[ His scent is markedly different from that of Angel's usual cohorts - there's the usual organic base, of course, and the smell of whatever product keeps his hair like that, but the rest is steel and machine oil and ozone, the sort of smell that suggests he spends more time around machines than people. His hands aren't exactly soft - he's earned a few scars in his time, though maybe fewer than he deserved, and his fingers are dotted with the remnants of many a nick and solder burn, most old, a few more recent. But they lack the thick calluses of a fighter or laborer.
Qubit himself, though, doesn't see this encounter in any sort of poetic terms. One could make a case for saying "her touch sets his skin aflame," maybe, but not in a good way. See, there's a reason he tries to keep skin-to-skin contact to a minimum: to him, it actually feels like burning.
Rather than putting him at ease, the gentle contact makes his arm tense up, and he meets her soft gaze with a pained grimace. ]
I can't -
[ He cuts himself off mid-sentence, as if he's said too much. The grimace mingles with an indignant glare as he makes a full, concerted effort to wrench himself out of her grasp. ]
no subject
Qubit himself, though, doesn't see this encounter in any sort of poetic terms. One could make a case for saying "her touch sets his skin aflame," maybe, but not in a good way. See, there's a reason he tries to keep skin-to-skin contact to a minimum: to him, it actually feels like burning.
Rather than putting him at ease, the gentle contact makes his arm tense up, and he meets her soft gaze with a pained grimace. ]
I can't -
[ He cuts himself off mid-sentence, as if he's said too much. The grimace mingles with an indignant glare as he makes a full, concerted effort to wrench himself out of her grasp. ]
Let go of me!