( His mouth can't quite form the words thank you, but there's a flash of gratefulness in his bright eyes, in the duck of his head as he slips past Ratio to finally be somewhere relatively safe. There's no IPC save for the man himself, no one from the Family looking to make a point. There's a tightness in his shoulders that relaxes; he rides out the motion by shrugging off his coat -- he'd taken a long enough glance at Ratio to know that it's only by the grace of some Aeon that he isn't knocked out cold from a particularly hard throw.
He must seem small in Ratio's spacious abode -- dwarfed by marble and large windows -- the image only helped by the weight he's lost by being dead for ages, waterlogged in the waking world and doing his best to say 'fuck you' to IX, Sunday, and the IPC in that strange beyond. Vulnerable. That's what he feels; it takes wrenching his mind out of every instinctual response not to simply slip back through the door and flee far enough away that even the great Doctor Ratio can't find him.
Not that he thinks the Doctor would spend much time looking for him.
There's little else to occupy himself with, in the silence that follows, so his eyes dart from the statues (and he'd been lectured on his vanity?) to the view to the impressive shelves of books. Anything that isn't looking at his host. )
Not a man for color in interior design, are we? I could teach you a thing or two -- or give you the names of people who could do it for you, considering your previous opinion of my sense of style.
( Even he wouldn't dare insinuate he's doing anything other than babbling at this point. But anything to push off the conversation they're bound to have until he can find himself on firmer ground, with some idea of how the chips will fall.
no subject
He must seem small in Ratio's spacious abode -- dwarfed by marble and large windows -- the image only helped by the weight he's lost by being dead for ages, waterlogged in the waking world and doing his best to say 'fuck you' to IX, Sunday, and the IPC in that strange beyond. Vulnerable. That's what he feels; it takes wrenching his mind out of every instinctual response not to simply slip back through the door and flee far enough away that even the great Doctor Ratio can't find him.
Not that he thinks the Doctor would spend much time looking for him.
There's little else to occupy himself with, in the silence that follows, so his eyes dart from the statues (and he'd been lectured on his vanity?) to the view to the impressive shelves of books. Anything that isn't looking at his host. )
Not a man for color in interior design, are we? I could teach you a thing or two -- or give you the names of people who could do it for you, considering your previous opinion of my sense of style.
( Even he wouldn't dare insinuate he's doing anything other than babbling at this point. But anything to push off the conversation they're bound to have until he can find himself on firmer ground, with some idea of how the chips will fall.
Old habits die hard, after all. )