[ Even if Emma doesn't acknowledge it, Faraday sees it for what it is. Like the tip of an iceberg – some quiet little offer, but with more weight hidden beneath the depths. Like being handed so delicate and so very valuable, knowing that even an involuntary twitch could shatter the entire thing.
It's terrifying, is what it is, but Emma has that steadfastness to her that Faraday has come to recognize as when her mind is made up. No doubts, no regrets – just churning forward.
Refusing the offer would do more harm than not, he thinks, and he's caused enough harm today. Faraday moves forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. Tries not to think of the dead man whose shoes he could never be able to fill.
He busies himself for a second with unraveling the blanket he had brought, spreading it out on the bed for that little bit of warmth, before he slowly crawls under the covers. He keeps to the edge of the mattress, leaving space between them. ]
[ emma's quiet as she watches him come over to the bed, and though she's struck by the strangeness of seeing someone who isn't matthew climb into her bed, there's still a small curl of warmth in her chest because it's faraday. it's a sensation that's different from the usual reaction of her mark when they're close to each other, and she finds she appreciates the genuine comfort of a response that's her own and not the compulsion of their bond.
but again, it's not something she's eager to offer up, even if it's bound to bleed into their empathic link.
she finally swings her legs back into the bed, scooting under the blankets and making herself comfortable as she lays back. ]
More than fine, Faraday.
[ she shifts onto her side to look at him, though the space between them feels like a small country, for all that they haven't crossed it. no man's land, after a fashion, and though she wants to reach out, at least touch his arm or his hand, she holds herself back for now. this is...a big change already, and she doesn't want to overwhelm either or both of them in the midst of finding their footing in something new. ]
[ That flicker of warmth flashes through their connection, and Faraday spends a second puzzling over it, over why the sensation is as comforting as it is frightening.
If he had more distance to this strange evening, he'd find the whole thing laughable: going from snapping and snarling at each other like caged animals, to Faraday packing up his things and attempting an escape, to easing onto unstable ground and sharing a bed. It's likely that the quickness of it all has left Faraday in something of a daze, careening from one extreme to another. How else can he explain why he's gone from stepping out onto the street, intent on hobbling his way to the closest bus station, to lying with Emma goddamn Cullen in her bedroom?
Maybe in the morning he'll feel something beyond this uncertainty, this nervousness that tells him he's bound to screw something up, as was his way. For now, though, it fills him up, drones in his ears like a second pulse.
But her question, the mundaneness of it, makes him laugh a little; that's the sort of question one asks a guest, sitting on a lumpy couch. Or an ailing friend, resting in an unfamiliar chair. Some of his anxiety ebbs, and he forces himself to relax a little.
(Maybe they're just both lonely, a small voice tells him. Would it be much of a surprise if that were true?) ]
'M just fine.
[ he makes himself settle a little further, shuffling down a ways to get comfortable. It's a little odd for Faraday, sharing a bed without expecting sex to come into the equation, but speaking that thought aloud would likely shatter the brittle truce they've formed. ]
[ in the back of her mind, emma thinks part of the reason she invited faraday to her bed is still the intense shock to her system that had come with watching him leave. that had hurt, on not only an emotional level, but also a purely physical one. she'd experienced his pain before — when he'd been shot, as he's recovered — but this was different. there had been nothing actually acting on her body or his this time, but she'd still felt like she was being wrenched apart, like the pieces of herself that she'd been working so arduously to repair were coming apart at the seams.
it had almost felt as she had when she'd watched matthew die, like a gaping, ragged hole was being ripped into her chest all over again.
she still feels staggered by it, but...having faraday there, close, helps.
she also just feels exhausted by the day as a whole, from experiencing those echos of his pain during therapy to their throwdown right after, to the impending loss as she watched him walk from the house. all of it had drawn itself into a tight ball of anxiety and bone-deep tired, but somehow, seeing faraday beside her in her usually empty bed eases the tinge of loneliness that always seems to cling to her these days.
