[saix and vexen; complete]

[falltheseventh.livejournal.com]

Who: Saix falltheseventh and Vexen cyrophilia
Where Vexen's room.
When: December 9; just after Sora's event.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After spending a sleepless night looking, Saix finds Vexen the next day.
the Story:

It's been a strange day.

When Vexen finally gives up any hope of catching sight of any of the Organization members-- part of him is annoyed that Saix hadn't made it to dinner, as promised, but he supposes the diviner has more than a half-baked excuse for that-- sleep comes easily enough. He's fortunate in that he hasn't taken to wearing the standard black coat very often, now, and slipping into bed is easy enough in no more than a shirt and loose pants.

Even if he's physically exhausted, settling his mind takes longer than he expects, but finally, he rests.

Vexen wakes up to the cold morning light on his face and the taste of nightmares in his mouth.


From the start of the day, Saix had resolved that perhaps dancing around matters was not going to solve anything -- that perhaps, there was something truly valid in Luxord's words. On one hand, his pride loathes to admit that anyone else is actually right about Vexen and him -- on the other, it's just simply... it has some sort of truth.

He doesn't love. He knows he can't. But he respects him, and he does understand lust. There's nothing wrong with that, save for the fact that it just simply may be not what Vexen wants from him.

In the morning, Saix had left to do whatever project he was set to do. In the afternoon, he set out to decide to meet with Vexen.

The problem was, during the day, somehow the room was upsettingly empty of the academic, and his master's scent was completely gone, no trace to follow.

Panic filled him far more than it had for ages. In the end, he considered himself a failure, yet he tried regardless to find Vexen, desperately.

It's morning when Saix finally tries the room again. The scientist is there at last, and the room smells strongly of him as it should. Relief soaks his muscles and the berserker nearly collapses in relief as paranoia leaves him. He shuts the door and wordlessly approaches Vexen. Drowsy from sleep or not, nothing really can stop VII from grabbing him in an awkward hug, arms around the shoulders, still minding the ribs best he can.


IV's still half-asleep and trying to shake off the cloud bad dreams have left upon him when he's suddenly, abruptly grabbed and hugged, taken into someone else's arms like some child's doll or plaything. At first, the reaction is immediate-- from head to toe, he stiffens, turning to face the interloper and settle a palm against their chest to push them away.

The motion, of course, brings him eye-to-eye with Saix, and there's a moment of almost palpable confusion-- and then something warmer, and he lets himself relax faintly in the berserker's grip, even raising a hand to pat him awkwardly on the back. He isn't sure why Saix feels the need to hug him so fiercely, but he supposes he can understand the relief in seeing each other again. He hadn't quite noticed how much he took VII's presence for granted until it wasn't there.

Still, this is... mildly awkward.


The stiffening is no surprise to him; honestly, he halfway expects to be shoved away, though he's somewhat pleased that never comes. The contact isn't encouraged or frowned upon, it seems.

But he does let go. Saix slowly steps away; in some... odd need for formality, it seems, he's on one knee. "...I apologize. I completely disregarded your order."

That is, not to touch Vexen, unless in some specific circumstance. There's no loophole in this turn, to excuse himself.

"But I'm glad to see that you're all right." Though his voice is steady, the words are completely truthful.


In a way, it causes both confusion and slight discomfort-- the way Saix kneels like that, automatically placing himself in a subservient position. The matter of being master and servant hasn't come to Vexen's attention again until recent events have brought that old, nagging issue back to the forefront of his mind.

A no-nonsense approach, he supposes, is best. "Don't kneel like that," he orders briskly, swinging his legs down from the bed to rest both bare feet on the floor. "The circumstances are mitigating enough, I suppose." How exactly so, he doesn't elaborate.

However, there may briefly be something like a flush on his face at the berserker's next words. "I could say the same of you," he returns, reaching up to brush a lock of disheveled blonde hair back where it belongs. "Considering you didn't turn up for dinner. Still, that's the mansion's fault, and not yours. Have you slept?"


The immediate order almost comes as a surprise -- except that, of course, it's Vexen. Saix stands as he's told to; it doesn't bother him. Old habits simply... have a difficult way of dying on him.

The berserker shakes his head at the question. "...No. I spent the day and night looking for you. I couldn't ... find you anywhere. Your scent was completely gone, and I didn't see you here. There was something I had to say, but..."

