Chloe keeps trying to tell herself that he's just in pain and in a panic. Tries to work up the urge to set a hand on his arm, on his lap, even slip down to his leg. But this vacation-- much as she suggested it to get him up and away from his flat (and the pub, and the book shop, and the grocer on the way) which was monotonous enough to drive him mad in combination with all that horrid therapy-- is at its heart a somewhat selfish set of plans. She was thrilled about this ridiculous train ride, and now he's just pissing on the whole thing. Acting like he's five years old and just been forced to swallow a vitamin.

She's not his goddamn mother. She certainly doesn't want to be.

So instead of settling him down, Chloe tenses the muscles of her jaw. Shifts her weight. Folds her arms tightly over her chest. Picks a spot across from her and stares at it like she's capable of setting it on fire.

"Right, well, next time I'll just let you see to it."