sometimes, holding herself up is— a lot. it takes so much out of her, and in the midst of juggling the process of rebuilding herself and her home, she's still trying to figure out how the mark and faraday fit into her life. complicated doesn't even begin to cover it, but the gentle warmth that suffuses her by being near him momentarily takes the edge off the complexity to let her relax.
and lord, if she doesn't need to relax, at least a touch.
she manages a nod, her eyes heavy as she drags the blanket tighter around her shoulders to fight off the chill. ]
[ The corner of his mouth twitches up a little in a small smile. How strange, finding some small comfort in her company, when only minutes ago he had been so goddamn convinced he should leave. Save both of them the trouble of finding themselves at one another's throats again.
It must be the proximity, he tells himself. Must be the mark curling on his arm, sending cooling flutters of ease through him. And maybe he should examine that feeling further, but he's too spent, too exhausted to care. ]
Yeah. [ Softly, in answer to her suggestion. ] I'll see you in the mornin', Emma.
[ for the first time in— a long time, emma sleeps soundly. she doesn't wake to chase off unwelcome ghosts, doesn't toss or turn or get caught in her own blankets and bad dreams, and instead, rests peacefully. she sleeps the whole night through until the sun starts to peek its way into her bedroom, and even then, she finds she's hardly in a rush to stir. she's usually very good at being quick to rise (her alarm goes off, she's up and out of bed near immediately), but today, there's no alarm, just the comforting warmth of arms around her shoulders, a wholeness that suffuses her entire body, and a gentle, steady heartbeat against her ear.
...wait.
she hasn't woken to something so soothing in months (never something so complete even then, if she's honest), but— waking to sharing her bed with someone, to being curled up in a man's arms after a solid night's rest—
—she hasn't experienced that since matthew was gunned down in the street.
her eyes snap open, and she finds herself eye level with faraday's collarbone, the subtle smell of his skin surrounding her as she takes a deep, startled breath.
not matthew. definitely not matthew.
she's so startled out of the fog of connection and relief that she practically scrambles back, momentarily forgetting about faraday's still tender arm and leg as she tries to put some quick distance between them. ]
[ All things considered, it's not a terrible sleep. Thankfully dreamless, which is more than he can say for quite a few nights, and the chill that typically sets in as the seasons turn is blissfully absent.
... It's peaceful. It's quiet. It's comfortable; warm in a way he hasn't experienced in quite some time.
What a shame, when that peace shatters.
Faraday wakes by degrees, though he's not sure what wakes him up first. The strange flicker of panic, echoing through their connection, maybe, or the shift of movement in the bed, of Emma stiffening against him.
What wakes him up entirely, though, is sudden blow to his arm as Emma scrambles out of his reach. For a few moments he only sees white, curling around his still healing arm with a sharp gasp. His good hand wraps around his scarred bicep and curses fall unbidden between clenched teeth.
[ emma, of course, is immediately made aware of what her instinctual reaction has done, because her own arm just screams in response to faraday's pain.
what a fantastic way to start the morning.
she presses a hand over her own bicep without even realizing it, putting pressure on an ache that isn't her own, and she's swept with an immediate sense of remorse. ]
I— sorry, I was startled, I didn't mean—
[ to leap like that. to react with such surprise. to hurt him while she was at it. ]
[ This, forced out between his teeth, his breathing ragged and labored. The nerves of his healing arm scream, shaking with tension – still sore from the other day, even worse now – and his right hand clenches into a fist, knuckles whitening and nails biting into his palms. ]
‘S fine.
[ Repeated, because saying it will make it true. And eventually it does, after what feels like ages, when the shrieking in his ears eases off, when the burning sensation in his bicep ebbs away.
Note to self, he thinks dully, don’t get shot again.
And don’t startle Emma Cullen.
