[ He repeats it back, still in that flat sort of voice, and lifts the edge of the blanket with his arm to cast her a level, unimpressed look. ]
This must be the thousandth time you’ve tested it.
[ Faraday pulls the blanket off of him, flings the edge over Emma’s head as a petty sort of revenge. He allows himself a smile, once her vision is obscured, entertained by this surprisingly playful side of her. She never behaved this way before their brief falling out, and there was a time long ago when he honestly thought she was incapable of a smile. Given the tragedies she had experienced, though, he couldn’t blame her.
Now, though, she smiles. She laughs. And a lot of the time, he finds pride in being the one who coaxed it out of her, in being able to share it with her. This playfulness is new, though, and he finds it charming. Even if it does occasionally leave him with a small pile of pillows or blankets pooling around his feet after a particularly spirited bout of “just checking.”
Whenever she manages to pull the blanket away, his quickly wrangles his expression, smooths it out to something neutral. ]
You know, I’m beginning to believe you may never actually be satisfied.
[ if emma actually believed she was getting on faraday's nerves (more than general exasperation), she'd likely knock it off, cut him some slack, but as it stands, she gets enough of a kick out of seeing him sigh and scoff.
(revenge, she's decided, for all of the times he'd moved her possessions or rearranged her house oh-so subtly.)
pulling the blanket back off her head, she's still smiling at him, looking pleased with herself. ]
You may be right.
[ she smooths down the blanket, reaching up to fix her hair after the slight mussing from the fabric. ]
But if I continue testin', it's far more certain that you're just the same as you were the last time.
[ she gives a shrug, lifting the blanket this time to drape it over his legs as well as her own; now that he's aware of the temperature around them and outside, she tries to be more conscious of making sure she's not the only one who's comfortable. ]
Besides, I like the look you always get.
[ that impish little grin is back, small as anything but just as obvious. ]
Edited (W O R D C H O I C E ) 2016-10-17 19:26 (UTC)
[ He answers her justification with a roll of his eyes, staring up at the ceiling and exhaling heavily, as though asking the heavens for patience.
A slight weight settles over his lap after that quick second, and he looks a little surprised once she drapes the blanket over him – properly, this time, rather than trying to blind him – and for a moment that strikes him as— something. Something he doesn’t quite have a word for, but it drags up that little coil of warmth again, and he thinks that maybe if he had blood still pumping in his veins, he would feel heat rushing up his neck.
It’s not necessary, really, because while he feels heat and cold, neither of them bother him the way they would have while he was living. Still, he appreciates the gesture, and he smiles a little unconsciously at it.
… Though the expression gets wiped away at her comment, at that mischievous glint in her eye to match that small smile curling her lips, and his expression once again goes flat. ]
I do not get a look.
[ he says, while completely and utterly wearing a look. ]
I’m sure I’ve got no earthly idea what you’re referring to.
[ it takes a whole host of willpower to keep her grin under control, but emma can't quite keep from laughing — soft, but warm and mirthful. ]
Then it's a shame I haven't a mirror here to show you exactly what sort of look you're wearin'.
[ she reaches up, giving his cheek a gentle poke.
she's become freer with physical touch — not constantly and not with full contact, but still, things like prodding him or brushing his arm are easy, but more tactile gestures are still outside her repertoire. she's not used to be all that affectionate, anyway, and certainly not with people she'd call friends, but...bothering faraday is an exception.
and there's something oddly satisfying about reminding herself that he's there with a flicker of physical contact, given the times since his death that she'd just gone right through him. ]
[ When she pokes him, he scowls, half-heartedly lifting a hand to slaps hers away. ]
Quit it.
[ Though he says it without any heat or conviction – a token protest, really, because as much as she’s purposefully trying to drive him slightly mad with her little trials, gestures like these with direct contact are still rare. And part of him appreciates the reminder, really, that for whatever he is, he also knows what he’s not. No longer incorporeal, for one. No longer some chilly thing, some grim reminder of death that left behind trails of ice with his every touch. (And thank the Lord for that, because having to make a conscious effort to avoid touching Emma had made him feel a bit like some kind of leper.)
