[There's that brief flashing moment of gold on red and at first it holds, before Giovanni's gaze lowers in what is a mark of respect yes but also - perhaps - a small denial. One way or another there will always be the leash, and if left with a 'choice' there'll be violence and pain in the place of healing, hands that break instead of bend, teeth that rip and tear.
Or at least, so he thinks.
As such, there's the vaguest twinge of his lips by way of response, a continuation of the wry drawl that had been present in his voice, though for now he makes no verbal rebuff or overt denial. The choice is never really his. It always comes from above and even when it begins inside himself his thoughts can hardly be said to be his own, so deeply steeped are they in the toxic waters of his 'upbringing'. The conditioning that permeates right down to the marrow of his bones.
(And yes, to be without such things, to be cut loose and adrift from the steadying pressure of someone else's control-- it frightens him, fills him with a cold hard kind of dread.)
These are the shape of his thoughts, at least, and when Sion gives him permission to release the thin leg of the quietly sobbing child, he does so readily. Hands falling loose at his sides, still and passive now as sleeping birds.]
There's no need to thank me. It's my duty to do as I'm bidden, Sir.
[A small reminder that he is what he is, a tool in someone else's hands, not a person with choices at all but a thing to be used as his superiors see fit. A quiet denial of what Sion is trying to instill in him.
Regardless, the lesson in healing, in self-control, will remain. For later use, perhaps. Who's to say, in this moment.
He moves to take his position two steps behind the Company man, then. Nods just once. Where Sion goes, he will go. Of course.]
no subject
Or at least, so he thinks.
As such, there's the vaguest twinge of his lips by way of response, a continuation of the wry drawl that had been present in his voice, though for now he makes no verbal rebuff or overt denial. The choice is never really his. It always comes from above and even when it begins inside himself his thoughts can hardly be said to be his own, so deeply steeped are they in the toxic waters of his 'upbringing'. The conditioning that permeates right down to the marrow of his bones.
(And yes, to be without such things, to be cut loose and adrift from the steadying pressure of someone else's control-- it frightens him, fills him with a cold hard kind of dread.)
These are the shape of his thoughts, at least, and when Sion gives him permission to release the thin leg of the quietly sobbing child, he does so readily. Hands falling loose at his sides, still and passive now as sleeping birds.]
There's no need to thank me. It's my duty to do as I'm bidden, Sir.
[A small reminder that he is what he is, a tool in someone else's hands, not a person with choices at all but a thing to be used as his superiors see fit. A quiet denial of what Sion is trying to instill in him.
Regardless, the lesson in healing, in self-control, will remain. For later use, perhaps. Who's to say, in this moment.
He moves to take his position two steps behind the Company man, then. Nods just once. Where Sion goes, he will go. Of course.]
And as you like it, then.