Well, now, Saix isn't terribly sure if it's appropriate to say.

"It can wait."


The berserker's response to his inquiry meets with disfavor, at least judging by the way Vexen's lips turn down and a faint crease develops between his eyebrows. Self-neglect is not a thing he thinks of well: even as scrawny and malnourished as the academic appears, he knows well enough to keep himself well-watered and fed. He accomplishes nothing by depriving his body of the fuel it needs to function.

And that includes rest.

A hand rises to his brow, as if words have failed him, and he pushes himself to his feet. It seems as if most of his drowsiness has passed, and he regards VII with clear eyes, despite the scowl.

"What were you thinking? You must be exhausted. Was it that necessary to find me? I thought I'd told others to tell you that I was fine... Something that mattered enough that you forgot to sleep and eat?" They're all rhetorical questions, and he shakes his head to cut off any reply Saix might try to give.

Halfway through, he's aware that his tone's turned dangerously close to mothering, and that's hardly the impression he wants to give, so he bites his tongue and shakes his head. "If you went through that much trouble, it must have been important. You might as well tell me before you go to bed."


The response is not quite of one that expects, he blinks, almost a bit dumbfoundedly as he can't even get in a response properly as Vexen goes on and on. To Saix, though, it is important enough that he simply set aside anything else that might have been concerning to find Vexen.

"It bothered me, mostly, when I couldn't find your scent. It was like... you had completely disappeared from the mansion. ... I was concerned."

Of course, it's more than that. It takes willpower over his body to keep from looking even just mildly embarrassed about it.

"I... am not sure that I can phrase it well," Saix murmurs. Vexen is more than aware how, in certain aspects, he's not terribly good with words. "I've thought about it, but I suppose when it seemed as though I could not find you, it became more important than I expected it to be."


Vexen regards Saix with flat calmness, but if he finds the explanation dissatisfactory, he says nothing. Clearly, this is another problem with their peculiar arrangement that they'll have to work out. Saix can't keep doing this every time he thinks Vexen is gone.

"I see." If he notices the discomfiture as well, he also chooses to refrain from commenting. The last of the berserker's words, however, prompts a faint frown. "There isn't any harm in trying, I suppose. Words can be negligible, so long as intent gets through. What was so important?"


It seems as though he takes a moment in trying to figure this out, how he should tell Vexen this... rather complicated bit of news. The berserker frowns to himself, covering his own mouth with his hand, almost in a typical thinking position before he shakes his head to himself.

"...Then I suppose, if it's all right with you, that... showing would be much better?" he asks reluctantly.

No doubt Vexen has no particularl idea as to what he means.


There's an almost tangible pause of consideration before he replies, and Vexen's hard-put not to lift a hand to his own chin. That's his particular habit, but doing it now would be too much like echoing Saix.

He could use the comfort it affords, given how the berserker is perplexing him now.

"I expect you to rest afterwards," he warns, "But... If that's what it will take to get it off your mind, then yes."


While Saix highly doubts that such a thing will lift from his mind, no matter the result of Vexen's reaction, he doesn't mention as such. He mutely nods and leaves that statement be; he'll gladly rest after... this bit of news is passed to the academic.

There's yet another pause, as he hesitates what he's about to do.

He doesn't do anything particularly romantic about it; with or without a heart, he doesn't think it'd matter, because he simply wouldn't know what would be appropriate to do. His first master had horrid books of fantasy about men reading off sonnets to their loved ones, and no matter the case, it's all terribly foolish. It's as if he does love anything. He's simply... attracted to him.

But Saix does respect him, and doesn't particularly want to lose whatever amount of respect Vexen has for him in turn.

Regardless, he supposes he hasn't a choice but to follow through. He leans in close, almost daring, as if it's a dangerous situation; to follow by heart, he can't, but he does know how to kiss. And that's what he does; the berserker presses his lips to Vexen's, if only briefly and lightly, depending on whether IV does... nothing, or pushes him away.


Vexen isn't sure what sort of response he expected, all things considered, but this is not remotely close to anything he'd anticipated. Perhaps something dire, he supposes, or Saix finally deciding that he no longer wants to be anyone's servant, or perhaps even something as trivial as the berserker taking the matter of his hygiene into his own hands and declaring that he wanted a haircut.

It's not as if he hasn't been kissed before, but teenage fumbling in the shadow of a barnhouse, hearts pounding from teenage franticness, is a world away from this.