Faraday isn’t alive, and that’s not going to change, but sometimes he wonders if he’s getting closer. Not quite meeting that line, but toeing its edge. He has no idea what it means, has no idea why his unlife has taken this course, but as with all things, he does what he can with it. ]
Don’t need a mirror. This is just my face, Emma Cullen, and I’m a touch offended that you’re findin’ such reason to be amused by it.
If you didn't intend me to be amused, maybe you ought to do something about that expression you've got.
[ because if anything actually makes her laugh about all of this, it's absolutely faraday's reactions. the prodding and testing wouldn't be nearly as much fun if he didn't get so offended, hilariously deadpan and exasperated, and emma finds it perfectly fitting after all the time she's spent rolling her eyes at the gambler. ]
You get all kinds of looks on that face of yours, Faraday, and plenty more when I'm—
[ she's interrupted by a determined yawn, which she's quick to hide behind her hand, her nose wrinkling in a near adorable manner as she tries to tamp down the reflex. ]
—"just checking." [ she finishes, blinking a few times to fight off the tiredness that's trying to settle in.
it's late, if she's honest; she tends to lose track of time when they're up like this, just talking and trading tricks, whiling the evening away. because faraday doesn't get exhausted the way she does, she tends to forget to keep a proper schedule in favor of the time spent with him, but sometimes, after it passes a certain hour, her body starts to catch up to her, reminding her that the sun is long set and she ought to be in bed. ]
[ This time, the corners of his mouth turn downward in an exaggerated frown when she points out his expression – obviously more for show than any earnest displeasure. Over the course of her "checking," Faraday finds he likes the way she smiles at him, how genuine her amusement seems to be. It's... sweet, he thinks. He likes seeing it, even if it's at his own expense.
Her yawn, though, earns a more sincere frown, and he straightens a little. A quick glance at the window tells him night has well and truly set in, and while he's unsure of the exact time, he gets the feeling it must be late. Sleep wasn't something he needed anymore, which meant his internal clock, such as it was, tended to be skewed. Evidently his bad habit – or lack thereof – was rubbing off on Emma. ]
Gettin' awful late.
[ An observation, because telling her to get to bed would likely be answered with stonewalling. Or possibly a pillow directly to the face. It was hard to tell, these days. ]
[ emma's gaze follows faraday's to the window, because she really hadn't noticed how quickly the time was passing — though she's not especially bothered by it. ]
Is it?
[ her words are less of a question and more a dismissal of the notion that it's gotten a little too late, because she knows what faraday is trying to infer with remarking on the hour like that.
she rubs a hand over her eyes, then looks back at the gambler, a bit of determination in her gaze. she's obviously not trekking off to bed just yet. ]
Show me that trick again?
[ she'd rather watch faraday with the cards, anyhow — though it's not necessarily an avoidance of sleep for any of her previous reasons. her nightmares have lessened, slightly, but what's made the real difference is that with faraday can actually touch her to wake her up. the contact proves to be soothing, moreso than just his voice, and she's been grateful for the times he's pulled her out of those darker dreams. ]
[ He pauses for a moment, hands stilling as he watches her. It is late, he knows that much, and knows that if Emma intends to get a full night’s rest, she’s better off heading to bed soon. But he also knows that a horse led to water can’t be made to drink – especially one as stubborn as Emma can be – so at length, he quietly sighs, settling back in and making himself more comfortable. ]
This one boils down to pure practice and showmanship.
[ A reiteration of his previous instructions, because he’s not entirely sure if she had actually been paying attention while he demonstrated before, or if she had been watching him absently while silently determining the best way to pester him to test his solidity.
Good chances, either way, though he weighs it a little more toward the latter than the former.
