Re: Marta / Seven
[In the greatest understatement of the things that pass between them, Seven notices the heady rush of relief that rises up in his chest when she does not fight against him. The seeking curve of his arm, the wandering fingers in her hair - none have been a movement of force. His hands form questions and ask them quietly, with fingers that move to tuck her hair back behind the soft, white shell of an ear, and he is grateful for her answers that do not come with snarling words. It's actually the weight of surprise that makes itself known in his chest, because her slender hands are there, gathered in the cotton of his t-shirt and trembling.
Don't - [It's not fine. They both know it. It is written in the quivering arch of her fingers where they are tented against his ribcage, and in the creased lines of his furrowed brow where she can't see it. She can't see it because his cheek is still pressed against her temple, but she can hear the soft rumble of his voice.] Please. Don't, okay?
[Don't go anywhere. Don't leave. Please, don't leave.
These words are unspoken and they are wholly unfair, swirling in the evening air at some altitude above their heads. They will not form on his tongue and be made real, so he has to settle for gently sliding his hand free of hers so that he can reach up to cup it against her cheek. And then it's the slow graze of his mouth over her brow, down, against cheekbone, coming to rest at the spot where her jaw meets earlobe.
Exhale. His breath warm and weary, and Seven is just waiting for her to pull away from his hold. Because it will happen and he will be left, alone. But for now she's still here, and he breathes in again, breathes her in.]