[ The lack of reaction is its own tell; he's dealt with too many iterations of Azem, too many people in general not to recognize the stern attempt at nonchalance. Like he's a child with a scraped leg who must be lied to and told the injury is minimal to keep from being upset.
That is uncharitable. Emet-Selch swallows back anything he could say that would be misconstrued and presents himself with minimal fuss for Viktor's attention. Viktor dotes, he does not smother, does not parent. Emet-Selch could, he thinks, give a little grace when he has been offered so much. That doesn't make him any more comfortable, though. ]
Reading, I find, is generally a much less strenuous activity.
[ Viktor is doting, he is indulging himself, Emet-Selch reminds as Viktor takes his sweet time with what could very easily be a few moment process. He lingers, not so much washing as he is running the cloth over skin idly and watching water drip.
A version of him from a few years ago would have found this functionally unbearable. Not just being touched, not just the bare skin, not just the fact it was someone sundered - even if they were Azem - but the unearned experience of being spoiled would have turned his stomach. Now, he can at least recognize the feeling for what it is and squash it under his metaphorical boot, forcibly leaning into Viktor to savor the press of wet, bare skin.
A fresh glass of steaming mulled wine appears in hand, tilting his head just enough to be able to take a long pull from the teacup. ]
Am I to conjure another glass, or are you finished for the evening? [ A pause, then a slow confession, like the thought just occurred to him, and he's too tired to weigh whether or not he ought to give voice to the thought. ] There were evenings when I was - where I allowed my mind to wander. To consider a potential thread where one evening, you tired of calling back and forth to each other from floors apart. You would come up the stairs - disposing of your clothes on the steps up, of course, threatening to break one or both our necks in so doing - and join me in the bath.
[ A pause, a smirk over the rim of his teacup, a little levity in his tone under all the faux-condescension. ]
that should read to *NOT allow fuck
That is uncharitable. Emet-Selch swallows back anything he could say that would be misconstrued and presents himself with minimal fuss for Viktor's attention. Viktor dotes, he does not smother, does not parent. Emet-Selch could, he thinks, give a little grace when he has been offered so much. That doesn't make him any more comfortable, though. ]
Reading, I find, is generally a much less strenuous activity.
[ Viktor is doting, he is indulging himself, Emet-Selch reminds as Viktor takes his sweet time with what could very easily be a few moment process. He lingers, not so much washing as he is running the cloth over skin idly and watching water drip.
A version of him from a few years ago would have found this functionally unbearable. Not just being touched, not just the bare skin, not just the fact it was someone sundered - even if they were Azem - but the unearned experience of being spoiled would have turned his stomach. Now, he can at least recognize the feeling for what it is and squash it under his metaphorical boot, forcibly leaning into Viktor to savor the press of wet, bare skin.
A fresh glass of steaming mulled wine appears in hand, tilting his head just enough to be able to take a long pull from the teacup. ]
Am I to conjure another glass, or are you finished for the evening? [ A pause, then a slow confession, like the thought just occurred to him, and he's too tired to weigh whether or not he ought to give voice to the thought. ] There were evenings when I was - where I allowed my mind to wander. To consider a potential thread where one evening, you tired of calling back and forth to each other from floors apart. You would come up the stairs - disposing of your clothes on the steps up, of course, threatening to break one or both our necks in so doing - and join me in the bath.
[ A pause, a smirk over the rim of his teacup, a little levity in his tone under all the faux-condescension. ]
You were much quicker in those imaginations.