[ … 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
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]