He flashes a card – a six of spades – and holds it up. He waves his arm up and down, counting off each upward swing, and when he reaches “three,” he mimes tossing the card into the air. The quick motion conceals the way he flicks it behind his hand, hiding it from view. Another quick wave to show his empty palm, fingers pressed together firmly to hold the edges of the card. His hand darts out again, and the card appears between his forefinger and thumb, as though he had picked it from thin air.
After that, he slows the trick down, shows how he pinches the card’s edges between his fingers, demonstrates how he uses his ring and middle fingers to flick the card over and back behind his hand. He explains the production as well, how he relaxes his fingers to bring the card forward again, before he holds the card out to her. ]
[ emma may not have been paying as much attention the first time he'd showed her this trick, and this time, she's fighting to keep her eyes open, but she's still watching as closely as she can. part of her is amazed by how quickly he's recovered these skills since he's become solid again (or whatever it is he is now), but she knows what he's capable of, remembers seeing him show these tricks to the children of rose creek, and seeing it up close and personal, explained to her even, is actually a kind of treat. ]
Not nearly as hard as it— [ another yawn ] —looks at first.
[ she nods in agreement, reaching out to take the card from him, to smooth her thumb across the six before offering it back. ]
Once more?
[ she wants to see it again, of course, but her eyelids are heavy, sleep getting harder to fight off.
of course, she refuses to actively admit that she's tired, stubborn as she always will be, but she's determined to learn this trick of faraday's too. ]
[ His eyebrow quirks as another yawn works its way out of her, and again he watches her, eyes staying on her face even as he plucks the card from her fingers. He notes the way she fights off sleep, how her eyelids threaten to shut even as she forces them open, how her posture is that much more loose than before. ]
…Alright, then. If you like.
[ There’s a thread of warm amusement in his voice, something that mingles with his skepticism – because determined as she is, Faraday doubts she’ll be able to ward off sleep’s siren call for much longer. He’ll have to convince her to get to bed at some point, he thinks, and that should be interesting. He might even be able to trot out that sort of long-suffering, lecturing tone Emma uses so often on him.
(She’ll hate that, he thinks with some glee.)
He does the trick again – once at speed with his usual flourishes, as he would have performed it in life. A second time without the trappings, still at his normal speed. Without the embellishments, the deception is nearly as clear as day, but the added movements help to conceal the sleight-of-hand at work. The third time he performs the back palm, he performs it at half speed, rotating his hand to show how the trick looks from the back. ]
[ emma manages to watch through the first demonstration of the trick. her eyes stay open the entire time, but the second runthrough, her head actually starts to bob forward as she actively nods off. she straightens up a touch, keeps her eyes on the cards, but on the third, slower show of the back palm, her eyes slide shut...
...and she's fast asleep.
she doesn't fall forward, fortunately, but instead just sort of relaxes to the side, her body coming to rest gently against faraday's arm, her head lolling onto his shoulder. she's completely unaware of it, of course, but he seems to already be enough of a satisfactory pillow that she doesn't even stir as she leans against him.
it's rare that emma is even around someone who can make her feel at ease enough to sleep in front of them, let alone another person she'll fall asleep on, but he's solid and comforting and there, and emma is just out like a light.
she obviously needs the sleep if she's gotten so relaxed all at once, that she's just near passed right out there with faraday, but it's warm in front of the fire with the blanket and her friend, and she just can't help it. ]
[ It’s as he’s producing the card on the third demonstration that he feels the way she settles against him, and for a moment he lets out a quiet sigh, assuming this is another one of her experiments. ]
Really? Again? [ he turns his face toward her, wearing that flat, exasperated look again. ] You “just checked” not five seconds—
[ —ago.
He tenses when he notices that her eyes are shut, that her breath has evened out, that she’s relaxed against him, in a way that can only signal sleep. A rush of warmth flows through his chest at that – and he’s not sure what that is, except it makes something tighten in his stomach, would’ve stolen his breath if he had air in his lungs.
Faraday frowns at himself, tries to squash that strange sensation down for the umpteenth time – or at the very least, tries to tamp it out enough that he can ignore it.
