[Carlisle watches Genji as he approaches the sink, still trying to talk himself out of this. No one else has to know, he tells himself, certainly not someone who is a relative stranger. What if he abhors undeads as well? What if he immediately assumes he's some kind of abomination -- which he is -- and slays him right then and there? Carlisle shifts nervously, knowing he couldn't really blame Genji if he did. He'd be inclined to do the same, were circumstances not what they are.
But they indeed are, and so he picks at the sleeve of his gambeson, procrastinating as he takes note of what Genji is doing. Carlisle is curious as to how he gets that armor off, as it's unlike anything he's seen before, machine-like in its construction rather than held together with latches and buckles. But, as he insisted, Genji is human under there. There's comfort in that. He's just a man who appears to be a machine, but is human beneath.
Carlisle, unfortunately, is the opposite. He looks like a human, but is less than one now, considering himself a detestable creature rather than a person. He stifles his self-loathing, but continues to lack his voice as he comes closer, taking a seat on a bench near the sinks, finally forcing himself to remove one of his gloves—
And beneath it is a hand that is little more than bones and a few tendons, his actual frame held together by magic rather than muscle these days. The skin wore away long ago, what volume his fingers had the result of some padding in the fabric of his gloves.]
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Date: 2019-11-21 06:27 am (UTC)But they indeed are, and so he picks at the sleeve of his gambeson, procrastinating as he takes note of what Genji is doing. Carlisle is curious as to how he gets that armor off, as it's unlike anything he's seen before, machine-like in its construction rather than held together with latches and buckles. But, as he insisted, Genji is human under there. There's comfort in that. He's just a man who appears to be a machine, but is human beneath.
Carlisle, unfortunately, is the opposite. He looks like a human, but is less than one now, considering himself a detestable creature rather than a person. He stifles his self-loathing, but continues to lack his voice as he comes closer, taking a seat on a bench near the sinks, finally forcing himself to remove one of his gloves—
And beneath it is a hand that is little more than bones and a few tendons, his actual frame held together by magic rather than muscle these days. The skin wore away long ago, what volume his fingers had the result of some padding in the fabric of his gloves.]