[It might've been possible for Koby to maintain some level of composure, to strategize out a solution that wasn't immediately pulling down the neck of his shirt and offering himself -- if Daniel hadn't reached out then, hand curling around his shoulder, guiding him forward. Koby's felt that hand on his shoulder dozens of times now, a good work, get some sleep, it's too damn late to be up and a companionable light shake, a pat somewhere between his shoulderblades, making him sit up a bit taller, square his shoulders that little bit more.
And with that touch -- help him help himself, a myriad of memories from over the last few months burst forth, the times Daniel would stop and tug off his glasses, rub at his forehead with a trembling hand, the times he would suddenly seem not the witty, acerbic, brilliant man he was, but someone achingly, horrible human, with all the vulnerabilities that come with being alive and breakable and full of blood. The way Koby is now, no longer needing to top off Daniel's coffee or suggest a break or fill the weary silence with his own inane chatter.
This version of Daniel has none of the pains, the weaknesses of the one Koby knows (knew). But if -- if he can still help, somehow, help whoever else might be lost in the maze, help Daniel himself... (He lies to himself, says it's purely altruistic, for the greater good, not out of some intense, absurd longing to prove himself, to gain that approval, that flash of a grin, that warm regard, even with his own flesh and blood).
Swallowing hard, again, Koby reaches up, nudges his glasses up his nose, eyes intent and earnest and -- trusting, despite it all. Daniel wouldn't hurt him. Never.] Is it -- overpowering now? [A pause, a breath, then:] Can I do anything to help?
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And with that touch -- help him help himself, a myriad of memories from over the last few months burst forth, the times Daniel would stop and tug off his glasses, rub at his forehead with a trembling hand, the times he would suddenly seem not the witty, acerbic, brilliant man he was, but someone achingly, horrible human, with all the vulnerabilities that come with being alive and breakable and full of blood. The way Koby is now, no longer needing to top off Daniel's coffee or suggest a break or fill the weary silence with his own inane chatter.
This version of Daniel has none of the pains, the weaknesses of the one Koby knows (knew). But if -- if he can still help, somehow, help whoever else might be lost in the maze, help Daniel himself... (He lies to himself, says it's purely altruistic, for the greater good, not out of some intense, absurd longing to prove himself, to gain that approval, that flash of a grin, that warm regard, even with his own flesh and blood).
Swallowing hard, again, Koby reaches up, nudges his glasses up his nose, eyes intent and earnest and -- trusting, despite it all. Daniel wouldn't hurt him. Never.] Is it -- overpowering now? [A pause, a breath, then:] Can I do anything to help?