One. Faraday and Emma were... friends. Friendly? Probably friends, though Faraday had so few of those, he wasn't entirely sure. Close, at least, or close enough that having parted from one another's company for that short (long. interminably long.) week had soured the two of them to the idea of being apart again. Faraday, because he'd grown used to the way Emma would rib at him, would tease him in a way she never had while he was alive, and he found he was fond of it. Emma, for reasons that were purely her own, but he hopes it has something to do with enjoying his company, rather than enjoying the way he fills the silence of her home, like white noise.
Two. Faraday could— feel again. Physically, that is. Could touch and discern textures and temperature, when before it was simply a matter of pressure. He knew how much strength was too much or too little, but little more than that, before. Now, though, he could count the number of cards passing over his fingers, could pick apart when he had passed over two or one. He could feel the heat of fire (though it still didn't hurt him), the chill of the cold air. And Lord, he hadn't realized how much he missed it until he had recovered that sense.
Three. Faraday was something approaching solid again. He could still pass through things if he wanted, but it required a conscious effort. Before, he would need to think on grasping something, or else he would merely phase through. Now, he needs to think on phasing through, or else he would bump right into it. An odd change, and something he was still mastering – which made walking through town a little treacherous. These days, when he had occasion to follow Emma through Rose Creek, the two of them avoided crowded areas; he's bumped into someone at least once or twice, left them bewildered and cursing their clumsiness. Amusing as it is, he doesn't care to keep repeating the mistake, or else the town could fall into a paranoid frenzy.
And four. Apparently this change in Faraday had become a source of some curiosity and amusement for Emma, because not a day passed without her testing his solidity at least a handful of times. Sometimes in small ways, by brushing a hand across his arm or poking him in the side. Sometimes in large ways, by throwing something soft across the room at him or jabbing at his chest with whatever tool she happened to have on hand at the time. There was some novelty to it, the first few times – because rarely had Faraday seen Emma partake in something as whimsical as this – but as the experiments continued, Faraday found himself simply exasperated by it.
As is the case now.
The sun had long ago set, and the two of them sit side-by-side in front of the flickering fire. The warmth suffuses the room, fills it with a cozy sort of light, as Faraday shows her a basic card skill – a quick lesson in how to backpalm a card. He demonstrates again how he tucks the card between his fingers, how he flicks his middle and ring finger beneath to flip it over and back—
—when the edge of a blanket is abruptly thrown over his head.
Faraday falls silent for a moment, his hands dropping to his lap, letting the blanket simply hang there to cover his face.
Then, in a flat voice slightly muffled by the fabric, ]
no subject
One. Faraday and Emma were... friends. Friendly? Probably friends, though Faraday had so few of those, he wasn't entirely sure. Close, at least, or close enough that having parted from one another's company for that short (long. interminably long.) week had soured the two of them to the idea of being apart again. Faraday, because he'd grown used to the way Emma would rib at him, would tease him in a way she never had while he was alive, and he found he was fond of it. Emma, for reasons that were purely her own, but he hopes it has something to do with enjoying his company, rather than enjoying the way he fills the silence of her home, like white noise.
Two. Faraday could— feel again. Physically, that is. Could touch and discern textures and temperature, when before it was simply a matter of pressure. He knew how much strength was too much or too little, but little more than that, before. Now, though, he could count the number of cards passing over his fingers, could pick apart when he had passed over two or one. He could feel the heat of fire (though it still didn't hurt him), the chill of the cold air. And Lord, he hadn't realized how much he missed it until he had recovered that sense.
Three. Faraday was something approaching solid again. He could still pass through things if he wanted, but it required a conscious effort. Before, he would need to think on grasping something, or else he would merely phase through. Now, he needs to think on phasing through, or else he would bump right into it. An odd change, and something he was still mastering – which made walking through town a little treacherous. These days, when he had occasion to follow Emma through Rose Creek, the two of them avoided crowded areas; he's bumped into someone at least once or twice, left them bewildered and cursing their clumsiness. Amusing as it is, he doesn't care to keep repeating the mistake, or else the town could fall into a paranoid frenzy.
And four. Apparently this change in Faraday had become a source of some curiosity and amusement for Emma, because not a day passed without her testing his solidity at least a handful of times. Sometimes in small ways, by brushing a hand across his arm or poking him in the side. Sometimes in large ways, by throwing something soft across the room at him or jabbing at his chest with whatever tool she happened to have on hand at the time. There was some novelty to it, the first few times – because rarely had Faraday seen Emma partake in something as whimsical as this – but as the experiments continued, Faraday found himself simply exasperated by it.
As is the case now.
The sun had long ago set, and the two of them sit side-by-side in front of the flickering fire. The warmth suffuses the room, fills it with a cozy sort of light, as Faraday shows her a basic card skill – a quick lesson in how to backpalm a card. He demonstrates again how he tucks the card between his fingers, how he flicks his middle and ring finger beneath to flip it over and back—
—when the edge of a blanket is abruptly thrown over his head.
Faraday falls silent for a moment, his hands dropping to his lap, letting the blanket simply hang there to cover his face.
Then, in a flat voice slightly muffled by the fabric, ]
Really.
Come on.