She’s well and truly asleep, he knows, but he still sets the cards to one side and ventures softly, ] Emma? You awake?
[ emma doesn't even stir when he says her name; she's so relaxed and deeply asleep that it doesn't even bother her. if anything, she curls closer, pulling the blanket up with her a little higher, her face turning to press into his arm.
it's been so many months since she's been this close to another person, since she's had this level of contact with someone.
since matthew, really.
part of her just aches for some form of physicality, some kind of affection — though she'll never admit it aloud. apparently, in sleep, is the only opportunity she has to express that need, and with faraday there, putting her at ease, she subconsciously leans into the soothing warmth of...him, and whatever he actually is. ]
[ … Alright, he decides, tensing all the more as she seems to settle against him, she’s definitely asleep.
No other reason why she would do— this, really. Must not have realized who she was leaning against, exhausted as she was, must’ve just let instinct take over as her body succumbed to its need for rest. No point reading anything into this, he thinks.
(He also thinks, Why would there be anything to read, Faraday? but quickly shakes the question from his head.)
He should probably wake her so she can get to bed. Comfortable as she may seem now, that position isn’t likely to do her any favors come morning. Still, though, the idea of rousing her makes guilt pang through him. She seems relaxed. Content. And knowing how often her sleep is plagued with bad dreams, it seems cruel to draw her out of a peaceful sleep. For a second or two, he casts around, as if he could draw an answer from the ether. At long last, he forces himself to relax himself, and reaches a decision.
Slowly, he turns toward her, easing her from resting against his shoulder until she rests against his chest, and gently, he bundles the blanket around her, easing his arm beneath her legs. He lifts her, one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, tucking her against him – and he thanks every star in heaven that he’s changed enough for this; he’d hate to think how this would have ended up if his physicality had been what it was only weeks ago.
He carries her to bed (tries to ignore every flash of warmth that explodes through him as he feels the soft brush of her hair against his chin, her gentle breath against his neck). It’s a bit awkward going, but he turns down the blankets, and carefully deposits her onto the mattress. ]
Get some sleep. [ Whispered, as he’s tucking the blankets up around her. He doubts she’ll hear him, but he says it anyway – because maybe saying it will make it true, make it real? ] Sweet dreams.
[ in the morning, emma will wonder how she ended up in her bed when they last thing she remembers is faraday showing her card tricks. she'll wonder how she came to be so carefully, tentatively tucked in, and what faraday could have had to do with it, but...she'll appreciate it.
as his hand finishes pulling up the blankets, she stirs — not enough to wake, but enough to reach for his arm, fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt for something to cling to, to keep that contact there with her.
to keep him there. ]
Josh...ua.
[ it's the softest, barest whisper, hardly even a breath as she turns her head on her pillow, still lightly holding on to his shirt. ]
[ He freezes again as she stirs, tries not to make a noise, worried he might have woken her. Her fingers grasp his sleeve, loose enough that he could easily pull himself from her grasp – and he considers it for a brief moment, wonders if he ought to let her rest. Given how quickly and how deeply she had fallen asleep, she clearly needed it. But Faraday has always been the type of man to indulge himself, to make little selfish choices, so instead of drifting away, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed.
Emma's not quite awake still, he thinks with some relief; the short distance from the hearth to her bed hasn't roused her much, it seems, and he wonders if she's caught halfway between reality and some dream. He's surprised to hear his name on her lips, because—
(he wondered if she would mistake him for Matthew)
—well. It doesn't matter what he thought.
