The understanding of Dagger's physiology as a danger is one thing- because cutting himself loose of his armor might be a mortal thrill. But that is not what Warriorhead gains from this. Warriorhead comes back because he knows that if he tells Dagger what he wants, he will get it. It is a precious currency for a planetary orphan. Perhaps that is Gliese understands the sentiment, provided the position she is in. But then, even that reason bears complexity.
There is a beat that follows where his head cants. A momentary consideration. But in the end it is stubborn pride and nothing else that would have him say no. Dagger's body is dangerous. But Warriorhead's is strong.
He will not break. He's spent too much time training himself to adapt.
It takes slightly longer than he is used to (Warriorhead doesn't usually remove his armor himself. It's too much work.) but the pieces come apart regardless. Helmet connected to shoulders, to spine, to legs. He steps backwards out of the piece like a flower blooming in reverse and the response is immediate. In response to the radically dropped temperature, his face remains covered- bone the runs down the column of his throat to wrap around his chest. The body's instinctive flutter to protect itself from harm. ]
Would you have complained if I didn't? I'm supposed to be the one touching you.
[ It's— beautiful, if Keluuvi had a word for beautiful. The closest approximation to it is "in perfect function," and Warriorhead isn't exactly a working piece or a tool. He catches every removed article of clothing without prompting, at least, sets them aside in the order they're taken off. He's used to this.
Dagger doesn't pretend he's not watching, either. ]
You should be careful with things like 'always.' I'll end up surprising you and then you'll really be pissed.
[ Dagger is nothing if not efficient. It's a quality Warriorhead appreciates, especially provided his own frequent lulls in activity. The pieces of his armor are placed in deliberate order a short distance away and at his sides Warriorhead's hands stretch, flex. The skin at the very tips of his fingertips shifts in the minimal light- what could be mistaken for shards of ice (bone, again) knit together over his skin, case their way up his wrists to fade off at his elbows.
Anticipation.
Where Dagger's bareness highlights his willingness to explore risk, Warriorhead's is the opportunity to be recognized. To be known. Every thought, action, and reaction becomes manifest. There is no armor to disguise it.
[ And he is, as he sits on the edge of his bunk, arms rested against his knees. The temperature around him lowers by a handful of degrees than it would normally; he'll have to keep track of that if he wants to avoid freezing the whole rover solid.
This close, he doesn't need much light to see. Dagger's core expands in his cavity. ]
[ Dagger's core has a distinction unlike any other- but there really isn't a way to describe the sensation. A verbal analysis couldn't possibly do it justice. It's more than sight or sound or smell. It's a drop in pressure and shift in the air. Warriorhead wants to push his fingers into the cracks there, just to see what will happen.
[ His core contracts, and then expands, and small wisps of. . . something white, and clear, and similar to some kind of liquid slips out of the cracks, twisting around the digits. Dagger knows he has to give a warning for it soon, because once those fingers harden it would cost one of them something vital.
That, and it's extremely cold. Light frost starts covering the exposed metal of Dagger's bunk, the further up Warriorhead's fingers the wisps get. ]
[ It looks like he's leaking. Which is an inelegant way to describe it when the word itself implies the kind of spill Warriorhead would be all too eager to wash his hands of.
This is something else.Dagger's body tightens, expands- as though he's unable to control it. Maybe he isn't. There's something to be said for watching a being unravel, and yield. To watch him become the air. They'll be at their limit soon.
The coil around his chest begins to lengthen and compress- a biological response to the presence of danger. The bone pieces itself together like a replacement suit of armor, covering his vital organs in the same breath that it reinforces the sheath around his hands. If he pushes much further, there won't be much point in the reaction. His fingers trace the cracks- a canyon of his own to explore at his leisure. ]
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no subject
The understanding of Dagger's physiology as a danger is one thing- because cutting himself loose of his armor might be a mortal thrill. But that is not what Warriorhead gains from this. Warriorhead comes back because he knows that if he tells Dagger what he wants, he will get it. It is a precious currency for a planetary orphan. Perhaps that is Gliese understands the sentiment, provided the position she is in. But then, even that reason bears complexity.
There is a beat that follows where his head cants. A momentary consideration. But in the end it is stubborn pride and nothing else that would have him say no. Dagger's body is dangerous. But Warriorhead's is strong.
He will not break. He's spent too much time training himself to adapt.
It takes slightly longer than he is used to (Warriorhead doesn't usually remove his armor himself. It's too much work.) but the pieces come apart regardless. Helmet connected to shoulders, to spine, to legs. He steps backwards out of the piece like a flower blooming in reverse and the response is immediate. In response to the radically dropped temperature, his face remains covered- bone the runs down the column of his throat to wrap around his chest. The body's instinctive flutter to protect itself from harm. ]
Would you have complained if I didn't?
I'm supposed to be the one touching you.
no subject
You didn't say I can't look, either.
[ It's— beautiful, if Keluuvi had a word for beautiful. The closest approximation to it is "in perfect function," and Warriorhead isn't exactly a working piece or a tool. He catches every removed article of clothing without prompting, at least, sets them aside in the order they're taken off. He's used to this.
Dagger doesn't pretend he's not watching, either. ]
Okay?
no subject
I'll end up surprising you and then you'll really be pissed.
[ Dagger is nothing if not efficient. It's a quality Warriorhead appreciates, especially provided his own frequent lulls in activity. The pieces of his armor are placed in deliberate order a short distance away and at his sides Warriorhead's hands stretch, flex. The skin at the very tips of his fingertips shifts in the minimal light- what could be mistaken for shards of ice (bone, again) knit together over his skin, case their way up his wrists to fade off at his elbows.
Anticipation.
Where Dagger's bareness highlights his willingness to explore risk, Warriorhead's is the opportunity to be recognized. To be known. Every thought, action, and reaction becomes manifest. There is no armor to disguise it.
He steps forward. ]
Ready when you are.
no subject
[ And he is, as he sits on the edge of his bunk, arms rested against his knees. The temperature around him lowers by a handful of degrees than it would normally; he'll have to keep track of that if he wants to avoid freezing the whole rover solid.
This close, he doesn't need much light to see. Dagger's core expands in his cavity. ]
no subject
So he does. ]
no subject
That, and it's extremely cold. Light frost starts covering the exposed metal of Dagger's bunk, the further up Warriorhead's fingers the wisps get. ]
no subject
This is something else.Dagger's body tightens, expands- as though he's unable to control it. Maybe he isn't. There's something to be said for watching a being unravel, and yield. To watch him become the air. They'll be at their limit soon.
The coil around his chest begins to lengthen and compress- a biological response to the presence of danger. The bone pieces itself together like a replacement suit of armor, covering his vital organs in the same breath that it reinforces the sheath around his hands. If he pushes much further, there won't be much point in the reaction. His fingers trace the cracks- a canyon of his own to explore at his leisure. ]
What does it feel like?