Although it's no less awkward.

The scientist is quiet and stiff under the mouth pressed to his, though whether he's still from shock or fury or something else is hard to say. What is evident, when Saix pulls away, is that his blood has drained from his face, leaving the skin chalk white, and he almost stumbles as he steps back slowly, the edge of the bed catching him in the back of the knee and reminding him of where he is.

"...Was that all, then?" His voice isn't cold, but it's an artificially measured calm, every ounce of composure carefully drawn from some mysterious reserve deep in him. "...Well." For a moment, he seems at a loss for what to say, then he steps away from the bed.

"Go to bed, Saix. I'll get you something to eat later."


Of all the reactions, this isn't exactly one of them that he had quite expected. The berserker almost pauses, almost looks as though he doesn't understand.

But he tells himself -- what was he expecting? Perhaps Luxord's own foolishness is rubbing off of him, perhaps everyone else in the mansion is doing the same, almost convincing him of making something out of nothing. He isn't sure, though he'd convinced himself that he wanted Vexen; whatever the mansion is doing to its residents, it seemed to make it clear enough that Saix wants him.

Of course, it's possibly one-sided. That is the likely outcome.

"...All right," he responds. He's not upset, he can't be.

Though Saix supposes he's disappointed. And a little annoyed at Luxord.

He obeys, turning and circling over to ready himself for bed, but he chooses to keep from looking at Vexen all the while he prepares and goes to rest from his lack of sleep.


Whatever's going through Vexen's mind at the moment-- if there is something going on in it-- he certainly doesn't choose to share it with the berserker, silently moving to the other end of the room while Saix goes about his preparations for bed.

The calmness remains, however, and although he doesn't turn to face Saix as such, his last words are clearly intended for him.

"Get some rest. I'll be back later."

He pulls his coat off the chair he's taken to using as a coatrack and pulls it on with the sharp snap of leather, then makes his way to the door, pausing only long enough to pull on his boots. On his way out, he pulls the door shut, but quietly, as if to mind Saix's current state of physical exhaustion.

And then, just like that, he's gone.

The academic does not return for most of the day.


In spite of disappointment, sleep comes fairly easily for Saix.

However much time may pass, it matters little. It's posisbly late afternoon, though the berserker still finds himself in bed, primarily to take up as much room as possible. Whatever bitterness is in him, it tells him to take as much as he can now with Vexen having left. After all, they share the mattress, most of the time; this is an odd luxury to suddenly have.

Though no matter how he sprawls, it still smells like the academic. Part of him is relieved, the other... would rather simply forget the whole ordeal.

Though he supposes he should yell at Luxord for this, but he hasn't the desire to go looking for the gambler, nor be bothered with the journal. It's a fuss and one he'd rather not deal with.

He stays in bed, eyes comfortably closed. He's not in a deep sleep, mostly brooding and partly dozing.


The door opens, and shuts.

There are the typical noises of someone unwinding from a particular amount of physical exertion, or at least time spent out of familiar quarters, the few spare minutes in which one brushes off the manners saved for the outside and settles into the comfort of home. Vexen sheds his boots and his coat, cloth and leather shifting. It's cold, wherever he's been; there was a faint chill as he entered, and it remains as he simply... stands there, for a moment, completely still.

He hasn't brought back food, though whether it's because he intends to do so later, or because it slipped his mind, is hard to tell.

Either way, he swiftly crosses the distance to stand by Saix, staring down. One cold hand lifts to hover just inches from the diviner's face, as if Vexen would like to trace the scar carved into it.

Ultimately, no contact is made. Yet.


There's a part of him that's aware that Vexen has entered the room again. His senses tell him as much -- the sounds made and the chill in the room, the stronger scent of the academic is there.

Yet, it seems as though his mind can't seem to quite care to wake himself, as if he'd much rather stay as far away from complications as possible -- not that it means much, as Vexen draws closer. Saix does feel the cold air from the nearby hand.

He considers his options, whether he should open his eyes and look at him -- or simply wait. Either way, he isn't at all sure what Vexen even means to do.


There's a sense of something like a decision made, suddenly, and Vexen's fingers finally touch against Saix's skin-- at the temple, brushing errant strands of blue hair away a bit absently.

