[The pulse wakes up. Wilhelm usually keeps it quiet. That's not to say he doesn't have one--most likely, he does, and most likely it's most of the time. But it doesn't warrant the reach of his attention. There are other things to think about. His pulse, or not, has no reason to be urgent.
And it isn't urgent now, but it does remind Wilhelm that it's there, and in the moment Wilhelm remembers his own heartbeat, Yeshua is standing before him. Wilhelm would sigh, if he were the sort to. But he isn't; so, his eyelids lower just enough to be a sigh instead. To call Wilhelm content would be to imply he isn't otherwise content--so let's not say it that way. Let's say--Wilhelm knows that in this moment, for a moment, things are right.
He sets aside his tablet, so gently that it barely clicks against the surface of the table. His pen is already resting, but he uses his fingertips to sweep it further off along the table's side. His hands are deft and reminiscent of doves in their arc and poise. They're as soft-sounded as feathers, too. He speaks while one of his hands carries through the air:] Not so new. But, you're right; you haven't visited me right here, before. I would call this... [He's touching his fingers to the cradle of an intercom.] A place of learning. [And his fingertips press to open the intercom's line.]
He'll take his dinner in his chambers tonight, [Wilhelm says, to whatever audience. His voice is like the body of a moth--that grey, that soft, that much of a discernible shape in the evening--and his own smile must be a thing that's fortunate to touch the curving of his cheek.] And he will... [His eyes lower, and he's truly thoughtful.] Have a serving of raspberry sorbet, after that.
[The operator on the other end answers in affirmative, with a softness that can only try to emulate Wilhelm's. Wilhelm takes his hand away from the cradle. He folds it along with the other hand, and his fingers are loose-laced, and his eyes are vital candlelight, mellow and steadfast. He turns them up to Yeshua.]
You've gone and come quite a way. Won't you sit? [His voice, too, is close to candles: the glow, the wax, the softening between the two. He sets out one of his hands, his fingers unclasping, and it rests above the table, palm up. His fingers are relaxed, the littlest inward curl, a study in peace. Maybe an offering of exactly that, too.] Please, [he adds.]
no subject
And it isn't urgent now, but it does remind Wilhelm that it's there, and in the moment Wilhelm remembers his own heartbeat, Yeshua is standing before him. Wilhelm would sigh, if he were the sort to. But he isn't; so, his eyelids lower just enough to be a sigh instead. To call Wilhelm content would be to imply he isn't otherwise content--so let's not say it that way. Let's say--Wilhelm knows that in this moment, for a moment, things are right.
He sets aside his tablet, so gently that it barely clicks against the surface of the table. His pen is already resting, but he uses his fingertips to sweep it further off along the table's side. His hands are deft and reminiscent of doves in their arc and poise. They're as soft-sounded as feathers, too. He speaks while one of his hands carries through the air:] Not so new. But, you're right; you haven't visited me right here, before. I would call this... [He's touching his fingers to the cradle of an intercom.] A place of learning. [And his fingertips press to open the intercom's line.]
He'll take his dinner in his chambers tonight, [Wilhelm says, to whatever audience. His voice is like the body of a moth--that grey, that soft, that much of a discernible shape in the evening--and his own smile must be a thing that's fortunate to touch the curving of his cheek.] And he will... [His eyes lower, and he's truly thoughtful.] Have a serving of raspberry sorbet, after that.
[The operator on the other end answers in affirmative, with a softness that can only try to emulate Wilhelm's. Wilhelm takes his hand away from the cradle. He folds it along with the other hand, and his fingers are loose-laced, and his eyes are vital candlelight, mellow and steadfast. He turns them up to Yeshua.]
You've gone and come quite a way. Won't you sit? [His voice, too, is close to candles: the glow, the wax, the softening between the two. He sets out one of his hands, his fingers unclasping, and it rests above the table, palm up. His fingers are relaxed, the littlest inward curl, a study in peace. Maybe an offering of exactly that, too.] Please, [he adds.]