[ There’s the vaguest sense of loss when she finally steps away, and a part of him misses the contact, the warmth of her at his side, and—

He quickly clears his throat, adjusting his jacket again, brushing it down. Better to keep his hands occupied. Better to keep himself distracted, because those thoughts are stupid. Ridiculous. And Emma has clearly gotten over their mutual embarrassment far better than he has, and clearly he needs to follow her example.

… Her example in this case, that is. Not in general. They can’t both be emotionless murderbots, after all.

Faraday glances over at her when she speaks, then looks back at the elevator doors. The brushed metal offers only a blurry reflection, thankfully; he’d hate to see how he actually looked. Still, self-consciously, he wipes at his mouth again. ]

If we’re lucky, they’re jawin’ their way through small talk right now. [ His accent returns, now that he’s not bothering to put on the act. He pauses, considering the possible members of meeting. Both talkers, from what he recalls. Both so awfully fond of drama, as much as they are of cold, hard cash. ] “How’s the Missus? Nifty weather lately. You tried that new place by the docks?” That whole mess.

Figure we got a few ‘fore they get to the important stuff.