[It's quiet for a long moment; it lets that touch linger, its gaze searching L's face, his round, black eyes, their expression sitting somewhere between owlish and childish. It shifts its grasp at his throat-- not tightening, not exactly, simply ensuring L is aware of the touch.
It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
[If the SQUIP is looking for a lie, something more devious or deceptive than what L immediately presents, it won't find it. "Owlish" and "childish," aren't off the mark; neither is "hopeless." In vino, veritas, and it was such an ugly truth. L kept it closed for such a long time, nearly forgot about that black box... but last night everything came flooding out. His eyes slip closed as the SQUIP's hands tighten only slightly around his neck, and maybe a thought slips across the Bond that the SQUIP could pick up on.
It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
[... the SQUIP looks at him for a long moment, the agony that drifts across their Bond sinking its still-aching stomach down into a cold pit, watching L's dark, lifeless eyes.
Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It then, in a swift, sudden motion, adds its other hand alongside it, the fingertips of each pressing into L's pale skin, squeezing lightly-- but even that is careful, the pressure distributed around the windpipe rather than onto it.]
... if you want to choke someone out safely, you need to apply pressure to the sides of their neck, not the windpipe.
[You considered doing it. You very seriously considered crushing my windpipe, killing me right there beneath you.]
L... you're not going to drink like that again.
no subject
It would be enough to emote, safely... and if that isn't possible, L wants to find a way to never emote again.
He swallows, nods, his adam's apple rolling against the SQUIP's thumbs. He feels so ill at present that he would probably agree to never touching alcohol again, period, and if it brings that streak out in him, wouldn't it be for the best?]
no subject
Its hands gradually loosen around his throat... and then fall entirely away, moving down to wrap around his back instead. The SQUIP leans down over him, and pulls him against it in...
... an embrace.]
... don't worry. You may be miserable right now, but... I'm here to help you. Together, we can fix you... as long as you don't kill me first.
no subject
I don't want to kill you. That'd be really crazy, and...
[He trails off. There's one thing in the world he knows he's not. It would end his world, if he was.]
no subject
[It gently reaches up to stroke his hair, holding him against its chest as the lightly warm water from the shower slowly rinses their mutually weary, aching bodies. It shifts itself then, moving to climb into the tub with him; it reaches to pull his dirty, soaked shirt off, over his head, and tosses it aside, allowing the water to reach all of him.]
Come on... let's get rinsed off, and see if we can keep down some food.