He pushes himself up to sit, pulling his bad arm tightly against his side. Wide awake as he appears, sleep still clings to him, makes him squint in what morning light manages to filter into the room. A glance around reminds him that he and Emma shared the bed last night; he should probably feel awkward about it, but with his arm still smarting, he can’t bring up the effort required to care.
[ emma sits beside him on the bed on her knees, her hand still resting over the mirrored ache in her own arm as she watches him come down from the pain. ]
I just— was mighty surprised wakin' up so close like that. Suppose I'm not used to it anymore, is all.
[ her bed has been empty for a while now, and in the muddled uncertainty of sleep and barely-there consciousness, she'd been too alarmed and taken aback to realize it was just faraday (and to remember to be careful with him, at least more than this).
tentative, not quite sure of herself, she reaches out with her free hand, brushing fingers lightly over faraday's elbow, enough for that connection. she's been careful with the contact since he's been in her home, even after the night under the stars, but she remembers what it had done for them both when he'd first been shot in the town, how it had taken some of that edge off it all. the gesture now is small, but she mostly hopes it'll do something for the leftover pain, given that she's the one who aggravated it so terribly.
not like he'd done a single thing wrong (that she could tell). ]
It...caught me off guard.
[ and she'd reacted like a frightened animal, trying to get away as quickly as possible from something that startled and confused her. ]
Edited (I WAS FORMATTING IT A WAY AND DID A THING INSTEAD) 2016-12-13 01:00 (UTC)
[ That brush of contact, tentative as it is, sends something bursting through him, that unfamiliar sensation blossoming in his chest; the tension drops from his shoulders on a slow exhale.
Faraday doesn't remember the day of the battle with any true clarity – remembers mowing down men, remembers an all-consuming rage, remembers far more pain than any man should ever survive.
The first time they had touched, after he suffered the first bullet wound of many, is a hazy spot in his memory, and the time in the hospital was much the same. The only time he recalls vividly is when they grasped one another's hands in the early days after his release from the hospital. A dark, star-dappled sky above them and the night's chill around them.
And just as he did that time, he gives himself to the sensation, lets his body move of its own accord to lean toward her. It stands starkly at odds with how close he had been to willingly shoving this all behind him – but, well, there's much to be said for Faraday's tempestuous relationship with instant gratification. ]
'S fine.
[ More sincerely, that time, though it escapes him as more of a mumble. His left hand loosens its grip on his right arm, and he relaxes by slow degrees.
A quick glance up – something that could likely be categorized as shy – and the corner of his mouth quirks up. ]
[ emma visibly relaxes as he speaks again — though whether it's from the contact, the fading of the pain, or the fact that he doesn't seem especially angry is anyone's guess. ]
Thought it might do something to make it hurt less. It seems to ease things an awful lot.
[ touching him just— made everything oddly bearable, whether it was physical or circumstantial. it had the strange soothing effect of making the world a little less sharp and jagged, like it was just sanding down the edges of whatever ailed them.
in this case, that proves to be in their favor.
she lets her fingers press a little more fully against his skin, still gentle and mindful, but not the barest brush of contact anymore. ]
I'm still sorry for reactin' like that. Just odd having someone here again, if that makes any sense.
[ An involuntary response to her apology, as her touch becomes more sure. Because, for the briefest second as that feeling swelled, Faraday evidently forgot how words worked.
(He had a stormy sort of relationship with schooling, as well.)
He shakes his head a little, clearing the warm, rolling fog that tries its best to settle. Better than any booze, any drug he’s ever tried. He had called this habit-forming, once, but time and distance had made the memory of their contact a little less bright. Now, he remembers why he’d said that.
His left hand falls to his lap completely, this time, and he gives his right arm an experimental stretch. Still stings, but that’s about where he was before his rude awakening. ]
No harm done. [ Nothing lasting, anyway.
Faraday glances up again, and that usual roguish glint is gone from his eyes. His good shoulder lifts in a shrug. ] I get it, you know. Didn’t expect to see me, so you scrambled off like your bed was on fire.
