Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
The motion was part of their catalogue as much as anything else, that was true. Seven didn’t feel entitled to her grasp, hadn’t ever felt entitled. He’d only ever offered as much as he could and given her the space that she needed. Sometimes that space was more than he’d expected, and yeah, there’d been that particular time where the space encompassed distanced and detachment for years.
Sometimes that space had hurt (okay, more like every time), but he hadn’t protested more than trying to reach out and reassure as much as she’d allow. She knew that he played at being self-sufficient and unaffected, even while his heart broke into shards each time her wariness made her reject how much he fucking loved her.
So the giving of her hand into his, soft slip of silk curling against his palm — it was a little like coming home, yeah. The warm presence of her made him reach out with his other hand and slide into place, encasing her impossibly small hand in the most gentle grasp that he could manage.
“You don’t have to apologize, Marta.” The words were struck through with gentle warmth, and Seven couldn’t help but fix his gaze on the join of their hands. His thumb rubbed against the lines of her slender wrist, idly. “I get it. The guilt.”