[ Reflection: the consideration of an idea, a spark, a wayward image reflecting off a smooth surface that showed the world that Bak was a man standing on a precipice. Never before had he seen Komui's face so close-up -- the shape of his nose, the curve of his glasses, the pitch black of his hair as a wayward strand escaped it's queue --but it irked him to no end that Komui still managed to look calm and composed even in the heat of the moment.
It stirred a flash of irritant deep in the pit of his stomach, and with the ever pressing barrier still on his back (surely it should have disappeared by now), he pressed forward. A Bak never stepped down, he never surrendered! So there was very, very little left to do but press forward, seeking, needy, a shiver running down his spine as he opened his mouth with the very real intent to tell Komui to do better (and get them out of there of course), but then he forgot. He sighed and softened, melting where before he had been pressing and closing his mouth without saying a word.
What was the point, really, of fighting? They were a team. Together, they'd win free of this. Just as they had everything else. So Bak did what Bak does best: he improvised. Sliding his hands from Komui's shoulder to the nape of his neck, he ran fingers through the fine strands, suddenly nervous, but bold. If the bot wanted a kiss, he'd get a kiss. Bak just hoped Komui figured out what he wanted and soon! ]