[Giovanni listens with quiet and attentive obedience, taking in the instruction his superior has to give. It's a funny thing, he thinks, repurposing a tool of destruction for something almost soft, for the task of mending. And when he looks into Sion's face again there's something there beneath the cool and impassive exterior, something almost (almost) unsure. Trepidation begins to seep into him and all through the elegant lines of his body because this kind of thing, it isn't what he does. Isn't what he's meant for.
All it takes is the wrong application of force and he'd make the situation worse rather than better.
This level of self-restraint, the careful application of strength into something the other man describes as a 'stretch' rather than power or force-- it's unknown to him, something different, and because of that, something to be almost afraid of.]
My own body.
[There's a wry twist to his words as he says them, a double-edged sword-- his body is hardly comparable to that of an unaltered human, of something human at all (so he thinks), not with how it restitches and heals itself, all wounds righting themselves with the swift-burning kinetic energy his 'kind' have been imbued with. And more than that, the implication there that his body is something he owns, rather than something crafted by other (six-fingered) hands, a tool to be used, belonging always to those above him.
But there's no wry smile or sardonic expression to go with the sentiment, no-- instead there's a look of fiercely-focused concentration, mind temporarily re-routed only for this task. Even here, like this, doing something so unaccustomed for him, his aim is to please.
To do the very best he can.
And so when the other man finishes his deft ministrations, when the subtle flex and movement of his hands falls still, Giovanni begins to pull. To stretch, as Sion had framed it, and he holds fast even as the child begins to cry out from the ache of it, keeps going with unaccustomed gentleness until he feels the broken bones begin to realign.
Again, his eyes go to his superior's face, seeking out reassurance.]
no subject
All it takes is the wrong application of force and he'd make the situation worse rather than better.
This level of self-restraint, the careful application of strength into something the other man describes as a 'stretch' rather than power or force-- it's unknown to him, something different, and because of that, something to be almost afraid of.]
My own body.
[There's a wry twist to his words as he says them, a double-edged sword-- his body is hardly comparable to that of an unaltered human, of something human at all (so he thinks), not with how it restitches and heals itself, all wounds righting themselves with the swift-burning kinetic energy his 'kind' have been imbued with. And more than that, the implication there that his body is something he owns, rather than something crafted by other (six-fingered) hands, a tool to be used, belonging always to those above him.
But there's no wry smile or sardonic expression to go with the sentiment, no-- instead there's a look of fiercely-focused concentration, mind temporarily re-routed only for this task. Even here, like this, doing something so unaccustomed for him, his aim is to please.
To do the very best he can.
And so when the other man finishes his deft ministrations, when the subtle flex and movement of his hands falls still, Giovanni begins to pull. To stretch, as Sion had framed it, and he holds fast even as the child begins to cry out from the ache of it, keeps going with unaccustomed gentleness until he feels the broken bones begin to realign.
Again, his eyes go to his superior's face, seeking out reassurance.]