"Yes. It is suitable for our current 'relationship,'" he replies flatly. There is an ache to this—one he pointedly ignores. How he once asked Sunday to use his first name. How hearing it now only makes the ache worse. ...Professionalism, he told her. Yet his reasoning has grown personal. That realization unsettles him enough that he nearly misses the flicker of irritation from Robin.
In the end, it makes sense, within the bounds of the law. That guides him forward.
She agrees. The deal is set. His grip is firm as they shake hands. There is no consecration in his touch, but he listens anyway—sifting through the static, through the dull pain. A figure lingers in the corner of his eye, watching...Robin? When he looks, it is gone.
He blinks. Exhaustion. Perhaps Robin was correct in that.
She is displeased, but she agreed. That is enough. Or it will be, if she follows through. Her use of Executor earns a brief nod. He does not acknowledge the stumble, but the effort to cover it makes him more inclined to accept her next suggestion.
Rest.
She still struggles to stand. His own limbs feel sluggish, thoughts slower than they should be. Fatigue lingers, refusing to abate. A clear sign he needs rest in earnest—not just stolen moments of stillness. His back aches from moments--hours?—slumped against the wall. A poor assessment. But an accurate one. With more effort than he wants to admit, he rises. His balance wavers. He presses a hand to the wall a beat longer than intended as the room tilts.
"...That is an acceptable plan of action." A concession, but even rest is progress. He must remember that. Pushing forward in this state is reckless, especially if he is to watch Robin for further signs of concussion. Or schemes.
He sinks onto the couch, hands clasped between his knees. Already, his mind marches to the next task. The next part of the will. Aventurine should be around here, yes? His part does not require an unreachable item. And then—
"Sing?" He blinks. "I..." A pause. It is an unexpected suggestion. But not an unwelcome one. Is this her attempt at restitution?
Executor exhales slowly. Music. Sunday's promise of a song. The ache sharpens before shifting elsewhere—toward Arturia, toward memory, toward something he has never fully grasped but has always been surrounded by.
A familiar presence. A steady thing. He shifts slightly, quiet for a long moment. Then, carefully, almost reluctant: "I am... not opposed."
A beat. His fingers tighten slightly. If Robin is listening to their frequencies, she will hear it beneath the exhaustion—something softer. Not trust, not yet, not after it being so thoroughly broken, but something simpler. A pull toward familiarity when everything else is unraveling.
"If it will help you rest," he says, rationalizing. But the interest is already there. "Then... by all means."
And yet. He is big tired and music interests him more than he'd care to admit! Sneaky Robin...
...Professionalism, he told her. Yet his reasoning has grown personal. That realization unsettles him enough that he nearly misses the flicker of irritation from Robin.
In the end, it makes sense, within the bounds of the law. That guides him forward.
She agrees. The deal is set. His grip is firm as they shake hands. There is no consecration in his touch, but he listens anyway—sifting through the static, through the dull pain. A figure lingers in the corner of his eye, watching...Robin? When he looks, it is gone.
He blinks. Exhaustion. Perhaps Robin was correct in that.
She is displeased, but she agreed. That is enough. Or it will be, if she follows through.
Her use of Executor earns a brief nod. He does not acknowledge the stumble, but the effort to cover it makes him more inclined to accept her next suggestion.
Rest.
She still struggles to stand. His own limbs feel sluggish, thoughts slower than they should be. Fatigue lingers, refusing to abate. A clear sign he needs rest in earnest—not just stolen moments of stillness. His back aches from moments--hours?—slumped against the wall.
A poor assessment. But an accurate one.
With more effort than he wants to admit, he rises. His balance wavers. He presses a hand to the wall a beat longer than intended as the room tilts.
"...That is an acceptable plan of action." A concession, but even rest is progress. He must remember that. Pushing forward in this state is reckless, especially if he is to watch Robin for further signs of concussion. Or schemes.
He sinks onto the couch, hands clasped between his knees. Already, his mind marches to the next task. The next part of the will. Aventurine should be around here, yes? His part does not require an unreachable item. And then—
"Sing?" He blinks. "I..." A pause. It is an unexpected suggestion. But not an unwelcome one. Is this her attempt at restitution?
Executor exhales slowly. Music. Sunday's promise of a song. The ache sharpens before shifting elsewhere—toward Arturia, toward memory, toward something he has never fully grasped but has always been surrounded by.
A familiar presence. A steady thing.
He shifts slightly, quiet for a long moment. Then, carefully, almost reluctant: "I am... not opposed."
A beat. His fingers tighten slightly. If Robin is listening to their frequencies, she will hear it beneath the exhaustion—something softer. Not trust, not yet, not after it being so thoroughly broken, but something simpler. A pull toward familiarity when everything else is unraveling.
"If it will help you rest," he says, rationalizing. But the interest is already there. "Then... by all means."