But his voice gentles, adopting a softness he would never use while she was awake. ]
[ she's not nearly awake enough to realize that he's sitting there with her, but there's something about the quietness of his voice, the gentle grip she still has on his arm, that settles her all the same. this isn't a kind of moment she'd ask him for if she'd been aware of it, because as many allowances as she's made, as much of her as faraday has seen, she wouldn't reach for him like this, if she'd been awake.
but whatever part of her that wants that closeness realizes that he's there, hasn't gone anywhere at all, and she just curls onto her side, fingers still closed in his sleeve. he could easily pull away from her, get up and find something else to amuse himself with, but the way she's settled is near as close as she can get, and that puts her even more at ease.
there's obviously something about having faraday there that comforts her, and if anything, she looks even more peaceful in her bed, her expression smoothed back into restful sleep as she keeps lightly holding onto his shirt.
she wants him there in that moment, whether or not she'd be brave (or foolish?) enough to admit it otherwise. ]
[ It's a simple gesture, really, all things considered. Grasping onto his sleeve like that. Curling toward him like that. Warmth, for instance, and considering the vague chill that pervades the air, even with the fire crackling in the hearth that's something he could understand. Comfort, maybe, like the way a child might hug a teddy bear as they slept. Sweet, really, though Faraday is unsure if that's the case, here.
He's unsure of a whole lot of things, really, chief among them being why, exactly, this whole thing makes him feel as though he's standing one-legged on the edge of a precipice?
Because he feels unbalanced. Turned around. Has that dizzy, heart-stopping (if his heart hadn't already stopped for good) impression that he's on the verge of something dangerous, and that if Faraday had any sense in him, he would back away and never stop.
But Faraday always did like a stupid gamble.
Which is why he simply sits there, letting her fingers grasp at his sleeve, listening to the evenness of her breath as she sleeps, and he waits. And he wonders. And he dances away from examining the blossoming heat in his chest too closely. So he waits. He stays. Because breaking the contact might wake her, he tells himself. Because standing up from the bed, which had dipped slightly under his newfound weight, might unsettle her. Because during the night, she might be plagued with bad dreams, and she would want him to help fend them off.
The night passes, and he waits, and when she releases his sleeve at last (too soon. far too soon.) he lets out a quiet breath. Carefully, he stands from the bed, casting her one last glance, before he drifts away.
He'll return the next day, but— tonight has given him quite a bit to think about. ]
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no subject
[ He repeats it back, still in that flat sort of voice, and lifts the edge of the blanket with his arm to cast her a level, unimpressed look. ]
This must be the thousandth time you’ve tested it.
[ Faraday pulls the blanket off of him, flings the edge over Emma’s head as a petty sort of revenge. He allows himself a smile, once her vision is obscured, entertained by this surprisingly playful side of her. She never behaved this way before their brief falling out, and there was a time long ago when he honestly thought she was incapable of a smile. Given the tragedies she had experienced, though, he couldn’t blame her.
Now, though, she smiles. She laughs. And a lot of the time, he finds pride in being the one who coaxed it out of her, in being able to share it with her. This playfulness is new, though, and he finds it charming. Even if it does occasionally leave him with a small pile of pillows or blankets pooling around his feet after a particularly spirited bout of “just checking.”
Whenever she manages to pull the blanket away, his quickly wrangles his expression, smooths it out to something neutral. ]
You know, I’m beginning to believe you may never actually be satisfied.
no subject
(revenge, she's decided, for all of the times he'd moved her possessions or rearranged her house oh-so subtly.)
pulling the blanket back off her head, she's still smiling at him, looking pleased with herself. ]
You may be right.
[ she smooths down the blanket, reaching up to fix her hair after the slight mussing from the fabric. ]
But if I continue testin', it's far more certain that you're just the same as you were the last time.
[ she gives a shrug, lifting the blanket this time to drape it over his legs as well as her own; now that he's aware of the temperature around them and outside, she tries to be more conscious of making sure she's not the only one who's comfortable. ]
Besides, I like the look you always get.
[ that impish little grin is back, small as anything but just as obvious. ]
no subject
A slight weight settles over his lap after that quick second, and he looks a little surprised once she drapes the blanket over him – properly, this time, rather than trying to blind him – and for a moment that strikes him as— something. Something he doesn’t quite have a word for, but it drags up that little coil of warmth again, and he thinks that maybe if he had blood still pumping in his veins, he would feel heat rushing up his neck.
It’s not necessary, really, because while he feels heat and cold, neither of them bother him the way they would have while he was living. Still, he appreciates the gesture, and he smiles a little unconsciously at it.
… Though the expression gets wiped away at her comment, at that mischievous glint in her eye to match that small smile curling her lips, and his expression once again goes flat. ]
I do not get a look.
[ he says, while completely and utterly wearing a look. ]
I’m sure I’ve got no earthly idea what you’re referring to.
no subject
Then it's a shame I haven't a mirror here to show you exactly what sort of look you're wearin'.
[ she reaches up, giving his cheek a gentle poke.
she's become freer with physical touch — not constantly and not with full contact, but still, things like prodding him or brushing his arm are easy, but more tactile gestures are still outside her repertoire. she's not used to be all that affectionate, anyway, and certainly not with people she'd call friends, but...bothering faraday is an exception.
and there's something oddly satisfying about reminding herself that he's there with a flicker of physical contact, given the times since his death that she'd just gone right through him. ]
no subject
Quit it.
[ Though he says it without any heat or conviction – a token protest, really, because as much as she’s purposefully trying to drive him slightly mad with her little trials, gestures like these with direct contact are still rare. And part of him appreciates the reminder, really, that for whatever he is, he also knows what he’s not. No longer incorporeal, for one. No longer some chilly thing, some grim reminder of death that left behind trails of ice with his every touch. (And thank the Lord for that, because having to make a conscious effort to avoid touching Emma had made him feel a bit like some kind of leper.)
Faraday isn’t alive, and that’s not going to change, but sometimes he wonders if he’s getting closer. Not quite meeting that line, but toeing its edge. He has no idea what it means, has no idea why his unlife has taken this course, but as with all things, he does what he can with it. ]
Don’t need a mirror. This is just my face, Emma Cullen, and I’m a touch offended that you’re findin’ such reason to be amused by it.
no subject
[ because if anything actually makes her laugh about all of this, it's absolutely faraday's reactions. the prodding and testing wouldn't be nearly as much fun if he didn't get so offended, hilariously deadpan and exasperated, and emma finds it perfectly fitting after all the time she's spent rolling her eyes at the gambler. ]
You get all kinds of looks on that face of yours, Faraday, and plenty more when I'm—
[ she's interrupted by a determined yawn, which she's quick to hide behind her hand, her nose wrinkling in a near adorable manner as she tries to tamp down the reflex. ]
—"just checking." [ she finishes, blinking a few times to fight off the tiredness that's trying to settle in.
it's late, if she's honest; she tends to lose track of time when they're up like this, just talking and trading tricks, whiling the evening away. because faraday doesn't get exhausted the way she does, she tends to forget to keep a proper schedule in favor of the time spent with him, but sometimes, after it passes a certain hour, her body starts to catch up to her, reminding her that the sun is long set and she ought to be in bed. ]
no subject
Her yawn, though, earns a more sincere frown, and he straightens a little. A quick glance at the window tells him night has well and truly set in, and while he's unsure of the exact time, he gets the feeling it must be late. Sleep wasn't something he needed anymore, which meant his internal clock, such as it was, tended to be skewed. Evidently his bad habit – or lack thereof – was rubbing off on Emma. ]
Gettin' awful late.
[ An observation, because telling her to get to bed would likely be answered with stonewalling. Or possibly a pillow directly to the face. It was hard to tell, these days. ]
no subject
Is it?
[ her words are less of a question and more a dismissal of the notion that it's gotten a little too late, because she knows what faraday is trying to infer with remarking on the hour like that.
she rubs a hand over her eyes, then looks back at the gambler, a bit of determination in her gaze. she's obviously not trekking off to bed just yet. ]
Show me that trick again?
[ she'd rather watch faraday with the cards, anyhow — though it's not necessarily an avoidance of sleep for any of her previous reasons. her nightmares have lessened, slightly, but what's made the real difference is that with faraday can actually touch her to wake her up. the contact proves to be soothing, moreso than just his voice, and she's been grateful for the times he's pulled her out of those darker dreams. ]
no subject
This one boils down to pure practice and showmanship.
[ A reiteration of his previous instructions, because he’s not entirely sure if she had actually been paying attention while he demonstrated before, or if she had been watching him absently while silently determining the best way to pester him to test his solidity.
Good chances, either way, though he weighs it a little more toward the latter than the former.
He flashes a card – a six of spades – and holds it up. He waves his arm up and down, counting off each upward swing, and when he reaches “three,” he mimes tossing the card into the air. The quick motion conceals the way he flicks it behind his hand, hiding it from view. Another quick wave to show his empty palm, fingers pressed together firmly to hold the edges of the card. His hand darts out again, and the card appears between his forefinger and thumb, as though he had picked it from thin air.
After that, he slows the trick down, shows how he pinches the card’s edges between his fingers, demonstrates how he uses his ring and middle fingers to flick the card over and back behind his hand. He explains the production as well, how he relaxes his fingers to bring the card forward again, before he holds the card out to her. ]
Easy enough, right?
no subject
Not nearly as hard as it— [ another yawn ] —looks at first.
[ she nods in agreement, reaching out to take the card from him, to smooth her thumb across the six before offering it back. ]
Once more?
[ she wants to see it again, of course, but her eyelids are heavy, sleep getting harder to fight off.
of course, she refuses to actively admit that she's tired, stubborn as she always will be, but she's determined to learn this trick of faraday's too. ]
no subject
…Alright, then. If you like.
[ There’s a thread of warm amusement in his voice, something that mingles with his skepticism – because determined as she is, Faraday doubts she’ll be able to ward off sleep’s siren call for much longer. He’ll have to convince her to get to bed at some point, he thinks, and that should be interesting. He might even be able to trot out that sort of long-suffering, lecturing tone Emma uses so often on him.
(She’ll hate that, he thinks with some glee.)
He does the trick again – once at speed with his usual flourishes, as he would have performed it in life. A second time without the trappings, still at his normal speed. Without the embellishments, the deception is nearly as clear as day, but the added movements help to conceal the sleight-of-hand at work. The third time he performs the back palm, he performs it at half speed, rotating his hand to show how the trick looks from the back. ]
no subject
...and she's fast asleep.
she doesn't fall forward, fortunately, but instead just sort of relaxes to the side, her body coming to rest gently against faraday's arm, her head lolling onto his shoulder. she's completely unaware of it, of course, but he seems to already be enough of a satisfactory pillow that she doesn't even stir as she leans against him.
it's rare that emma is even around someone who can make her feel at ease enough to sleep in front of them, let alone another person she'll fall asleep on, but he's solid and comforting and there, and emma is just out like a light.
she obviously needs the sleep if she's gotten so relaxed all at once, that she's just near passed right out there with faraday, but it's warm in front of the fire with the blanket and her friend, and she just can't help it. ]
no subject
Really? Again? [ he turns his face toward her, wearing that flat, exasperated look again. ] You “just checked” not five seconds—
[ —ago.
He tenses when he notices that her eyes are shut, that her breath has evened out, that she’s relaxed against him, in a way that can only signal sleep. A rush of warmth flows through his chest at that – and he’s not sure what that is, except it makes something tighten in his stomach, would’ve stolen his breath if he had air in his lungs.
Faraday frowns at himself, tries to squash that strange sensation down for the umpteenth time – or at the very least, tries to tamp it out enough that he can ignore it.
She’s well and truly asleep, he knows, but he still sets the cards to one side and ventures softly, ] Emma? You awake?
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it's been so many months since she's been this close to another person, since she's had this level of contact with someone.
since matthew, really.
part of her just aches for some form of physicality, some kind of affection — though she'll never admit it aloud. apparently, in sleep, is the only opportunity she has to express that need, and with faraday there, putting her at ease, she subconsciously leans into the soothing warmth of...him, and whatever he actually is. ]
Nnh...
