"Adjusting," Felix echoes, somewhat hollowly, and now something does shutter off. He's not impervious to the tone in Dean's voice, or the offer that follows -- if you want it, whatever you want -- the pleasant ache it stirs in his chest now completely familiar to him. That's its own kind of answer.

It's just that the way he feels doesn't change reality, anyway. "What kind of adjusting did you have in mind?" he mutters, not really looking for an answer, because there isn't one. This is all still on the Admiral's whim. Didn't Dean say they might only have a few hours at best here, anyway? Frak, for all he knows they'll be dragged back before the sushi even comes.

Luckily, that much doesn't happen, because the plates arrive even as he thinks it, and provide him with a very welcome out. "It was just a thought," he says again, dismissively, rubbing one hand over the opposite arm as the waitress doles things out. When she leaves, he pushes the plate of chicken across to Dean as a silent peace offering, shifting at the same time to bump his shin against Dean's jittering one. He hopes Dean knows he's grateful for the offer, but he doesn't bring it up again.