He levels a stare at him, a thoughtful one, but not one utterly bereft of some level of amusement at his suggestion. Honestly, the dramatics are very heartening in their own right. At least, Dirk's level of theatrics, which is a very different scale to most others. It was his own way of showing—communicating—his pain and helplessness.
"My dear boy," Emet begins, the warmth never leaving his voice, "if I were to put you out of your suffering, it would not be by such barbaric means."
Then, he crosses his arms, hip slightly cocked to one side as he lets out an even, controlled breath. Perhaps it's inapproapriate for him to be feeling so fondly of Dirk in this moment, when he's wounded and suffering, but he cannot help but selfishly delight in the small concession of candidacy Dirk is offering him...in his own way. Whether he realizes it or not.
"Are you trying to tell me you would not find joy being held in my arms? Carried off to mend your wounds—or do you truly prefer death to such a show of intimacy?"
no subject
"My dear boy," Emet begins, the warmth never leaving his voice, "if I were to put you out of your suffering, it would not be by such barbaric means."
Then, he crosses his arms, hip slightly cocked to one side as he lets out an even, controlled breath. Perhaps it's inapproapriate for him to be feeling so fondly of Dirk in this moment, when he's wounded and suffering, but he cannot help but selfishly delight in the small concession of candidacy Dirk is offering him...in his own way. Whether he realizes it or not.
"Are you trying to tell me you would not find joy being held in my arms? Carried off to mend your wounds—or do you truly prefer death to such a show of intimacy?"