"Give it two days, Keeler," Encke manages with a groan, eyes threatening to roll out of their sockets when his navi follows what appears to be a natural instinct for sheer and utter contradiction.
A choice few insults go lost, muttered in the air as Encke stretches to reach the bed table and fish blindly for a few rounds, before emerging triumphant with a fistful of complimentary chocolate thins. Here, the Proxima flaunts its resources - where economically-sensitive hospitality would have the bedside sweets individually packaged to weather delay until service, the damned ship's got enough treats and hands to delegate that fully exposed chocolates can go replaced every six hours. The ever weary guest needn't even bother with opening the seals. Fucking hell.
Encke smiles wanly at it - the sheer obscenity of it all - and waves the candy before Keeler nonchalantly. "Second thing is, I'm putting a few pounds on you." Eight or ten would make a modest ideal, but knowing Keeler, he'll settle for a few. "Not negotiable. You get some meat on, or I'm submitting you to the med ward myself."
And he would, by everything, he'd drag Keeler by the collar and drop him off with the head doctor on call without worry or waver. His good ol' navi might pull rank to arrange a discreet discharge under normal circumstances, but they've got equal weight to throw, and Encke's qualms about snitching to the brass on this are few and far between. He'd sooner not - there are lines, and then lines, and he can't cross that Rubicon without sacrificing Keeler's cooperation on simple, petty things for many months to come; but Encke'd do it and call the deed well done, if that's the only way to see his navi finally registering on a fucking scale.
Because Keeler's so thin. He's so thin and so frail and so uniquely placed to invite breaking that Encke'd do it with his own two hands, if he can't harden him.
"Barely touched dinner," he scolds with a light frown, dropping a chocolate square to knock at Keeler's lower lip expectantly. "You like me shoving things down your throat that much?"
no subject
"Give it two days, Keeler," Encke manages with a groan, eyes threatening to roll out of their sockets when his navi follows what appears to be a natural instinct for sheer and utter contradiction.
A choice few insults go lost, muttered in the air as Encke stretches to reach the bed table and fish blindly for a few rounds, before emerging triumphant with a fistful of complimentary chocolate thins. Here, the Proxima flaunts its resources - where economically-sensitive hospitality would have the bedside sweets individually packaged to weather delay until service, the damned ship's got enough treats and hands to delegate that fully exposed chocolates can go replaced every six hours. The ever weary guest needn't even bother with opening the seals. Fucking hell.
Encke smiles wanly at it - the sheer obscenity of it all - and waves the candy before Keeler nonchalantly. "Second thing is, I'm putting a few pounds on you." Eight or ten would make a modest ideal, but knowing Keeler, he'll settle for a few. "Not negotiable. You get some meat on, or I'm submitting you to the med ward myself."
And he would, by everything, he'd drag Keeler by the collar and drop him off with the head doctor on call without worry or waver. His good ol' navi might pull rank to arrange a discreet discharge under normal circumstances, but they've got equal weight to throw, and Encke's qualms about snitching to the brass on this are few and far between. He'd sooner not - there are lines, and then lines, and he can't cross that Rubicon without sacrificing Keeler's cooperation on simple, petty things for many months to come; but Encke'd do it and call the deed well done, if that's the only way to see his navi finally registering on a fucking scale.
Because Keeler's so thin. He's so thin and so frail and so uniquely placed to invite breaking that Encke'd do it with his own two hands, if he can't harden him.
"Barely touched dinner," he scolds with a light frown, dropping a chocolate square to knock at Keeler's lower lip expectantly. "You like me shoving things down your throat that much?"