[ 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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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. ]