He's been cooped up for far too long, that is the problem. He's going stir-crazy. Now that he's back on his own two feet, he'll have to pick up his training again and get back on patrol as soon as possible
( ... )
"No. You are not this way, and when this mind-control wears off, I cannot have done thing thing. It is taking advantage of you."
He's nervous, anxious, and his accent is showing. His manner of speaking, too, has lost its casuality, sounding like someone who has studied English as a second language.
"You are being ridiculous, Creote! Are you honestly telling me that you believe someone altered my mind in the fifteen minutes it took me to shower? After I've been a perfect sitting duck for almost three months?" Savant shakes his head. "It makes no sense."
"You learn from the Huntress that I am devoted to you, and you do not comprehend. You analyze and you worry and you believe strange thoughts about what that means! And now you come to me with this, and you expect me to believe that you are well?"
Perhaps it's not mind-control. Perhaps his already fragmented sense of time is carrying over into the rest of his psyche. Or perhaps the Greek speaks the truth, and this is natural.
But bizarre wants aside, Creote refuses to accept it.
"Months ago! I found out months ago -- very suddenly, if you recall! -- that you were -- ARE -- in love with me! From one of the Those Women! After years of partnership! Of course it was a shock! But I have had time to think on the matter and why in the world do you think that deciding that this does not need to be a one-sided--" Romance? Affair? "--thing mean that I am unwell?"
It is Creote's own building attraction which makes him truly worry. He has loved Savant, yes. But as he affirmed, love and sex do not necessarily go hand in hand. Creote has never let himself feel lust for Savant, and can't understand that change.
Creote quickly pulls his hands away, even realizing that the gesture is unfinished. Touch amplifies feeling, as does eye-contact, which is why Creote cannot look Savant directly in the face either.
What he does see doesn't help. Muscles. Leftover water droplets from Savant's shower on his bare chest.
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The Satsivi is ruined, but neither men notice.
"No. You are not this way, and when this mind-control wears off, I cannot have done thing thing. It is taking advantage of you."
He's nervous, anxious, and his accent is showing. His manner of speaking, too, has lost its casuality, sounding like someone who has studied English as a second language.
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He's actually raising his voice.
"You learn from the Huntress that I am devoted to you, and you do not comprehend. You analyze and you worry and you believe strange thoughts about what that means! And now you come to me with this, and you expect me to believe that you are well?"
Perhaps it's not mind-control. Perhaps his already fragmented sense of time is carrying over into the rest of his psyche. Or perhaps the Greek speaks the truth, and this is natural.
But bizarre wants aside, Creote refuses to accept it.
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Creote grabs Savant with the intention of shaking him to his senses, but fails to follow through.
"Why now?"
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"Why not now? We are intimates, Creote, even if that hasn't ever progressed to the physical aspect."
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Creote quickly pulls his hands away, even realizing that the gesture is unfinished. Touch amplifies feeling, as does eye-contact, which is why Creote cannot look Savant directly in the face either.
What he does see doesn't help. Muscles. Leftover water droplets from Savant's shower on his bare chest.
Damnit.
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