not the way markus's lashes touch the freckles high on his cheekbones. not the way his body is broken by the hands that reach inside of him, intimate and omnipresent despite his attempts to distance himself from the sensation. he can feel markus's fingertips against his bones, polyalloy structure giving way with a single, nauseating crunch as his hip is reconfigured by amateur, but steady, hands. even behind his hands, with his eyes closed and his vision dimmed to near-darkness, he sees color as his system lights up like a wildfire.
catastrophic damage detected.
no reassurances he tells himself will rid him of the alarm, the warning. the notification that part of his body has ceased to function and equilibrium has been lost. the knowledge that this back alley surgical procedure might not work has not escaped him. he's only deigned to tell markus of the dangers of reconstructing an outdated body without the proper tools. it's not like they could have stayed in the warehouse, though. this has to do, this has to work. ]
-- I'm okay.
[ he remembers to say it, through the canned, strangled tone his voice has taken on. not pain, not so much.
distraction. dizzy and surreal, while his system plows ahead and desperately attempts to balance itself. ]
Thirium levels are sub-optimal, but holding. I'm not bleeding out.
[ simon pulls his hands down, away from his face, and props himself up on his elbows. his eyes wandering from the null space where his leg should be, where markus's hand is. along the line of his wrist, his forearm. though he doesn't need to, simon swallows. swallows the warmth that spreads through his throat and collarbones, humming like liquid across his ribs. ( something sparks, in his stomach. the signal shooting throughout him, through the connection of foreign fingers poised within his body: a desperate, muted yearningwanting. the ghostly feeling of markus in his arms, markus spread across his back. the weight of him as he sagged in the church, unconscious into his arms - white cloth flowing like a shroud around him. solid, physical. realalive. ) ]
no subject
not the way markus's lashes touch the freckles high on his cheekbones. not the way his body is broken by the hands that reach inside of him, intimate and omnipresent despite his attempts to distance himself from the sensation. he can feel markus's fingertips against his bones, polyalloy structure giving way with a single, nauseating crunch as his hip is reconfigured by amateur, but steady, hands. even behind his hands, with his eyes closed and his vision dimmed to near-darkness, he sees color as his system lights up like a wildfire.
catastrophic damage detected.
no reassurances he tells himself will rid him of the alarm, the warning. the notification that part of his body has ceased to function and equilibrium has been lost. the knowledge that this back alley surgical procedure might not work has not escaped him. he's only deigned to tell markus of the dangers of reconstructing an outdated body without the proper tools. it's not like they could have stayed in the warehouse, though. this has to do, this has to work. ]
-- I'm okay.
[ he remembers to say it, through the canned, strangled tone his voice has taken on. not pain, not so much.
distraction. dizzy and surreal, while his system plows ahead and desperately attempts to balance itself. ]
Thirium levels are sub-optimal, but holding. I'm not bleeding out.
[ simon pulls his hands down, away from his face, and props himself up on his elbows. his eyes wandering from the null space where his leg should be, where markus's hand is. along the line of his wrist, his forearm. though he doesn't need to, simon swallows. swallows the warmth that spreads through his throat and collarbones, humming like liquid across his ribs. ( something sparks, in his stomach. the signal shooting throughout him, through the connection of foreign fingers poised within his body: a desperate, muted yearningwanting. the ghostly feeling of markus in his arms, markus spread across his back. the weight of him as he sagged in the church, unconscious into his arms - white cloth flowing like a shroud around him. solid, physical. realalive. ) ]
This will work.
[ promises. ]