[Oh, he's got data after all. Palamedes listens to him talk, noting these things for - he hopes not, but - future reference, but also just taking note of the more even cadence of his voice. He slaved over a sandwich to listen to these notes, and he's content to stare intently at Viktor's profile while he talks without entirely focusing on the words, but-]
Harm?
[Hello? Harm done do it? What's been happening for three days, sir. But he holds up a hand, like, don't answer him; eat the sandwich. He can wait, and he will, the intensity of his gray-eyed stare softening the longer Viktor just, well. Eats a sandwich. He's eyeballing the progress and recession of the silver with impatience, as if staring it down will make it go faster.
Viktor thanks him for the jam sandwich, and Palamedes hums in vague assent, enjoy the sandwich— more importantly, the silver on the back of Viktor's neck is problematic in a way he can't sit and just look at any longer. He tilts toward Viktor, hand raised and hesitating only momentarily (like, he is interrupting dinner, here) before he sets his fingertips on the back of Viktor's neck carefully, like the silver makes him delicate.
It does, in a way; after three days of wondering and then the hopeless way Viktor looked at him at the docks, Palamedes can't help the swell of emotions that burns beneath his ribs. There's a buzzing anxiety at the forefront, of course, and a relief, and an affection that burns brighter than the rest— his hand on Viktor's neck is as much a reassurance for himself as anything else. That's something he'll think about later, he decides. Right now he's concerned with the physical - Viktor, warm, real. Not turning into metal, which—
The tether— whatever it does gets a glance out of him, on edge like he might have to chuck a lumpy couch pillow at it in a second, but - no, it's? That's a response, indeed.]
Sorry, [he says, for lack of anything better to say. He doesn't pull back his hand.] How do you feel?
no subject
Harm?
[Hello? Harm done do it? What's been happening for three days, sir. But he holds up a hand, like, don't answer him; eat the sandwich. He can wait, and he will, the intensity of his gray-eyed stare softening the longer Viktor just, well. Eats a sandwich. He's eyeballing the progress and recession of the silver with impatience, as if staring it down will make it go faster.
Viktor thanks him for the jam sandwich, and Palamedes hums in vague assent, enjoy the sandwich— more importantly, the silver on the back of Viktor's neck is problematic in a way he can't sit and just look at any longer. He tilts toward Viktor, hand raised and hesitating only momentarily (like, he is interrupting dinner, here) before he sets his fingertips on the back of Viktor's neck carefully, like the silver makes him delicate.
It does, in a way; after three days of wondering and then the hopeless way Viktor looked at him at the docks, Palamedes can't help the swell of emotions that burns beneath his ribs. There's a buzzing anxiety at the forefront, of course, and a relief, and an affection that burns brighter than the rest— his hand on Viktor's neck is as much a reassurance for himself as anything else. That's something he'll think about later, he decides. Right now he's concerned with the physical - Viktor, warm, real. Not turning into metal, which—
The tether— whatever it does gets a glance out of him, on edge like he might have to chuck a lumpy couch pillow at it in a second, but - no, it's? That's a response, indeed.]
Sorry, [he says, for lack of anything better to say. He doesn't pull back his hand.] How do you feel?