[he doesn't reply; just quietly goes to do so. His movements are still a bit sluggish and too careful and his forehead is permanently knit in faint wrinkles of pain, but he refuses to sit and be waited on, especially when Amy's on crutches. (He's never been good at that anyway.) He glances aside at her as he's getting the mugs out of the cabinet, and--god, he feels so awkward. And tired. And upset. Maybe it's because he's actually gotten a bit used to a more emotionally-available Amy that he's hurt that she's avoiding him now.
He sets the mugs down on the counter as quietly as he can and, after a pause, gets out the sugar too, and a spoon, and adds their preferred amounts of sugar to each mug. When that's put away and he's got the cream waiting to be added he turns to Amy and hovers uncertainly for a moment before reaching out to lightly touch her shoulder]
no subject
He sets the mugs down on the counter as quietly as he can and, after a pause, gets out the sugar too, and a spoon, and adds their preferred amounts of sugar to each mug. When that's put away and he's got the cream waiting to be added he turns to Amy and hovers uncertainly for a moment before reaching out to lightly touch her shoulder]