The academic doesn't check to see if the motion wakes the berserker before he shifts, absently, to kneel. For a moment, he does nothing more than breathe. There's a wariness to the touch, gentle as it is. It's the proverbial toe dipped into the waters, an odd way of dowsing for the berserker's mood-- and state of consciousness.


That isn't something he quite expected.

This time, he allows himself to stirr, mind more aware than before. The berserker's eyes open and his head lifts a little as he looks at Vexen, mostly... confused. Physical contact doesn't seem to speak well with Vexen, as far as he knows -- plus the reaction from the scientist before didn't precisely speak of... approval.

Saix stays silent, even as he simply looks at Vexen, just a questioning expression.


The hand on Saix's head almost flinches back as he stirs, but Vexen finally settles on keeping it there, mind made up in one form or another. The scientist regards VII with a fairly calm expression, although he doesn't seem to feel a need to explain himself, either.

Whether the events of the morning have disoriented or not is... not easy to tell.

"What do you want, Saix."


There's plenty of responses to that question, or rather it's more of a statement than anything. The berserker's eyes seem to calm, going half-lid as he doesn't mind to contact so much. It's cold, though weather and temperature differences are something he can stand up to.

He could be snide, and ask Vexen to specify his question. He could demand to know what Vexen is thinking, or be wry and admit he's hungry.

None of which tumble out of Saix's mouth.

"For you to want me."

He almost doesn't recognize his own voice when he says it; it's too quiet sounding. He's not afraid of rejection, though he's perhaps not looking forward to possible disappointment.


On any other occasion, perhaps Vexen would have thrown a fit at the words-- his tantrums are, after all, the stuff of legend. For a man without a heart, he can act terribly emotional, and he knows that well enough. This is certainly an event to warrant some sort of momentous response, but it's too... quiet.

It's not a confrontation, he has to remind himself. There's nothing to be proven here, except possibly to each other.

The tone of voice Saix uses does much to quell any instinctive retreat into his pride he might have otherwise attempted, but his expression is as impassive as ever-- even as he leans down, lower and lower, coming to a stop a whisper away from Saix's lips.

"I wonder," he murmurs, breath mingling with ther berserkers, "If you really know what you're asking for."


Perhaps it's the chill of Vexen's body, or at how close the academic is to him this way. He does remember, after a moment, to actually breathe.

At this rate, he hasn't a clue of what to expect.

"More than you may be aware of," Saix responds, his voice remaining soft enough. Not that he's often used a harsh tone with Vexen. He hasn't needed to -- certainly wouldn't want to.

But it almost has a hint of being gentle. As much of a predator as he is, he knows how to be tame.


"That makes one of us, at least," Vexen mutters.

He doesn't clarify.

Nor does he give Saix a chance to ask before he's pressing his mouth to Saix's, still kneeling at his bedside like some strange prince from a fairytale-- except he knows, all too well, that he is no prince. And considering circumstances, he certainly wouldn't want to be one; that would make Saix a princess, then, and the image of the diviner in a dress is not a particularly appropriate one to hold at the moment.

The contact is basic, the lips chapped and dry, but the academic's eyes are open, green and intense.


He wonders much -- how he wants, and how he can take and give. It's nothing he expects, really, because he had no expectations of this particular direction. But there's certainly relief, and his eyes calm. This is... strange. And different.

But certainly acceptable.

Saix can give him more, but he doesn't press the grounds. Eventually, he allows his eyes to close, appreciating even the smallest amount of contact that Vexen is willing to give and accept.


Though he's more than capable of drawing breath, even with his mouth on Saix's as it is, Vexen feels odd. As if he's nauseous all over again, light-headed and dizzy, except that this particular sensation centers itself less in his gut and more in his chest.

For a moment, it seems he'll do nothing more than linger like this, gingerly testing the limits of a boundary neither of them have particularly paid attention to.

And then, hesitant as a stranger waiting for permission to enter, he lets his tongue lap along the line of the other man's lips.


He doesn't immediately react, almost stiffening at the feeling of the tongue against his lips. There's a shiver running down his spine, and it's not unpleasant.

If anything, he knows this sort of physical contact.

Saix slowly opens his lips to Vexen, pressing closer and letting his jaw relax, in spite of the sudden tense feeling he has in his back. Mostly, he expects, that it's all.. surprise at this. He isn't sure exactly what else to expect from Vexen, how much he may honestly want from Saix.

He'll gladly find out.


