[Kimblee doesn't seem off-put by that laughing; he simply resumes playing with Archer's hair properly, the gesture calm. His expression is a bit on the strange side - it's almost completely blank, the sort of look he gets when he's literally not sure how he should be presenting but he knows the usual placidity would be inappropriate, and so he quite simply isn't presenting any emotion at all.
He recognizes, on some level, that what Archer is describing to him is horrifying; personally, he doesn't feel anything toward it one way or another. Casualties are simply a price of war; Archer had wanted his war, and he had paid for it. Perhaps he had paid for it more closely than he deserved, perhaps not - it isn't really Kimblee's place to judge that. He sees no point in judging it.
What happened to Archer was arguably not fair and definitely not kind, the battlefield isn't a place for fairness, and it isn't a place for kindness. It's something Archer didn't seem to have realized until now, but Archer's approach to battle has always been naive; there's no glory to be found on the battlefield. There's only death, and whomever brings the most of it to the other side wins; Kimblee had long ago accepted his role as one who exists alongside death, and he more than enjoys it. But Archer has always seemed to think there's something more - that the battlefield isn't a place to die, but rather a place to be immortalized. Stupid. Naive.
Kimblee can't say that he feels sorry for him.]
You won't be sent back to that.
[His grip tightens against Archer's clothes then and he pulls him closer, jerking him forward and holding him flush against his body, continuing to speak quietly to him as he shifts to press his hand tightly into Archer's lower back.]
We'll find whatever brings us here, and we'll use it as we see fit, and then we'll destroy it. This world can be ours, Archer; nothing will stop us. I don't care how many have to burn.
no subject
He recognizes, on some level, that what Archer is describing to him is horrifying; personally, he doesn't feel anything toward it one way or another. Casualties are simply a price of war; Archer had wanted his war, and he had paid for it. Perhaps he had paid for it more closely than he deserved, perhaps not - it isn't really Kimblee's place to judge that. He sees no point in judging it.
What happened to Archer was arguably not fair and definitely not kind, the battlefield isn't a place for fairness, and it isn't a place for kindness. It's something Archer didn't seem to have realized until now, but Archer's approach to battle has always been naive; there's no glory to be found on the battlefield. There's only death, and whomever brings the most of it to the other side wins; Kimblee had long ago accepted his role as one who exists alongside death, and he more than enjoys it. But Archer has always seemed to think there's something more - that the battlefield isn't a place to die, but rather a place to be immortalized. Stupid. Naive.
Kimblee can't say that he feels sorry for him.]
You won't be sent back to that.
[His grip tightens against Archer's clothes then and he pulls him closer, jerking him forward and holding him flush against his body, continuing to speak quietly to him as he shifts to press his hand tightly into Archer's lower back.]
We'll find whatever brings us here, and we'll use it as we see fit, and then we'll destroy it. This world can be ours, Archer; nothing will stop us. I don't care how many have to burn.