Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
Marta had anchored herself to him, hands and hope, and allowed it to be the tether she would follow once she could pull herself back from her panic. But for the moment, she was near the opposite extreme of that rope, shaking and crumbling. But it was allowed. She could fall apart because she knew that he was there to pull her back again.
And he proved it by taking her hand. And again - more - when he moved to her side of the booth to sit next to her. He was so close, and the rest of the diner was so far away. He was so close, and his voice was in her ear. He was so close, and he was gathering her in with gentle hands and gentle pressure.
She didn't even stop to think at his soft prompting, but instead found herself moving toward him. Even closer, touching, leaning, and then she was pressed against his side and held against warmth and the lean-muscled, gentle strength that she'd never really forgotten. She moved her free hand to reach out and cling in the material of his shirt, holding him there as if scared that one of the two of them would disappear. Neither one of them did though, and after a few shaky moments, a whispered curse slipped from her along with her next stuttering exhale.
"...fuck. I..." She didn't know what she'd planned to say though, and only shook her head carefully where it was tucked beneath Seven's chin. Eyes closed, she could no longer smell the syrup-and-grease-and-bleach of the diner, but instead breathed in the scent of him. Wonderful and a little awful in a way she wouldn't have been able to explain, but whose attempt would have held at least a bit of unavoidable self-hatred. But all of that was so easy to push away in favor of drowning herself and her senses in him.