[ His mouth curls in a rueful little smile. ] Can’t say that’s the first time I’ve had that happen, either.
[ emma feels like she should probably pull her hand away, but she's content to let her touch linger for now, skin to skin, though she doesn't reach for his hand like she had before under the stars — doesn't want to push things, really. ]
I wouldn't go claimin' it was because it's you.
[ she shakes her head, but meets his eyes again. there's a melancholy tinge to her demeanor, but not something she wants to actively let slip. ]
This bed has been empty for a while now. If I was so opposed to wakin' up with you, I wouldn't have invited you in the first place.
[ which is true enough. waking up beside faraday doesn't bother her, but she'd been so startled by the change, when she'd just barely started to get used to being alone, that her sleep-hazy mind had reacted in the worst possible way (well, shy of actually punching him instead). ]
It's just— different now. I have to adjust to something else.
[ He falls quiet for a few seconds, letting the waves of their bond wash through him, letting her words settle in his head. He does understand, of course, how the presence of another person might have startled her, sleep-addled as she must have been.
Faraday's not entirely convinced that it wasn't at least partially because it was him, even if she says as much, but he keeps the thought (and that flutter of doubt) to himself. ]
"Adjust," huh? [ He repeats it back lightly, in case she hadn't realized what she had said. ] Seems to imply you expect a repeat of this.
[ admittedly, emma has no idea that she'd given that away, and she blinks at him for a moment, replaying what she'd said, and—
oh.
she certainly doesn't blush, absolutely not. must be a trick of the early morning light that her cheeks seem a bit pink. ]
I— don't expect it. [ she tries to be careful with her words now, not wanting to tip her hand any more than she already had. ] But I suppose I wouldn't be opposed.
If that's something you'd also find yourself amenable to.
[ He wears a small, crooked smile, noticing the light flush of her cheeks. (A faint part of him warms at the sight, though he doesn’t acknowledge it.) And he should joke, to cut some of the tension. Should let his smile slowly spread in that uniquely ribald way of his, point out that he doesn’t often share the bed with a woman more than once.
But he keeps those comments to himself. Instead, ]
Depends. [ His head tilts slightly, and his voice takes on a teasing timbre. ] You likely to try and punch my teeth out the next time?
[ emma looks mildly embarrassed, but she covers it easily with one of her usual flat expressions, that little half-glare he tends to get from her when he's just bordering on irksome. ]
I wasn't plannin' on it. Can't say as you've done anything to deserve it.
“Yet.” [ Repeated back flatly, almost something akin to agreement. He does, after all, make a habit of being an ass, much to the chagrin of anyone who has the poor fortune of knowing him for even a handful of minutes.
He stretches his arm again, smoothing his other hand over the reddened scar. ]
Suppose it’s just as well that I can take a punch. [ And a half-dozen bullets. And an explosion. But he’s more well-versed in shaking off a punch to the face than any of those. ]
Then I'm sure it won't be all that much of an imposition if you do earn it, so I don't see why that oughta stop you from sharing my bed.
[ she says it matter-of-factly, like she's not talking about punching him in the face. she's mostly trying to do something to keep it from being awkward or tense or...from really focusing on the fact that she's giving him an open invitation to her bedroom.
[ He chuckles at the deadpan delivery of those words. ]
Inconvenient, is what it is.
[ Brightly, like he’s not talking about getting punched in the face.
And truthfully, the invitation is… odd. And the jokes are welcome, because as yet, Faraday’s not entirely sure how to react or how he should react – which, in his experience, are often two very different things. The invitation to stay in her home had been one thing: a matter of practicality for him, considering he had no place to return to. A matter of— politeness, he supposes, for her. Gratitude. Indebtedness.
(His mind drifts to yesterday’s argument, and he inwardly cringes.)
