Sometimes, it hurt. [Comes Diavolo's confession.] But not nearly as much as it hurt you — as though you were shielding me from the brunt of it. It allowed me presence of mind in the heat of battle. Up the stairs, Doppio.
[A hand nudges Doppio's back, directing him the right way where the path splits. The soft patter of feet follows behind them. Up stairs and down corridors, around corners and through doors, and eventually they arrive somewhere modestly liveable. A little on the plain side for his liking, and with far too many crucifixes for comfort, but these things can be altered.]
Set it down anywhere you like. Somewhere secret, perhaps. I don't want to be tempted while I'm so loose-tongued. [And then, with undue determination, he ducks his way through a door. Clanking and shuffling ensue, and soon he emerges with hopefully-clean towels that once belonged to some nameless human a world away and now belong to him. There's little time to react before one is pressed firm against Doppio's hair to catch the rain that clings to it still. Meticulous and gentle so as not to snag against the small antlers, but still there's a clumsiness to the motion. He isn't used to this sort of contact with another person, wholly external — and neither is Doppio, judging by the way he shies away from it. So Diavolo allows him to part, under one condition: as soon as Doppio's hands are reasonably free, the towel is chucked at him so he can finish drying himself off. Catch!]
im going to assume this is early enough that doppio hasnt yet taken a Full Tour
[A hand nudges Doppio's back, directing him the right way where the path splits. The soft patter of feet follows behind them. Up stairs and down corridors, around corners and through doors, and eventually they arrive somewhere modestly liveable. A little on the plain side for his liking, and with far too many crucifixes for comfort, but these things can be altered.]
Set it down anywhere you like. Somewhere secret, perhaps. I don't want to be tempted while I'm so loose-tongued. [And then, with undue determination, he ducks his way through a door. Clanking and shuffling ensue, and soon he emerges with hopefully-clean towels that once belonged to some nameless human a world away and now belong to him. There's little time to react before one is pressed firm against Doppio's hair to catch the rain that clings to it still. Meticulous and gentle so as not to snag against the small antlers, but still there's a clumsiness to the motion. He isn't used to this sort of contact with another person, wholly external — and neither is Doppio, judging by the way he shies away from it. So Diavolo allows him to part, under one condition: as soon as Doppio's hands are reasonably free, the towel is chucked at him so he can finish drying himself off. Catch!]