[ As with most things, he takes that look on the chin – returns it even, with full force. He watches her with a sharp gaze – a level of perception that served him well in life, and now, apparently, serves to catch the barest hint of a wince, as much as she tries to hide it. (That pang of guilt again, ringing like a church bell.
Lesson learned, apparently, and far quicker than any lecture might have taught him. No more frightening Emma.)
His gaze flicks down to her hands as she checks her cut, then back to her face, watching for tells – a skill he used in his card games, watching for facial tics or reading his opponent's body language. Faraday keeps his vigil for another second, before tilting his head slightly. ]
Why, Miss Emma Cullen.
[ He takes a second to peer at her, eyes narrowed and piercing, before he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. ]
You're lyin'. Don't they teach you up in that church it's a sin?
no subject
Lesson learned, apparently, and far quicker than any lecture might have taught him. No more frightening Emma.)
His gaze flicks down to her hands as she checks her cut, then back to her face, watching for tells – a skill he used in his card games, watching for facial tics or reading his opponent's body language. Faraday keeps his vigil for another second, before tilting his head slightly. ]
Why, Miss Emma Cullen.
[ He takes a second to peer at her, eyes narrowed and piercing, before he clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval. ]
You're lyin'. Don't they teach you up in that church it's a sin?