[It's a shame, Jeremiah supposes, but there's little else to be done. He's about halfway through his own cup before Lelouch departs the room, and he's left with his own thoughts once more. Stepping to the window, the night offers little other than pitch black and the amber-gold twinkle of lights in the distance, slightly elevated as they are from their current post. Jeremiah doesn't doubt if he scanned for it, he'd see into the dark more clearly, but his eye remains on its usual function. He's just looking, wondering on not too differently of a tangent from his companion, of the things that brought him specifically here and now.
How long have they been on the road? Stopping to smell the roses goes a long way, and goodness knows Lelouch can't find contentment by standing still, so it's the best compromise. Of course there's the obligation to commit themselves by their natures and their skill sets, the fire needed to fight fire. Jeremiah's used to the restlessness of the long game after his years in the military, hungry for the taste of victory but often beset by the realities of conflict. It can take time, all the careful planning and patience, rather than jumping at any shot they have and simply taking it. When the final play comes in, when they inevitably win out tomorrow, he'll finally get to savor that feeling again.
And then with time, his hunger will return. Restlessness sets in. The driving force in him is different, he thinks, but Jeremiah feels it too. He knows he won't ever get his fill on this alone, if this is the only way he can seek a sense of accomplishment, a life to look back upon when he's on his deathbed and know it had been worth something.
Doing it all not just for himself but for someone else, committed to a higher purpose, would it truly make it meaningful enough to fill the gaps?
Grave as it is, Jeremiah doesn't lose himself to despondency, and tries to shift his thoughts elsewhere. For his unwavering loyalty, it's not an uncommon thread to ponder for him, but he also knows he's become jaded to his own mortality. Fighting in a Knightmare Frame was always his strength, but he's only ever engaged in battle these days with twin blades, his Canceller, and faith in himself. It's actually become quite easy, considering how deep the discrepancy in strength runs between himself and the average human being, no matter how armored or well-armed they may be. How easily they crumple to the ground from a single strike.
When he sees Lelouch return again, hair still damp, he's since moved to sit and rifle through his own belongings. He's procured a couple hangers, one for his jacket from earlier, another for tomorrow's clothes so they have some time to loosen up their wrinkles. In his hands, he has his mask finally fished out once more, working with a cleaning cloth to polish it up. He may not wear it in public to maintain anonymity, but he'll want it tomorrow. There's not a fight he's prepared for in advance, against enemies he'd reveal himself to regardless, where he didn't don it. He has little need for extra protection, it just feels right.
Jeremiah smiles faintly.] How is the water pressure?
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How long have they been on the road? Stopping to smell the roses goes a long way, and goodness knows Lelouch can't find contentment by standing still, so it's the best compromise. Of course there's the obligation to commit themselves by their natures and their skill sets, the fire needed to fight fire. Jeremiah's used to the restlessness of the long game after his years in the military, hungry for the taste of victory but often beset by the realities of conflict. It can take time, all the careful planning and patience, rather than jumping at any shot they have and simply taking it. When the final play comes in, when they inevitably win out tomorrow, he'll finally get to savor that feeling again.
And then with time, his hunger will return. Restlessness sets in. The driving force in him is different, he thinks, but Jeremiah feels it too. He knows he won't ever get his fill on this alone, if this is the only way he can seek a sense of accomplishment, a life to look back upon when he's on his deathbed and know it had been worth something.
Doing it all not just for himself but for someone else, committed to a higher purpose, would it truly make it meaningful enough to fill the gaps?
Grave as it is, Jeremiah doesn't lose himself to despondency, and tries to shift his thoughts elsewhere. For his unwavering loyalty, it's not an uncommon thread to ponder for him, but he also knows he's become jaded to his own mortality. Fighting in a Knightmare Frame was always his strength, but he's only ever engaged in battle these days with twin blades, his Canceller, and faith in himself. It's actually become quite easy, considering how deep the discrepancy in strength runs between himself and the average human being, no matter how armored or well-armed they may be. How easily they crumple to the ground from a single strike.
When he sees Lelouch return again, hair still damp, he's since moved to sit and rifle through his own belongings. He's procured a couple hangers, one for his jacket from earlier, another for tomorrow's clothes so they have some time to loosen up their wrinkles. In his hands, he has his mask finally fished out once more, working with a cleaning cloth to polish it up. He may not wear it in public to maintain anonymity, but he'll want it tomorrow. There's not a fight he's prepared for in advance, against enemies he'd reveal himself to regardless, where he didn't don it. He has little need for extra protection, it just feels right.
Jeremiah smiles faintly.] How is the water pressure?