Linden catches that surly, dark look, and meets it levelly, his own expression remaining blank and unchanging. He's resigned himself to this; even if everyone in the room knows that he can't truly make nice with Jason, given their history, he can keep from being outright hostile. Even the socially abrasive and peculiar Linden is well aware that it would be wildly inappropriate when the man is risking so much, especially when a significant part of him very clearly doesn't want to. Therefore, Linden defaults to simply not reacting, when he's afraid that the only other option is reacting badly or childishly.

Loading up the car is a trial and a half, even with Linden loading the lighter articles. His back is still a mess even after having some time to recover, but just because he's no longer facedown and panting through the worst of it doesn't mean the lashing didn't do significant damage to his insubstantial frame. There's no fat or muscle on him to absorb the wheals or keep them from cutting him straight to the bone. They'll obviously scar hideously, but for now, even healing is very slow going. Every time he raises and lifts something, he can feel the scabs pulling, sometimes tearing, a warm trickle down his back, and it occurs to him that three hours in a suitcase is going to be a lot more than merely uncomfortable.

Maybe he doesn't have to go that far yet. At Jason's barked order, He climbs into the backseat, leaving shotgun for Peggy, folding himself up next to a chair that's almost as spiny and angular as he is. Hopefully the blood won't soak through his shirt and vest and stain the upholstery.