[Sometimes, the choices are a rock and a hard place. Sometimes it's about getting what you can out of a stone. Sometimes it's about knowing that one will be entombed, but at least getting to choose where and how.
It's something. And when there's nothing else, that becomes everything.
Not flipping off Paul, in this case, has become everything. The cold and dark that frame such a small universe make it seem as though it will be easy to dissociate for the duration of what that costs, but he learns, extremely quickly, that disconnecting from his body is just not possible when he is regrowing a hand.
He's seen cadavers. He's seen corpses in every state and stage of decay, every horrible thing that can be done to a human body in the name of cruelty or passion or calculated criminal necessity. It still doesn't prepare him for the surreality of The Emperor creating life from nothing, pulling something neat and gathered from void and entropy, and manages it with an obscene sort of tenderness that is both violating and strangely, sickeningly paternal.
Kira couldn't do that; a true god could, and as The Emperor steadies and strengthens his heartbeat and flushes him with new blood, it feels like a different kind of death.
For Paul; it's for Paul. And that's bearable, until his improving mental clarity kicks him in earnest, and he's reminded that he is also supposed to be grateful, and sorry.
It's a long, untenable and utterly exhausting list. Though he's freshly mended of wounds, The Emperor slyly salts him anyway. The bit, as though to suggest that this Lazarus is inauthentic, not actually having earned the miracle.
That's fine; it's true. What's not fine is the notion that the Messiah is, in fact, authentic, with the grace to perform the miracle for the unworthy.
Healthier than he's been in weeks, L is in fact not fine. His voice is careful; he speaks with measured intention, peering intently at The Emperor's face while he is still inspecting his work in his warm, skilled hand. Eye contact, after all, can make even the most improbable statement seem more sincere.
Paul hadn't asked for sincerity; not really. The point of asking someone to lick a boot is not for them to learn to love the taste of leather.]
I apologize for stealing from you.
[Done. The bare minimum, but exactly what was asked for, in a tone that is neither gentle or petty. Because he's not sorry; he is glad for what he has memorized cover-to-cover. He would do it again; he will, or something like it, just with a recalibrated strategy when he can once more call himself "fine."]
no subject
It's something. And when there's nothing else, that becomes everything.
Not flipping off Paul, in this case, has become everything. The cold and dark that frame such a small universe make it seem as though it will be easy to dissociate for the duration of what that costs, but he learns, extremely quickly, that disconnecting from his body is just not possible when he is regrowing a hand.
He's seen cadavers. He's seen corpses in every state and stage of decay, every horrible thing that can be done to a human body in the name of cruelty or passion or calculated criminal necessity. It still doesn't prepare him for the surreality of The Emperor creating life from nothing, pulling something neat and gathered from void and entropy, and manages it with an obscene sort of tenderness that is both violating and strangely, sickeningly paternal.
Kira couldn't do that; a true god could, and as The Emperor steadies and strengthens his heartbeat and flushes him with new blood, it feels like a different kind of death.
For Paul; it's for Paul. And that's bearable, until his improving mental clarity kicks him in earnest, and he's reminded that he is also supposed to be grateful, and sorry.
It's a long, untenable and utterly exhausting list. Though he's freshly mended of wounds, The Emperor slyly salts him anyway. The bit, as though to suggest that this Lazarus is inauthentic, not actually having earned the miracle.
That's fine; it's true. What's not fine is the notion that the Messiah is, in fact, authentic, with the grace to perform the miracle for the unworthy.
Healthier than he's been in weeks, L is in fact not fine. His voice is careful; he speaks with measured intention, peering intently at The Emperor's face while he is still inspecting his work in his warm, skilled hand. Eye contact, after all, can make even the most improbable statement seem more sincere.
Paul hadn't asked for sincerity; not really. The point of asking someone to lick a boot is not for them to learn to love the taste of leather.]
I apologize for stealing from you.
[Done. The bare minimum, but exactly what was asked for, in a tone that is neither gentle or petty. Because he's not sorry; he is glad for what he has memorized cover-to-cover. He would do it again; he will, or something like it, just with a recalibrated strategy when he can once more call himself "fine."]