But this is… new. Not at all what he’s used to. Offers to share a bed are a dime a dozen, admittedly, but that had been strictly sexual. This is intimate, and he’s not rightly sure what the endgame might be.
He takes a deep breath, forces that air of levity that so often wreathes him. ]
My teeth and I would appreciate it if we kept the hittin’ to special occasions, thanks.
[ part of emma doesn't entirely expect faraday to accept the invitation, which may be why it's easier to offer up. it's intimate, certainly, but she also didn't...hate sleeping in that bed with him. in fact, she'd rested far better than she had in months, and that was significant enough on its own.
however, it's still a new layer to this...thing. and while she's no stranger to affection (and, in fact, misses it mightily since matthew's death), it's different with faraday. the implications, because of their marks, are greater, more weighty and hinged on this odd twist of fate.
but, in a way, the offer is another quiet acceptance on emma's part. she isn't rejecting him on principle alone, and given how the bond affects them both, she's not going to write it off immediately. ]
Think I could manage that. But does that mean you'll be keepin' the kind of comments that would warrant such retaliation to yourself?
[ she raises her eyebrows at him, like she's doubting his ability to be properly polite, because, well. she absolutely is. ]
[ Amusement blooms in his chest, made all the more obvious through their continued connection. Still, she hardly needs the bond to know that, considering the crooked, roguish smile that curves his mouth. ]
Doubtful.
[ Which is probably the most genuine answer he's given in months. ]
I believe there's a saying regarding old dogs and new tricks. Seems to hold water in this case.
[ He rolls his eyes at the comment on his age but doesn't respond to it beyond that.
His lips part to reply back, That just sounds like a challenge, but he falls quiet, watching her comb through her hair. His gaze flicks to the window, morning sunlight still flowing into the room, to the clock on her nightstand, and he frowns.
With a touch of hesitation, ]
... Suppose the two of us oughta get started on the day.
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no subject
It's terrifying, is what it is, but Emma has that steadfastness to her that Faraday has come to recognize as when her mind is made up. No doubts, no regrets – just churning forward.
Refusing the offer would do more harm than not, he thinks, and he's caused enough harm today. Faraday moves forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. Tries not to think of the dead man whose shoes he could never be able to fill.
He busies himself for a second with unraveling the blanket he had brought, spreading it out on the bed for that little bit of warmth, before he slowly crawls under the covers. He keeps to the edge of the mattress, leaving space between them. ]
This fine?
no subject
but again, it's not something she's eager to offer up, even if it's bound to bleed into their empathic link.
she finally swings her legs back into the bed, scooting under the blankets and making herself comfortable as she lays back. ]
More than fine, Faraday.
[ she shifts onto her side to look at him, though the space between them feels like a small country, for all that they haven't crossed it. no man's land, after a fashion, and though she wants to reach out, at least touch his arm or his hand, she holds herself back for now. this is...a big change already, and she doesn't want to overwhelm either or both of them in the midst of finding their footing in something new. ]
Comfortable enough?
no subject
If he had more distance to this strange evening, he'd find the whole thing laughable: going from snapping and snarling at each other like caged animals, to Faraday packing up his things and attempting an escape, to easing onto unstable ground and sharing a bed. It's likely that the quickness of it all has left Faraday in something of a daze, careening from one extreme to another. How else can he explain why he's gone from stepping out onto the street, intent on hobbling his way to the closest bus station, to lying with Emma goddamn Cullen in her bedroom?
Maybe in the morning he'll feel something beyond this uncertainty, this nervousness that tells him he's bound to screw something up, as was his way. For now, though, it fills him up, drones in his ears like a second pulse.
But her question, the mundaneness of it, makes him laugh a little; that's the sort of question one asks a guest, sitting on a lumpy couch. Or an ailing friend, resting in an unfamiliar chair. Some of his anxiety ebbs, and he forces himself to relax a little.
(Maybe they're just both lonely, a small voice tells him. Would it be much of a surprise if that were true?) ]
'M just fine.
