[ His hand halts at his collar, arrested from absent scratching and then sinking, returning heavy toward his thigh.
How could she?
A question he can’t entertain, because the whole of him is sinking, feelings like sinking in against this grace of presence. He ought to be wary. He ought to keep watching her, in case she’s planning something.
In case she means him harm.
(He doesn’t think she means him harm.
But don’t they always? Don’t they all?
But. But.)
He’s watching her until he isn’t watching anything at all, his eyes slipped into closing, to a moment’s peace, quiet and a subtle warmth of solace.
He could be at ease here. In this.
(Once. Years ago, decades ago, Waverly ran lithe fingers light against his head this way, a seeming fondness that crowded his knowing for months.
He thinks of it still, sometimes. Remembers her touch and tries to rend it from the betrayal that followed, the farce that it was from the start.
It doesn’t matter, really.
Touch doesn’t mean so much, anymore. (He tells him. He feigns to and tries to believe.))
The moment passes, and he remembers he doesn’t know her and doesn’t know what she wants and maybe he’s defenseless, and his eyes open again, flash panic as he draws back tentative, cautious (reluctant?). Not far from her. Only briefly looking away from her.
It isn’t her fault. He let his guard down.
It could be her fault. What is she aiming for.
He doesn’t understand this. Her.
She said something. He doesn’t entirely remember. (At all remember.) (Knows only that… that… brushing of her fingers. Why would she bother?) ]
Please.
[ A little lost, a little annoyed. A little guarded, and his head’s beginning to hurt, isn’t it? And he feels confounded and a little, just a little less at sea now. And he shifts back against the chair, an ungainly slump. ]
no subject
How could she?
A question he can’t entertain, because the whole of him is sinking, feelings like sinking in against this grace of presence. He ought to be wary. He ought to keep watching her, in case she’s planning something.
In case she means him harm.
(He doesn’t think she means him harm.
But don’t they always? Don’t they all?
But. But.)
He’s watching her until he isn’t watching anything at all, his eyes slipped into closing, to a moment’s peace, quiet and a subtle warmth of solace.
He could be at ease here. In this.
(Once. Years ago, decades ago, Waverly ran lithe fingers light against his head this way, a seeming fondness that crowded his knowing for months.
He thinks of it still, sometimes. Remembers her touch and tries to rend it from the betrayal that followed, the farce that it was from the start.
It doesn’t matter, really.
Touch doesn’t mean so much, anymore. (He tells him. He feigns to and tries to believe.))
The moment passes, and he remembers he doesn’t know her and doesn’t know what she wants and maybe he’s defenseless, and his eyes open again, flash panic as he draws back tentative, cautious (reluctant?). Not far from her. Only briefly looking away from her.
It isn’t her fault. He let his guard down.
It could be her fault. What is she aiming for.
He doesn’t understand this. Her.
She said something. He doesn’t entirely remember. (At all remember.) (Knows only that… that… brushing of her fingers. Why would she bother?) ]
Please.
[ A little lost, a little annoyed. A little guarded, and his head’s beginning to hurt, isn’t it? And he feels confounded and a little, just a little less at sea now. And he shifts back against the chair, an ungainly slump. ]
I’m not—
Take care.