Dirk has a moment to appreciate the shelter of Emet's shoulder, protecting any slip of his facial expression from view--a refuge precious enough when Hythlodaeus honks his tit, but vastly moreso as Hythlodaeus details a plan for Emet's involvement and the wrecking Dirk's ass directly over his own head.

And, you know, the little voice in his head (that isn't a voice at all, but an ever-excruciating and ever-present externality of awareness) with its smugly devastating tone. 'You wanted this.'

Thirty minutes does very little to take the attitude out of Dirk's own unceasing self-talk, but now those three words are a rebuttal to his present desire to never move again. Except he has to get up or he this is going to be even more of a mess.

This isn't even his bed. Not that he'd be more willing to contemplate alternatives if it were, but it wouldn't be as much anyone else's problem.... lying (more or less) facedown, he makes a reluctant groaning sound directly into Emet's handsomely scarred chest before lifting his head as Hythlodaeus returns.

"Where the hell did you put my shades?"

It's a general question, but he kinda regrets the eye contact with Emet.

Christ. He just looks so damn hot right now. They both do. This is almost humiliating--yeah, fuck. He's getting up now.