[The next few minutes are long. The nerves being activated are ones not meant to be exposed and stimulated like this, the sensation of pressure on bone intrinsically wrong, and the brutal dumb instinct of self-preservation telling him to pull away must be fought constantly. He tries not to think about the soft noise he makes at the back of his throat when the first crystal is coaxed free, something between a whimper and a whine. He's pale when it's done, but he has kept himself still.
Paradoxical thoughts run through him; he wants to make a joke about poison needles, he wants to ask to stop, he wants to linger over the tiny fragment of calcified magic he's grown in his own body like a miracle. Instead, he closes his eyes, and very carefully, around the tightness in his throat, he says:]
I think you should do the trick. And tell me about the bone morph resonances. Or anything you want. Please.
[He knows he could make himself hold still through the rest, if he could do it once, and knowing that is a pitch-dark thing, an isolating, desolate thought. He has been holding himself together so much.
When Palamedes does it for him instead, there's no fighting. Paul all but collapses into the necromantic hold, and with his eyes closed he doesn't have to search Palamedes' face to see what he thinks of that. His nervous system answers to Palamedes' control with the responsiveness of a finely honed tool, and Paul can focus on syncing respiration and heart rate to a steady calibrated rhythm.
It reminds him of his mother's Voice, and he returns to that when he needs to in the many long minutes that follow. After a while, pain of this kind blurs, even without the benefit of pumping more compensatory hormones into the bloodstream, and Paul inhabits the non-space that allows in his mind as Palamedes manipulates, maneuvers, cuts, and closes.
When it's over, it takes a minute to realign with control of his own limbs. Paul eventually brings his hands under his shoulders and pushes himself up from where he lay face down on the desk, tentatively sliding his feet back to the floor. He does tremble then, blinking open bleary eyes and working his jaw.]
That was [he flexes his hands, and despite the fact this room smells like an abattoir and he looks like its bloody butcher even with Palamedes' carefulness, Paul's smile is like unexpected winter sunlight] incredible. Two nervous systems at the same time? The Tleilaxu would kill to get their hands on you, I can't believe -
[Ah, it's mild delirium. Paul leans heavily against the desk and shivers, but the absence of pain is an intoxicant in itself.]
Thank you. I should start with th- are you all right? Are you tired? You should sit, please.
no subject
Paradoxical thoughts run through him; he wants to make a joke about poison needles, he wants to ask to stop, he wants to linger over the tiny fragment of calcified magic he's grown in his own body like a miracle. Instead, he closes his eyes, and very carefully, around the tightness in his throat, he says:]
I think you should do the trick. And tell me about the bone morph resonances. Or anything you want. Please.
[He knows he could make himself hold still through the rest, if he could do it once, and knowing that is a pitch-dark thing, an isolating, desolate thought. He has been holding himself together so much.
When Palamedes does it for him instead, there's no fighting. Paul all but collapses into the necromantic hold, and with his eyes closed he doesn't have to search Palamedes' face to see what he thinks of that. His nervous system answers to Palamedes' control with the responsiveness of a finely honed tool, and Paul can focus on syncing respiration and heart rate to a steady calibrated rhythm.
It reminds him of his mother's Voice, and he returns to that when he needs to in the many long minutes that follow. After a while, pain of this kind blurs, even without the benefit of pumping more compensatory hormones into the bloodstream, and Paul inhabits the non-space that allows in his mind as Palamedes manipulates, maneuvers, cuts, and closes.
When it's over, it takes a minute to realign with control of his own limbs. Paul eventually brings his hands under his shoulders and pushes himself up from where he lay face down on the desk, tentatively sliding his feet back to the floor. He does tremble then, blinking open bleary eyes and working his jaw.]
That was [he flexes his hands, and despite the fact this room smells like an abattoir and he looks like its bloody butcher even with Palamedes' carefulness, Paul's smile is like unexpected winter sunlight] incredible. Two nervous systems at the same time? The Tleilaxu would kill to get their hands on you, I can't believe -
[Ah, it's mild delirium. Paul leans heavily against the desk and shivers, but the absence of pain is an intoxicant in itself.]
Thank you. I should start with th- are you all right? Are you tired? You should sit, please.