“I can’t sleep,” Charles admits, idling fingers over circuitry still bare and vulnerable to the elements. He is soft and sleep-rumpled as he sweeps the pad of his thumb over the smooth, metal surface beneath David’s striking, lidless eye, exploring with a touch that, whilst languid, is deft.
David allows it. David always allows it, and Charles ponders always on why. He ponders and muses and circles thoughts around in his skull until he cannot sleep, until he cannot help but rise and be drawn close to the synthetic; like a moth to a flame, and it’s a perfect analogy, if rather cliché. David is bright. Too bright. And Charles? Charles is nothing more than an insect, far too delicate in the face of something so much more.
If David has any inkling of Charles’ thoughts, he does not show it.
“Perhaps you would care for some company?” David tilts his head and Charles obliges, pressing an open mouthed kiss to a cluster of delicate nodes.
The wound is healing well, albeit slowly. But then, Charles rather enjoys the blatant juxtaposition of artificial flesh and burnished metal; it really is quite stunning.
Charles hums, considering. Here, in Vickers quarters — who is, consequently, slumbering peacefully in her hypersleep pod — David is not so much in his natural habitat as simply comfortable. The low murmur of Lawrence of Arabia is a soothing one. That Charles knows practically every line by heart, now… well. Let’s just say he takes pleasure in David’s company, yes?
“I think I would,” Charles replies, settling down shoulder-to-shoulder.
Sometime during sand and speeches he falls asleep, David’s fingers carding through his hair.
Perhaps that was David’s intention all along.
My brain said “so what if Faramir was a Lannister?” and I churned out the daftest drabble imaginable. Something tells me Tywin would approve. Hm.
“Your studies,” Father says. “How do they progress?”