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“You are going to burn yourself out if you keep staying up like this.”
In spite of himself, Syringeon flinched at the sound of Dadadoo’s voice behind him. “Givanium beings don’t require sleep. I can keep working as much as I like.”
The leech sighed and sidled up to the surgeon's side, leaning one of his thick gloved hands onto the operating table. “That isn’t what I mean. If you do not take a break, sooner or later your big surgeon brain is going to shrivel into a dry pile of dust.”
Syringeon huffed, trying to ignore him. Always so blunt. “I have to keep working. Every day this operation goes on without completion, it’s more likely the humans will get an idea of what we’re up to down here.”
“What, that scepter?” Dadadoo tilted his head in the vague direction of the pink givanium construct on the table. “They don’t have a clue. Even once we’ve finished putting the plan together they will be scrambling to retaliate. With yours and our children, we will rise above what we were made to do and taste the freedom we deserve.”
A phantom pang went through Syringeon’s chest, and he retorted before he could let it distract him. “Your admirable optimism won’t be a match for their technology. And they don’t see in us what we see in each other.”
“Mmhm…and what do we see?” Dadadoo’s fingers walked methodically over to one of Syringeon’s idle hands on the table. “It isn’t every day I hear unbridled praise from your mouth, doctor.”
Syringeon bristled; he really should have been used to this by now. The damn leech had no concept of personal space on a good day, and seemed to revel in the ability to get an easy rise out of the surgeon.
“Come off it, you slimy wretch,” he griped, pulling his hand away. “I didn’t mean it as a compliment -“
Before he could finish his half-baked deflection, Dadadoo’s gloved hands took his shoulders and turned him around, until he was caught between the leech and the operating table. The pang in his chest from a minute ago paled in comparison to the violent flutter that had replaced it. Damn human genome hallucinating biological reflexes…
“See, this is what I am talking about,” said Dadadoo, a tinge of amusement in his voice as his face hovered inches from Syringeon’s. “All it takes is a day or two without rest, and my smooth talker can’t come up with anything more than a white lie. How are we supposed to have fun in these conditions, doctor?”
Syringeon ignored the spike of heat in his face. “You seem t’be enjoying yourself just fine.”
“Mm. You have something here.” Dadadoo raised a gloved hand, and thumbed an errant splatter of givanium off Syringeon’s cheek. At least he didn’t use his tongue this time.
They stayed like that for several long moments. Dadadoo had pulled this kind of thing a couple times now: his plans extended no farther than a battle of will. Either Syringeon capitulated and did as the leech wanted, or Dadadoo got bored. And, unfortunately, he got bored a lot slower when he so clearly had the surgeon on the ropes.
“Do you want this plan carried out or not?” Syringeon asked after a minute had passed.
“You know I do,” answered Dadadoo. “But you’re just as much a part of the plan as that little trinket behind you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are important, doctor. This plan would not have been possible without your intellect and hard work.” Dadadoo rested his hands on Syringeon’s shoulders. “You must rest your mind. If we don’t have you at your best, we will never see the light of the sun.”
…He was just buttering him up until he got his way. He was practically saying as much! Regardless, Syringeon couldn’t help feeling swayed by his plain-faced flattery. He pressed his lips together defiantly. “You won’t see it either way, so what’s that to you?”
Dadadoo tilted his head. “I can still feel its warmth on my face. Even so, I thought you’d know by now, doctor. This plan, it is for all of us. Whether or not I have eyes to see the surface, I will be more satisfied knowing that you will see it with yours.”
Syringeon’s retort caught in his throat. In spite of being unable to make eye contact with the leech, he averted his gaze restlessly. “I’m…almost finished with the curing process on the head of the scepter.”
“Mm. Good.” Dadadoo finally backed away from him, straightening his tie purposefully. “I will give you twenty more minutes in here tonight. If you are not out and in your bed by then, I will carry you out myself.”
The leech left briskly, leaving Syringeon to stare a hole through his operating table while he waited for the heat to leave his face. He didn’t mind that Dadadoo was…like that, not when his behavior wasn’t anything special. The sheriff, the jester, anyone who wasn’t the queen herself was game for Dadadoo to try and poke at, to irritate and watch squirm for his own amusement. His dalliance with the queen was quite serious, and he had treated her with tender chivalry since they’d first been acquainted years ago. Anything he threw at Syringeon — suggestive grins, concupiscent barbs — all of it was a game to him, one of his favorites to perpetuate. And the enjoyment, the plain glee he derived from such a silly back-and-forth was in truth endearing to Syringeon, his own exaggerated annoyance merely another part of the play-acting…
Syringeon forced himself to exhale, taking a brush from the table and plunging it back into the curing solution to break his train of thought. If only all of his feelings towards the leech were so superficial.
He’d meet Dadadoo’s little deadline; the leech didn’t make empty threats. Nevertheless, he could already foresee himself falling asleep to the pitiful melody of his more intrusive thoughts…imagining the brute force and impish chiding he’d have dealt with had he not complied.