[ faraday's words actually startle emma, and she wishes she had more than a moment to react to what he's said, but then his hand is passing right through hers and her entire body seizes up.
there is it: that flash of desperate cold that she swears near freezes the blood in her veins, like her whole body has been dunked under a wintery lake, and despite the fact that it only lasts the briefest of moments, she's left wide-eyed and shivering.
well. she's sure awake now.
she pulls her hand back, gently gripping her arm and near hugging herself to ward off that flash of death her nerves seem to instinctively realize they've encountered. death and something not of this world: she supposes that's what faraday is, but it's only when she feels something like this that she remembers it.
she leans against the wall behind her bed, eyes far more alert as she looks at faraday now, some of those ghosts banished with her exhaustion. instead of a "thank you," she says instead: ]
You've– never been asked to hold a woman's hand before?
[ she feels a flicker of regret, then, that this is the manner in which he's held hers (if it could even be called that), and she's caught off guard by the odd ache in her chest that wishes she could have foregone the ghostly contact for something more substantial, like actually feeling faraday's hand on hers again.
(in better circumstances, maybe, than on the hill as he lay dying. she'd held his hand then, but that had been far different.)
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there is it: that flash of desperate cold that she swears near freezes the blood in her veins, like her whole body has been dunked under a wintery lake, and despite the fact that it only lasts the briefest of moments, she's left wide-eyed and shivering.
well. she's sure awake now.
she pulls her hand back, gently gripping her arm and near hugging herself to ward off that flash of death her nerves seem to instinctively realize they've encountered. death and something not of this world: she supposes that's what faraday is, but it's only when she feels something like this that she remembers it.
she leans against the wall behind her bed, eyes far more alert as she looks at faraday now, some of those ghosts banished with her exhaustion. instead of a "thank you," she says instead: ]
You've– never been asked to hold a woman's hand before?
[ she feels a flicker of regret, then, that this is the manner in which he's held hers (if it could even be called that), and she's caught off guard by the odd ache in her chest that wishes she could have foregone the ghostly contact for something more substantial, like actually feeling faraday's hand on hers again.
(in better circumstances, maybe, than on the hill as he lay dying. she'd held his hand then, but that had been far different.)
...what an odd impulse that sure is. ]