Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
This is… rather unlike Kinoga.
Tap- tap tap-tap tap-tap.
Though perhaps that's overstepping a bit.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap tap-tap tap-tap.
This is rather unlike his Commander.
The tapping stops abruptly mid-beat, the perpetrating claw on the tabletop is swiftly removed and withdrawn from sight.
This squad runs on the framework of hierarchy that all Octarians are obligated to operate within, but that is not what keeps this odd assembly of gears turning in time - no, that is the Commander's work alone. Jilon might call it respect, but that's not quite it. That doesn't quite capture the whole of it, the way even the strongest of personalities bend themselves into place without the hammer of punishment ever being raised, let alone used. It is something harder to name that keeps the machine that is their squad well-oiled, something more intrinsic to the hand that guides them.
A hand that now taps out strange rhythms on the tabletop.
It happens when Kinoga is otherwise occupied. It's hardly an uncommon habit - the musically inclined are not exactly a rare sort - but when they catch it happening during a briefing or while planning drills it's always met with the same response: immediate cessation and withdrawal.
It's an unusually strong reaction for something so small. Were they friends, Jilon might place the tightened mouth and furrowed brow that always follow in the proximity of guilt or shame, but it is certainly not his place to define the Commander's private affairs. And perhaps Kinoga, warm as they are, would hear out his concerns were he to address them - but his Commander's personal matters are hardly any of Jilon's business, and they would be right to put him in his place.
Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
….Still, the fact remains: this is rather unlike them.
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
titsay
annaxmalina
2087
