[ The bane of getting attached is that Lancer knows that he's centuries, millennia too late to be the sort of person who Lien can reliably depend on. He's dead and gone, a tool summoned for a largely absurd war, and he's not bitter as much as he is disappointed— disappointed that he has a time limit, mostly.
Ruffling her hair is out of the question, with oil-slicked fingers; so instead, he reaches out and brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, tapping her cheekbone with the crooked joint of his middle finger. ]
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Ruffling her hair is out of the question, with oil-slicked fingers; so instead, he reaches out and brushes her cheek with the back of his hand, tapping her cheekbone with the crooked joint of his middle finger. ]
I'm holding you to it, "Master".