[Happy, Simon says. And in that moment Markus can't remember a single instance where that word defined the PL600 laid out beside him, restitching his appearance inch by dutiful inch, burying the beauty of his bared ribs and yielding, pliant insides. Relieved, he's seen. Hopeful, thinly. Removed and grieving and molded to his surroundings on intelligent instinct, but happy in his freedom, even now— especially now—
Fingers run sweetly across his jaw, cupping when he can't stop himself from falling into them, soft between his shoulders.]
No, [Markus refuses, without pulling away, still anchored in Simon's attentive grip. His own hand working itself overtop of that broken one, fastening it to his cheek.] no, you only just finished processing your repairs. You need time.
[He wants time.
Like this.
Even so, he doesn't hold any illusions. There's no safety here in well-worn walls and the barricade of their pitted concrete. If they stay too long, those rigid angles will bend down, turn from sanctuary into a cage where they'll be cornered. By Cyberlife, by the FBI, by the police, maybe, investigating suspicious silhouettes in an abandoned site. It wouldn't take much.
no subject
Fingers run sweetly across his jaw, cupping when he can't stop himself from falling into them, soft between his shoulders.]
No, [Markus refuses, without pulling away, still anchored in Simon's attentive grip. His own hand working itself overtop of that broken one, fastening it to his cheek.] no, you only just finished processing your repairs. You need time.
[He wants time.
Like this.
Even so, he doesn't hold any illusions. There's no safety here in well-worn walls and the barricade of their pitted concrete. If they stay too long, those rigid angles will bend down, turn from sanctuary into a cage where they'll be cornered. By Cyberlife, by the FBI, by the police, maybe, investigating suspicious silhouettes in an abandoned site. It wouldn't take much.
It never took much before.]