[ Each step away from the room helps to cool him down, helps to lighten how heavy his heartbeat had become, but it does nothing to lessen the flush of embarrassment at how quickly he had gone from "this is an act" to— to—
That. Whatever the hell that had been.
And he's not sure if Emma's silence was a signal of that same embarrassment, or if she's merely allowing him to gather his wits about him, because— admittedly, the whole thing had worked him up, had made his pulse pound in his ears, had lit up his skin until it made every touch feel practically electric. The cold wash of reality helps to bring him back down, though. And the mortification has a hand in that, too.
Because— because fuck, that had been good. And given his "experience," that had been good. And— hell, he can't keep thinking about this. He cannot keep thinking about this with his partner, who still found him insufferable and impossible to deal with and hated him at least 95% of the time.
He stops when she does, finally setting to work to make himself presentable. A quick adjustment of his hair, straightening it as best as he can without a mirror. A cursory wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to clean off the lipstick smeared there. Once his hand starts coming away clean, Emma finally breaks the silence that had fallen between them.
... God. Of all the fucking questions—
Clearing his throat, he turns to take a better look, and— the breath leaves him all at once. ]
No.
[ Relief. Because if he had left a goddamn hickey on Agent goddamn Cullen, she might actually kill him. ]
You're fine.
[ He apparently hasn't noticed the marks on his own skin just yet, hasn't noticed the quiet sting in light of the shitstorm of shame swirling through him, but they're certainly still on display for the moment. He waves a hand at his face, gaze fixed on some point over her shoulder to avoid looking directly at her. ]
no subject
That. Whatever the hell that had been.
And he's not sure if Emma's silence was a signal of that same embarrassment, or if she's merely allowing him to gather his wits about him, because— admittedly, the whole thing had worked him up, had made his pulse pound in his ears, had lit up his skin until it made every touch feel practically electric. The cold wash of reality helps to bring him back down, though. And the mortification has a hand in that, too.
Because— because fuck, that had been good. And given his "experience," that had been good. And— hell, he can't keep thinking about this. He cannot keep thinking about this with his partner, who still found him insufferable and impossible to deal with and hated him at least 95% of the time.
He stops when she does, finally setting to work to make himself presentable. A quick adjustment of his hair, straightening it as best as he can without a mirror. A cursory wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to clean off the lipstick smeared there. Once his hand starts coming away clean, Emma finally breaks the silence that had fallen between them.
... God. Of all the fucking questions—
Clearing his throat, he turns to take a better look, and— the breath leaves him all at once. ]
No.
[ Relief. Because if he had left a goddamn hickey on Agent goddamn Cullen, she might actually kill him. ]
You're fine.
[ He apparently hasn't noticed the marks on his own skin just yet, hasn't noticed the quiet sting in light of the shitstorm of shame swirling through him, but they're certainly still on display for the moment. He waves a hand at his face, gaze fixed on some point over her shoulder to avoid looking directly at her. ]
Did I miss anything?