He does look to Francis' eyes then, studying him again, thoughtful and confused and frowning. It'd taken his hand an instant to make itself relax its grip when Francis had started taking his helmet and that — or something like it, for some more likely reason — might have been a disaster at home, seeming to refuse a ranking officer anything, even by pure reaction, even for a fraction of a second. But that, and the order, and the threat in the order, sits starkly against everything he feels whenever he thinks of Francis, or looks at him, like bright sun rising in him behind deep shadow. And all that sits oddly next to being told something like this without it being a fight, trusting the other man to make this something good, because that man is Francis.

Easier to stop thinking about how any of it feels, and only do. Only follow Francis' orders, and nevermind the what or why.

Raju's gaze fixes itself back to the wall in the distance ahead of him, holding his wrists next to one another and raising his arms, his knuckles hitting the door above his head. "The handcuffs on my belt are new, sir," he says, tone very neutral, apropos of nothing. Certainly not because a navy captain who hardly used his weapon might not know the things were there, heavy in the pouch at his waist and ready to be used. "I haven't had time to prepare them for inspection."