[ Stilted as his thanks are, it would've been even worse if she had interrupted. He would have gladly suffered a joke, though, considering what he was in life – what he is now. Always did like a good joke, Faraday, always could've done with a bit of ribbing to poke holes in his arrogance.
He might've done better with a bit of ridicule, even, because her sincerity makes him itch. Appreciative as he is for her kindness, he doesn't think he's ever had so much directed at him all at once in his life. It's a strange feeling – something caught between discomfited and proud at once. He thinks it might actually feel kind of nice, as much as it chafes.
But there's his name again, formed in her voice. (He hasn't been called Joshua in so many years. He can count on one hand the number of people in this state alone to whom he's personally told his name.) The shock of it makes him look up again, makes him catch her eyes with his. Apprehension and uncertainty warring with that fiery resolve he's come to understand as so purely Emma Cullen.
For a little while, he just nods at her words – it's all he can manage, really, because a lump manifests in his throat, traps up his voice. But there's surprise on his face, and relief, too, and he thinks that maybe this existence, whatever the hell it might be, might not be so bad if he's got at least one person to talk to.
Assuming he comes back, that is. It hadn't been a concern before, but it's a concern now, and he feels worry start to gnaw in his gut. This might be it. Faraday, as he knows himself, might very well be gone after this very moment. But... maybe if he holds on to that dangerous sort of hope, things might be alright.
Quietly, in a voice strained and roughened by his gratitude, he says, ] I'll try.
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He might've done better with a bit of ridicule, even, because her sincerity makes him itch. Appreciative as he is for her kindness, he doesn't think he's ever had so much directed at him all at once in his life. It's a strange feeling – something caught between discomfited and proud at once. He thinks it might actually feel kind of nice, as much as it chafes.
But there's his name again, formed in her voice. (He hasn't been called Joshua in so many years. He can count on one hand the number of people in this state alone to whom he's personally told his name.) The shock of it makes him look up again, makes him catch her eyes with his. Apprehension and uncertainty warring with that fiery resolve he's come to understand as so purely Emma Cullen.
For a little while, he just nods at her words – it's all he can manage, really, because a lump manifests in his throat, traps up his voice. But there's surprise on his face, and relief, too, and he thinks that maybe this existence, whatever the hell it might be, might not be so bad if he's got at least one person to talk to.
Assuming he comes back, that is. It hadn't been a concern before, but it's a concern now, and he feels worry start to gnaw in his gut. This might be it. Faraday, as he knows himself, might very well be gone after this very moment. But... maybe if he holds on to that dangerous sort of hope, things might be alright.
Quietly, in a voice strained and roughened by his gratitude, he says, ] I'll try.
Emma... tha—
[ And he disappears from sight. ]