[ he makes himself settle a little further, shuffling down a ways to get comfortable. It's a little odd for Faraday, sharing a bed without expecting sex to come into the equation, but speaking that thought aloud would likely shatter the brittle truce they've formed. ]
Get back to sleep. Mornin's not too far off.
no subject
it had almost felt as she had when she'd watched matthew die, like a gaping, ragged hole was being ripped into her chest all over again.
she still feels staggered by it, but...having faraday there, close, helps.
she also just feels exhausted by the day as a whole, from experiencing those echos of his pain during therapy to their throwdown right after, to the impending loss as she watched him walk from the house. all of it had drawn itself into a tight ball of anxiety and bone-deep tired, but somehow, seeing faraday beside her in her usually empty bed eases the tinge of loneliness that always seems to cling to her these days.
sometimes, holding herself up is— a lot. it takes so much out of her, and in the midst of juggling the process of rebuilding herself and her home, she's still trying to figure out how the mark and faraday fit into her life. complicated doesn't even begin to cover it, but the gentle warmth that suffuses her by being near him momentarily takes the edge off the complexity to let her relax.
and lord, if she doesn't need to relax, at least a touch.
she manages a nod, her eyes heavy as she drags the blanket tighter around her shoulders to fight off the chill. ]
Get some sleep yourself, all right?
[ because they both could use it after today. ]
no subject
It must be the proximity, he tells himself. Must be the mark curling on his arm, sending cooling flutters of ease through him. And maybe he should examine that feeling further, but he's too spent, too exhausted to care. ]
Yeah. [ Softly, in answer to her suggestion. ] I'll see you in the mornin', Emma.
no subject
...wait.
she hasn't woken to something so soothing in months (never something so complete even then, if she's honest), but— waking to sharing her bed with someone, to being curled up in a man's arms after a solid night's rest—
—she hasn't experienced that since matthew was gunned down in the street.
her eyes snap open, and she finds herself eye level with faraday's collarbone, the subtle smell of his skin surrounding her as she takes a deep, startled breath.
not matthew. definitely not matthew.
she's so startled out of the fog of connection and relief that she practically scrambles back, momentarily forgetting about faraday's still tender arm and leg as she tries to put some quick distance between them. ]
no subject
... It's peaceful. It's quiet. It's comfortable; warm in a way he hasn't experienced in quite some time.
What a shame, when that peace shatters.
Faraday wakes by degrees, though he's not sure what wakes him up first. The strange flicker of panic, echoing through their connection, maybe, or the shift of movement in the bed, of Emma stiffening against him.
What wakes him up entirely, though, is sudden blow to his arm as Emma scrambles out of his reach. For a few moments he only sees white, curling around his still healing arm with a sharp gasp. His good hand wraps around his scarred bicep and curses fall unbidden between clenched teeth.
... Welp. Good morning, Faraday. ]
no subject
what a fantastic way to start the morning.
she presses a hand over her own bicep without even realizing it, putting pressure on an ache that isn't her own, and she's swept with an immediate sense of remorse. ]
I— sorry, I was startled, I didn't mean—
[ to leap like that. to react with such surprise. to hurt him while she was at it. ]
It was an accident—
[ oh, goddamn it. ]
no subject
[ This, forced out between his teeth, his breathing ragged and labored. The nerves of his healing arm scream, shaking with tension – still sore from the other day, even worse now – and his right hand clenches into a fist, knuckles whitening and nails biting into his palms. ]
‘S fine.
[ Repeated, because saying it will make it true. And eventually it does, after what feels like ages, when the shrieking in his ears eases off, when the burning sensation in his bicep ebbs away.
Note to self, he thinks dully, don’t get shot again.
And don’t startle Emma Cullen.
