrents.