[ Oh. Anakin swallows, the spare part feeling almost weightless between his fingers, like in another second it might just transform into nothing, into light and air. He's been hiding for years, hasn't he, from everyone except Seth. It's not that Anakin couldn't have his privacy, he thinks, it's just that he didn't want to, that he needed someone to know what he was, what he is, someone who wouldn't judge or use it against him. In the end, of course, he'd asked too much of the older man - after all, acceptance has to go both ways and Seth was never that kind of person, the type to blindly forgive and forget. He'd had expectations. Demands.
Michel simply tell him he'd like to be inspired and there's no demand in that but perhaps a little but of expectation, gently put, like a brush against his shoulder that he could choose to ignore if he wanted to. It's very different from anything he's known before and maybe that's why he takes a long moment to make up his mind. He looks down, following the motion of Michel's hand as he runs it up his prosthetic hand, forearm. The skin of his upper arm tingles uselessly in response - the prosthetic, of course, is a dead extension of him, though he's learned to use it with maximum precision.
He watches Michel's hand, frowning. Then, he turns his own palm upwards, taking hold of the other man's wrist lightly and shifting it, placing his fingers against his other arm instead by the wrist, the one of flesh and blood. Though his grip remains gentle, he doesn't release him.
Truly, Anakin has never been good at hiding. ]
Think it's only fair to warn you - I'm not so easy to get rid of.
[ He remembers breaking into Seth's house in a drunken stupor, thinking he'd bested him by way of familiarity, because he knew the other man and his house and his home and the world they used to share. Of course, in the end, he'd been allowed to break in - Seth had left him a message, though he hadn't bothered to be at home himself. If you break it, it had said, you replace it.
Anakin had learned, of course. That had been the extent of it. ]
no subject
Michel simply tell him he'd like to be inspired and there's no demand in that but perhaps a little but of expectation, gently put, like a brush against his shoulder that he could choose to ignore if he wanted to. It's very different from anything he's known before and maybe that's why he takes a long moment to make up his mind. He looks down, following the motion of Michel's hand as he runs it up his prosthetic hand, forearm. The skin of his upper arm tingles uselessly in response - the prosthetic, of course, is a dead extension of him, though he's learned to use it with maximum precision.
He watches Michel's hand, frowning. Then, he turns his own palm upwards, taking hold of the other man's wrist lightly and shifting it, placing his fingers against his other arm instead by the wrist, the one of flesh and blood. Though his grip remains gentle, he doesn't release him.
Truly, Anakin has never been good at hiding. ]
Think it's only fair to warn you - I'm not so easy to get rid of.
[ He remembers breaking into Seth's house in a drunken stupor, thinking he'd bested him by way of familiarity, because he knew the other man and his house and his home and the world they used to share. Of course, in the end, he'd been allowed to break in - Seth had left him a message, though he hadn't bothered to be at home himself. If you break it, it had said, you replace it.
Anakin had learned, of course. That had been the extent of it. ]