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No other reason why she would do— this, really. Must not have realized who she was leaning against, exhausted as she was, must’ve just let instinct take over as her body succumbed to its need for rest. No point reading anything into this, he thinks.
(He also thinks, Why would there be anything to read, Faraday? but quickly shakes the question from his head.)
He should probably wake her so she can get to bed. Comfortable as she may seem now, that position isn’t likely to do her any favors come morning. Still, though, the idea of rousing her makes guilt pang through him. She seems relaxed. Content. And knowing how often her sleep is plagued with bad dreams, it seems cruel to draw her out of a peaceful sleep. For a second or two, he casts around, as if he could draw an answer from the ether. At long last, he forces himself to relax himself, and reaches a decision.
Slowly, he turns toward her, easing her from resting against his shoulder until she rests against his chest, and gently, he bundles the blanket around her, easing his arm beneath her legs. He lifts her, one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, tucking her against him – and he thanks every star in heaven that he’s changed enough for this; he’d hate to think how this would have ended up if his physicality had been what it was only weeks ago.
He carries her to bed (tries to ignore every flash of warmth that explodes through him as he feels the soft brush of her hair against his chin, her gentle breath against his neck). It’s a bit awkward going, but he turns down the blankets, and carefully deposits her onto the mattress. ]
Get some sleep. [ Whispered, as he’s tucking the blankets up around her. He doubts she’ll hear him, but he says it anyway – because maybe saying it will make it true, make it real? ] Sweet dreams.
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as his hand finishes pulling up the blankets, she stirs — not enough to wake, but enough to reach for his arm, fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt for something to cling to, to keep that contact there with her.
to keep him there. ]
Josh...ua.
[ it's the softest, barest whisper, hardly even a breath as she turns her head on her pillow, still lightly holding on to his shirt. ]
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Emma's not quite awake still, he thinks with some relief; the short distance from the hearth to her bed hasn't roused her much, it seems, and he wonders if she's caught halfway between reality and some dream. He's surprised to hear his name on her lips, because—
(he wondered if she would mistake him for Matthew)
—well. It doesn't matter what he thought.
But his voice gentles, adopting a softness he would never use while she was awake. ]
I'm right here.
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but whatever part of her that wants that closeness realizes that he's there, hasn't gone anywhere at all, and she just curls onto her side, fingers still closed in his sleeve. he could easily pull away from her, get up and find something else to amuse himself with, but the way she's settled is near as close as she can get, and that puts her even more at ease.
there's obviously something about having faraday there that comforts her, and if anything, she looks even more peaceful in her bed, her expression smoothed back into restful sleep as she keeps lightly holding onto his shirt.
she wants him there in that moment, whether or not she'd be brave (or foolish?) enough to admit it otherwise. ]
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He's unsure of a whole lot of things, really, chief among them being why, exactly, this whole thing makes him feel as though he's standing one-legged on the edge of a precipice?
Because he feels unbalanced. Turned around. Has that dizzy, heart-stopping (if his heart hadn't already stopped for good) impression that he's on the verge of something dangerous, and that if Faraday had any sense in him, he would back away and never stop.
But Faraday always did like a stupid gamble.
Which is why he simply sits there, letting her fingers grasp at his sleeve, listening to the evenness of her breath as she sleeps, and he waits. And he wonders. And he dances away from examining the blossoming heat in his chest too closely. So he waits. He stays. Because breaking the contact might wake her, he tells himself. Because standing up from the bed, which had dipped slightly under his newfound weight, might unsettle her. Because during the night, she might be plagued with bad dreams, and she would want him to help fend them off.
The night passes, and he waits, and when she releases his sleeve at last (too soon. far too soon.) he lets out a quiet breath. Carefully, he stands from the bed, casting her one last glance, before he drifts away.
He'll return the next day, but— tonight has given him quite a bit to think about. ]