07-30-2013, 02:23 PM
Hawksley. Is. Aghast. At Grace. "How dare you, madam!" is his response when she tells Sid not to believe that he's safe, and yet:
there's some truth to that. His intensity, his presence, the sheer power one can feel flickering at his fingertips and behind his eyes, the lust for that power, the lust for the sun and moon and physical touch and the books -- god! -- the books, the knowledge, the newness and the freedom of Grace, the gut-wrenching-spine-bending existence of Sera, the gasp that is Sid.
Yes, Sid, the wonder, the eyes of a child, the eyes of a god infatuated with all that dwells in its sight.
No, but: Grace is right. None of that is safe.
--
"We'll do it after," he decides, easily, without waffling or shifting or pressing for preference, as his arms are folding like wings around Sid as though they hug like this all the time. He puts his chin atop her head. He squeezes, crinkling up his face, making a noise that speaks of comfort and satisfaction and the sheer effort of the squeeze. Even after that pressure abates he holds onto her, swinging her slightly, to the beat of: "You're. So. Warm."
Mercifully, he releases her after that, inhaling deeply and giving a quick -- of course I'm right -- rejoinder to the conversation Sera is having with Grace. He drifts towards a stack, glancing back when Sera mentions the war, and chimes in: "I've got some histories at home. You could probably find some here. Some of them are... old. There's newer information, some of that is on some magic-locked net or something, I don't know, I hear rumors."
His voice is getting more distant as he's fading through the shelves, calling back: "August 8th, but we'll party on the weekend. And! A quarter of a century, so I expect all my gifts to be solid silver. JUST KIDDING. Grace! Come here! I found a programming manual from the seventies, but -- hot damn. This ain't your daddy's ...I don't fucking know, insert-programming-jargon-here." There's a beat, and a flip of pages. "Ooh! Margin scribbles!"
Hawksley has never sounded more gleeful.
there's some truth to that. His intensity, his presence, the sheer power one can feel flickering at his fingertips and behind his eyes, the lust for that power, the lust for the sun and moon and physical touch and the books -- god! -- the books, the knowledge, the newness and the freedom of Grace, the gut-wrenching-spine-bending existence of Sera, the gasp that is Sid.
Yes, Sid, the wonder, the eyes of a child, the eyes of a god infatuated with all that dwells in its sight.
No, but: Grace is right. None of that is safe.
--
"We'll do it after," he decides, easily, without waffling or shifting or pressing for preference, as his arms are folding like wings around Sid as though they hug like this all the time. He puts his chin atop her head. He squeezes, crinkling up his face, making a noise that speaks of comfort and satisfaction and the sheer effort of the squeeze. Even after that pressure abates he holds onto her, swinging her slightly, to the beat of: "You're. So. Warm."
Mercifully, he releases her after that, inhaling deeply and giving a quick -- of course I'm right -- rejoinder to the conversation Sera is having with Grace. He drifts towards a stack, glancing back when Sera mentions the war, and chimes in: "I've got some histories at home. You could probably find some here. Some of them are... old. There's newer information, some of that is on some magic-locked net or something, I don't know, I hear rumors."
His voice is getting more distant as he's fading through the shelves, calling back: "August 8th, but we'll party on the weekend. And! A quarter of a century, so I expect all my gifts to be solid silver. JUST KIDDING. Grace! Come here! I found a programming manual from the seventies, but -- hot damn. This ain't your daddy's ...I don't fucking know, insert-programming-jargon-here." There's a beat, and a flip of pages. "Ooh! Margin scribbles!"
Hawksley has never sounded more gleeful.
my whole life is thunder.