[This kind of work-- it's not what he's best suited to. It's something at least, the opportunity to stretch his legs, get out and about as it were, but there's a placidity to it that leaves him restless, the jitter of violence ever present in his bones like an itch that refuses to abate. Despite this, he walks the respectful two paces behind his Company charge, as expected, surveys the poverty and poor conditions that only increase the further outside of Old Town they go with a quiet kind of indifference. It means nothing to him, all of this, and where there seems to be a well of compassion inside the man he's accompanying now, he has no such feelings himself.
Regardless, he continues to tail the other man with the composed calm expected of him in such situations, his face a blank and impassive mask, the thrumming energy underneath held in careful check. When the request for assistance comes he merely stands to one side - close, but with that same submissive distance held between them - watches the other man work whilst a significant part of his awareness is kept honed on their surroundings, the possibility of attack. Not that he expects it to come, not from these people. Injured and crippled and - perhaps, a few of them - destined only for death.
It would be easier, he thinks, simpler, if he were just to put them out of their misery. A quick shot from his gun, or the hardfast twist of his hands about their throats. It'd be over just like that, and there'd be something satisfying in it.
Of course, unless ordered to, he'll do no such thing.
The child Sion is doctoring quiets eventually (mercifully-- the noise of the initial high-pitched wails had stabbed at his sensitive hearing, left him vaguely on edge) and instead there's the soft sound of Sion's voice and the deft movements of his hands. Funny indeed to think that those same hands had been put to quite a different use, the last time they'd been together like this. Something altogether harder.
Giovanni perks into subtle alertness at the sound of his name, meets Sion's gaze, and when the question comes he gives him a quick, sharp smile.]
I was made to break things, not fix them.
[But just like that, he shrugs.]
However, if you instruct me, I'm sure I could manage.
[Which is to say no, he never has, but if it's what Sion asks of him then of course he will do it.]
no subject
Regardless, he continues to tail the other man with the composed calm expected of him in such situations, his face a blank and impassive mask, the thrumming energy underneath held in careful check. When the request for assistance comes he merely stands to one side - close, but with that same submissive distance held between them - watches the other man work whilst a significant part of his awareness is kept honed on their surroundings, the possibility of attack. Not that he expects it to come, not from these people. Injured and crippled and - perhaps, a few of them - destined only for death.
It would be easier, he thinks, simpler, if he were just to put them out of their misery. A quick shot from his gun, or the hardfast twist of his hands about their throats. It'd be over just like that, and there'd be something satisfying in it.
Of course, unless ordered to, he'll do no such thing.
The child Sion is doctoring quiets eventually (mercifully-- the noise of the initial high-pitched wails had stabbed at his sensitive hearing, left him vaguely on edge) and instead there's the soft sound of Sion's voice and the deft movements of his hands. Funny indeed to think that those same hands had been put to quite a different use, the last time they'd been together like this. Something altogether harder.
Giovanni perks into subtle alertness at the sound of his name, meets Sion's gaze, and when the question comes he gives him a quick, sharp smile.]
I was made to break things, not fix them.
[But just like that, he shrugs.]
However, if you instruct me, I'm sure I could manage.
[Which is to say no, he never has, but if it's what Sion asks of him then of course he will do it.]