[ Her warning is met with a quick little smirk, something that says, Try and make me.

But she looks worn, he thinks. Tired. And given the hour, he’s none too surprised. He understands her reluctance, though, having experienced the same, time and time again. Nightmares grasping for him during his waking hours, just on the edge but close enough that he could feel coldness brushing against the back of his neck. He’d hate to return to them, just as much she would.

Still, there’s a certain structure and routine to Emma’s life that Faraday lacked in his. He made about half of his money hustling, the other half taking up odd jobs, which meant he could while away his sleeplessness at a card table. He wouldn’t make as much, granted, but it was better than hard labor. Not quite the case, here, where practicality reigns supreme, and he picks up the cards off the bed, moves to stand. ]

You ought to try and get back to bed. As much I’d enjoy seein’ it, you’ll be no use if you’re stumbling around half-drunk from exhaustion.