He pushes himself up to sit, pulling his bad arm tightly against his side. Wide awake as he appears, sleep still clings to him, makes him squint in what morning light manages to filter into the room. A glance around reminds him that he and Emma shared the bed last night; he should probably feel awkward about it, but with his arm still smarting, he can’t bring up the effort required to care.
In a voice roughened by grogginess and pain, ]
The hell happened?
no subject
I just— was mighty surprised wakin' up so close like that. Suppose I'm not used to it anymore, is all.
[ her bed has been empty for a while now, and in the muddled uncertainty of sleep and barely-there consciousness, she'd been too alarmed and taken aback to realize it was just faraday (and to remember to be careful with him, at least more than this).
tentative, not quite sure of herself, she reaches out with her free hand, brushing fingers lightly over faraday's elbow, enough for that connection. she's been careful with the contact since he's been in her home, even after the night under the stars, but she remembers what it had done for them both when he'd first been shot in the town, how it had taken some of that edge off it all. the gesture now is small, but she mostly hopes it'll do something for the leftover pain, given that she's the one who aggravated it so terribly.
not like he'd done a single thing wrong (that she could tell). ]
It...caught me off guard.
[ and she'd reacted like a frightened animal, trying to get away as quickly as possible from something that startled and confused her. ]
no subject
Faraday doesn't remember the day of the battle with any true clarity – remembers mowing down men, remembers an all-consuming rage, remembers far more pain than any man should ever survive.
The first time they had touched, after he suffered the first bullet wound of many, is a hazy spot in his memory, and the time in the hospital was much the same. The only time he recalls vividly is when they grasped one another's hands in the early days after his release from the hospital. A dark, star-dappled sky above them and the night's chill around them.
And just as he did that time, he gives himself to the sensation, lets his body move of its own accord to lean toward her. It stands starkly at odds with how close he had been to willingly shoving this all behind him – but, well, there's much to be said for Faraday's tempestuous relationship with instant gratification. ]
'S fine.
[ More sincerely, that time, though it escapes him as more of a mumble. His left hand loosens its grip on his right arm, and he relaxes by slow degrees.
A quick glance up – something that could likely be categorized as shy – and the corner of his mouth quirks up. ]
This ain't too bad, as far as apologies go.
no subject
Thought it might do something to make it hurt less. It seems to ease things an awful lot.
[ touching him just— made everything oddly bearable, whether it was physical or circumstantial. it had the strange soothing effect of making the world a little less sharp and jagged, like it was just sanding down the edges of whatever ailed them.
in this case, that proves to be in their favor.
she lets her fingers press a little more fully against his skin, still gentle and mindful, but not the barest brush of contact anymore. ]
I'm still sorry for reactin' like that. Just odd having someone here again, if that makes any sense.
no subject
[ An involuntary response to her apology, as her touch becomes more sure. Because, for the briefest second as that feeling swelled, Faraday evidently forgot how words worked.
(He had a stormy sort of relationship with schooling, as well.)
He shakes his head a little, clearing the warm, rolling fog that tries its best to settle. Better than any booze, any drug he’s ever tried. He had called this habit-forming, once, but time and distance had made the memory of their contact a little less bright. Now, he remembers why he’d said that.
His left hand falls to his lap completely, this time, and he gives his right arm an experimental stretch. Still stings, but that’s about where he was before his rude awakening. ]
No harm done. [ Nothing lasting, anyway.
Faraday glances up again, and that usual roguish glint is gone from his eyes. His good shoulder lifts in a shrug. ] I get it, you know. Didn’t expect to see me, so you scrambled off like your bed was on fire.
[ His mouth curls in a rueful little smile. ] Can’t say that’s the first time I’ve had that happen, either.
no subject
I wouldn't go claimin' it was because it's you.
[ she shakes her head, but meets his eyes again. there's a melancholy tinge to her demeanor, but not something she wants to actively let slip. ]
This bed has been empty for a while now. If I was so opposed to wakin' up with you, I wouldn't have invited you in the first place.
