"But you've only just returned." Drifting off or otherwise, it is still in Sion to childishly give protest to any authority not his own; to contest Ryner, a subordinate both audacious enough to command his superior, and utterly foolhardy to believe that his word might ever be heeded by a man notorious for defying the limitations of the physical body on so regular a basis.
Despite how expertly the blanket had been draped across them both, or how relieved the Director felt to simply be in close proximity to the other man (though Sion had been the one to silence the link between them, he'd missed Ryner; missed this), Sion pulls back, propping his head up, upon bent elbow and the open palm of his hand.
"What's more, I'm quite certain that you intend to sleep enough for the both of us." And wake up sleep-muzzled and groggy, likely after Sion himself had taken leave of his office. "After all, are you not Ryner Lute, King of the thousand-years' nap? Truly, if you had any heart at all, you'd not have coaxed me to the sofa, but instead joined me at my desk to assist with collecting data on the areas hit hardest by the P43X attacks."
For those were the districts where, come tomorrow, Sion would send teams of Enforcers to distribute aid and offer their hands in burying the fallen of Westerley. And were his own condition to improve, the Director would see fit to join them, but not before assigning Ryner to another mission, perhaps upon Leith. Because... despite what Ryner had said to him, now and all those years ago, between them, there is a debt still owed. Ryner had sacrificed too much protect them him, when they'd been young, when--...
"You're... also wrong, you know." About many things, about even Sion himself. Sion, who is so reluctant to admit to his own weaknesses in front of his friend. "When I received news that I was an excellent candidate for research, I went willingly." Or, at least, believing as much had been how he coped; a mechanism created by the mind to maintain some desperate illusion of control. The thought that he had been able to consent to all that had been done to him... it kept him stable, mentally stalwart when all else seemed to crumble around him. "I... we are in better positions, now, able to help those who are truly in need, and for that I do not regret being compliant with that which the Company asked of me."
But perhaps, still, Sion confuses the word 'asked' with 'demanded'; 'choice' with being 'controlled'.
Something stings at his eyes, acrid as the Director manages the air of the Badlands to have been, and it is a chore to blink it back, contesting not only the call of sleep, but a foreign emotion in his chest.
(It hurts, in a way the ever-present pain coursing through his body never had.)
"You have a lot to make up for on our date, I--..." Why... why does it feel as though he cannot breathe? His body tenses, even though his voice remains relaxed, "If a bistro should not be adventurous enough, you will surprise me."
no subject
Despite how expertly the blanket had been draped across them both, or how relieved the Director felt to simply be in close proximity to the other man (though Sion had been the one to silence the link between them, he'd missed Ryner; missed this), Sion pulls back, propping his head up, upon bent elbow and the open palm of his hand.
"What's more, I'm quite certain that you intend to sleep enough for the both of us." And wake up sleep-muzzled and groggy, likely after Sion himself had taken leave of his office. "After all, are you not Ryner Lute, King of the thousand-years' nap? Truly, if you had any heart at all, you'd not have coaxed me to the sofa, but instead joined me at my desk to assist with collecting data on the areas hit hardest by the P43X attacks."
For those were the districts where, come tomorrow, Sion would send teams of Enforcers to distribute aid and offer their hands in burying the fallen of Westerley. And were his own condition to improve, the Director would see fit to join them, but not before assigning Ryner to another mission, perhaps upon Leith. Because... despite what Ryner had said to him, now and all those years ago, between them, there is a debt still owed. Ryner had sacrificed too much protect them him, when they'd been young, when--...
"You're... also wrong, you know." About many things, about even Sion himself. Sion, who is so reluctant to admit to his own weaknesses in front of his friend. "When I received news that I was an excellent candidate for research, I went willingly." Or, at least, believing as much had been how he coped; a mechanism created by the mind to maintain some desperate illusion of control. The thought that he had been able to consent to all that had been done to him... it kept him stable, mentally stalwart when all else seemed to crumble around him. "I... we are in better positions, now, able to help those who are truly in need, and for that I do not regret being compliant with that which the Company asked of me."
But perhaps, still, Sion confuses the word 'asked' with 'demanded'; 'choice' with being 'controlled'.
Something stings at his eyes, acrid as the Director manages the air of the Badlands to have been, and it is a chore to blink it back, contesting not only the call of sleep, but a foreign emotion in his chest.
(It hurts, in a way the ever-present pain coursing through his body never had.)
"You have a lot to make up for on our date, I--..." Why... why does it feel as though he cannot breathe? His body tenses, even though his voice remains relaxed, "If a bistro should not be adventurous enough, you will surprise me."