Mostly, it seems, it's a desire for exploration that drives the contact, more than passion or craving or... any strong feeling, really. He's incapable of that, after all.

When the lips part beneath his, Vexen accepts the invitation graciously enough, and his tongue slides forward, diplomatically seeking Saix's. There's nothing feral about the way he presses forward, but it's all very cautious, as if the academic's as tense as Saix seems to be himself.

Neither of them seem to know what to expect.


Gradually, as the contact becomes obviously much less private, VII seems to... almost settle somewhat. His head tilts appropriately, tongue flicking up to meet the other's without demanding too much from him. As much as he presses and allows, he does, suddenly, pull back.

"Come here," he murmurs, voice a bit rougher. "You're not comfortable down there, are you?"

In a way, maybe, Saix would rather that Vexen doesn't kneel either.

Though he is quietly impressed.


"...Mm." The contact is a pleasant enough sensation he supposes, if unfamiliar.

The kiss is broken shortly afterwards, of course, and when he's directed to, Vexen rises from the floor, removing his hand from Saix's forehead as well-- the ache isn't something he's even particularly noticed until now.

"Where do you want me?" he asks, as if he isn't aware of the ways the question might be answered. And in truth, he might not be; the way he licks over his lips is thoughtful enough, things other than the phrasing of his words preying on his mind.


It's strange, but he has to pause, almost in bafflement at the question. Hesitantly, Saix's hand raises to Vexen's shoulder, as if in confirmation of something, maybe of just knowing that the scientist is there.

But mostly, he's confused. He's given an option, he's asked what he wants. It's not unusual from Vexen, but in this sort of situation, it hasn't occurred to him much that he'll be given a choice, asked anything.

Saix is flattered, but he certainly doesn't say it.

He sits up, shifting in the bed before he gently tugs Vexen. "Sit with me," he murmurs before he adds almost as an afterthought: "...Please."


In a way, perhaps asking is Vexen's way of reassuring himself of something-- though what exactly that may be, who knows. He doesn't push away the hand on his shoulder, but having it there is certainly enough to prompt a bit of tension regardless. The academic approaches the situation like he might a strange new animal: with utmost wariness.

A misstep, intentional or not, is not a mistake he wants to commit.

Whatever his thoughts may be, he lets himself be tugged to the bed, sitting down beside the berserker and turning to face him. His face remains composed, but he doesn't press for contact again.

The way he stares at Saix now suggests, vaguely, that he might like to.


There shouldn't be anything nervous about this, there just shouldn't be -- but he watches Vexen carefully, possibly just concerned about being pushed away.

Though really, if Vexen doesn't want something, he has to obey.

Another pause is between them as IV doesn't press for contact, and hesitantly VII leans in, as if asking for permission before he chooses to kiss him again.


When Saix finally moves, Vexen shifts to meet him halfway. It seems like that's all the affirmation the academic needs, having the berserker move towards him, and this time when his mouth settles against Saix's he has a slightly better idea of what to expect.

Not that he insists on anything yet, exactly. He keeps his lips parted, but doesn't quite let himself taste Saix yet.

The eyes that watch the berserker aren't exactly wary, but the expression's difficult to read, and Vexen's still tense as a wire.


The kiss he can, obviously, appreciate. He shivers a little, and he can still feel the chill coming off of the other Nobody as they stay close enough to each other.

Saix almost seems to pause, the hand on Vexen's shoulder squeezing a bit as if to verify that, yes, the academic is incredibly tense.

Not that the berserker isn't, but he's not about to admit to anything else right now.

As much as he'd... rather not, he pulls back enough so he can speak. "...What's wrong?" he mutters.


"Why are you doing this?" The question is immediate, as if Vexen was expecting the question. When the kiss parts, breathing comes a bit harsher than before, but his voice remains steady enough. "Do you really want this?"

Without conscious thought, it seems, his hand reaches forward to rest at the nape of Saix's neck, exerting no pressure. "Or is it something else?"


The berserker's brows knit faintly at the questions. "I want it," he confirms, not quite annoyed, but... mostly, confused.

"'Something else', hn? What's on your mind, Vexen?"


The academic doesn't seem to be particularly eager to answer, but he does so-- albeit reluctantly. "I simply prefer certainty whenever possible," Vexen mutters back. The fingers on the back of Saix's neck stir the fine hairs there, absently.

"And I'm not really sure what you expect."