[ which is true enough. waking up beside faraday doesn't bother her, but she'd been so startled by the change, when she'd just barely started to get used to being alone, that her sleep-hazy mind had reacted in the worst possible way (well, shy of actually punching him instead). ]
It's just— different now. I have to adjust to something else.
[ and faraday is that "something else." ]
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Faraday's not entirely convinced that it wasn't at least partially because it was him, even if she says as much, but he keeps the thought (and that flutter of doubt) to himself. ]
"Adjust," huh? [ He repeats it back lightly, in case she hadn't realized what she had said. ] Seems to imply you expect a repeat of this.
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oh.
she certainly doesn't blush, absolutely not. must be a trick of the early morning light that her cheeks seem a bit pink. ]
I— don't expect it. [ she tries to be careful with her words now, not wanting to tip her hand any more than she already had. ] But I suppose I wouldn't be opposed.
If that's something you'd also find yourself amenable to.
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But he keeps those comments to himself. Instead, ]
Depends. [ His head tilts slightly, and his voice takes on a teasing timbre. ] You likely to try and punch my teeth out the next time?
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I wasn't plannin' on it. Can't say as you've done anything to deserve it.
[ but she adds (without too much sincerity), ]
Yet.
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He stretches his arm again, smoothing his other hand over the reddened scar. ]
Suppose it’s just as well that I can take a punch. [ And a half-dozen bullets. And an explosion. But he’s more well-versed in shaking off a punch to the face than any of those. ]
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[ she says it matter-of-factly, like she's not talking about punching him in the face. she's mostly trying to do something to keep it from being awkward or tense or...from really focusing on the fact that she's giving him an open invitation to her bedroom.
(even if that's what it is.) ]
But I won't make a habit of it.
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Inconvenient, is what it is.
[ Brightly, like he’s not talking about getting punched in the face.
And truthfully, the invitation is… odd. And the jokes are welcome, because as yet, Faraday’s not entirely sure how to react or how he should react – which, in his experience, are often two very different things. The invitation to stay in her home had been one thing: a matter of practicality for him, considering he had no place to return to. A matter of— politeness, he supposes, for her. Gratitude. Indebtedness.
(His mind drifts to yesterday’s argument, and he inwardly cringes.)
But this is… new. Not at all what he’s used to. Offers to share a bed are a dime a dozen, admittedly, but that had been strictly sexual. This is intimate, and he’s not rightly sure what the endgame might be.
He takes a deep breath, forces that air of levity that so often wreathes him. ]
My teeth and I would appreciate it if we kept the hittin’ to special occasions, thanks.
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however, it's still a new layer to this...thing. and while she's no stranger to affection (and, in fact, misses it mightily since matthew's death), it's different with faraday. the implications, because of their marks, are greater, more weighty and hinged on this odd twist of fate.
but, in a way, the offer is another quiet acceptance on emma's part. she isn't rejecting him on principle alone, and given how the bond affects them both, she's not going to write it off immediately. ]
Think I could manage that. But does that mean you'll be keepin' the kind of comments that would warrant such retaliation to yourself?
[ she raises her eyebrows at him, like she's doubting his ability to be properly polite, because, well. she absolutely is. ]
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Doubtful.
[ Which is probably the most genuine answer he's given in months. ]
I believe there's a saying regarding old dogs and new tricks. Seems to hold water in this case.
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[ was that an old joke? probably. ]
I suppose it's fortunate for you, then, I have more self control and less inclination to go knockin' your teeth out on a few ill-mannered comments.
[ she shrugs lightly, reaching up to run fingers through her own hair, gently working out a few knots and tangles. ]
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His lips part to reply back, That just sounds like a challenge, but he falls quiet, watching her comb through her hair. His gaze flicks to the window, morning sunlight still flowing into the room, to the clock on her nightstand, and he frowns.
With a touch of hesitation, ]
... Suppose the two of us oughta get started on the day.
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