A shiver runs down his spine as he feels the fingers shift by the all-too-sensitive hairs. Saix doesn't turn his head away, but his eyes glances somewhere else, unsure if he is capable of making eye contact at the moment.

"I expect that you react to what you want, not what you think I need."


It's easier to look at Saix when his gaze isn't being met, and Vexen studies the berserker's expression carefully enough.

"Maybe so," he mutters. "But I'd prefer for both our expectations to be satisfied." The hand shifts through the hair again, and then pauses, as if Vexen intends to pull it away. "I would... have your consent, I suppose."


His eyes go half-lid at the hand in his hair; it's an odd sort of comfort that he'd much rather stay there. Saix tilts his head faintly, then hesitates. His head lifts, though he still doesn't quite look at Vexen. There's... a smile that's hesitant, as if Saix doubts the expression really belongs there.

He's not a particularly pleasant individual and he knows that, though it hardly seems to bother Vexen, who wants his permission, of all things.

Vexen doesn't have to ask, but he does anyway. Saix... appreciates that.

"You do," the berserker tells him quietly.


"Thank you."

In his own awkward way, Vexen's trying to work out what he wants. It's difficult to know, honestly, where his own wishes begin and where it's all nothing more than the influence of so many people telling him what they expect he wants.

But Saix, at least, has given his consent, and he supposes that will have to be good enough.

Now comes the slightly more awkward problem of knowing where to begin.

"So, ah..." Were he anyone else, this is the point where Vexen would be flailing.


Gently and hesitantly, Saix raises a hand to the side of Vexen's face, the pads of his fingers pressing just enough to feel him. Skin's too soft under his calluses, but he can appreciate that. It comes with pleasant memories.

"Yes?" he responds quietly. "I'm not asking you to jump me, Vexen."

He hardly knows what he would expect from something like that, but he certainly doubts that it's something the scientist would do.

"And I won't be disappointed, either."


There's tension again, at the touch on his face, but Vexen finally lets an expression other than careful neutrality cross his face: wryness, and not a little bit of faint embarrassment that he's quick to swallow. And he doesn't push Saix away.

"I... would not think I should be attempting anything like that, no," he murmurs, a bit dryly. Humor, weak or not, seems to be something of a comfort, in an odd way, and he's more at ease with words than contact. "Considering my current level of expertise in these matters, I doubt we'll end in anything but broken bones, that way."

He leans forward, then, with little enough effort-- his own ribs have more or less completely healed, after all-- and settles his own fingertips under Saix's chin, tilting his face up as if he would study the berserker's face.

"I suppose you shall have to bear with me. I haven't precisely had a chance to practice my methodology before."


The expression is... interesting. These are all reactions that he hardly expects from Vexen, and he supposes it's pleasant enough to see him like this. Being... gentle or soft or even embarrassed is not something either one of them particularly allow.

Saix tells himself to relax, allowing his head to be tilted up; hesitantly, he finally looks at Vexen's face. "I'm certainly capable of patience," he murmurs. "You shouldn't be concerned with that."

The fact that he's being accepted is almost good enough.


"I should hope so," Vexen muses in turn, leaning in a fraction closer and faintly tugging the berserker forward to meet him. It's not a forceful pressure by any means, but it's certainly a strong hint in the right direction. "I suspect you'll need it."

He's not the easiest of people to deal with, after all, and... abruptly enough, he suddenly pulls away, though he keeps his hand to Saix's chin a moment longer.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" he asks, directly enough.


He allows himself to be tugged forward; he's prepared--

Until Vexen pulls away suddenly, and it feels as though it goes completely off topic. Saix takes a moment to frown in confusion.

"...Yes," he murmurs. He's certainly not disappointed, though he isn't sure precisely what to think.


Whether it's a ploy for more time or simply because Vexen has a number of matters suddenly distracting him at the moment, it's uncertain why exactly he moves away.

But there's a firmness about the gesture, regardless.

The scientist stands from the bed, a little awkwardly, and turns to offer the berserker a hand up. "Shall we go, then?"


Whatever the reason may be, Saix isn't about to argue with it. He'd simply rather not assume anything about the suddeness of Vexen pulling away from him.

But he knows this much: if he was going to be pushed away, that wasn't it.

"All right," the berserker agrees, accepting the help up.


With nothing more than another wan smile, the scientist inclines his head gracefully and leads the way out the door.

Nothing more is said.