Whether or not Dean can see the lines carefully drawn around Faye's person— and she suspects that he can after all that they've shared— he continues treading along every single one. The heat of his hand that hovers by her back draws her eyes momentarily to a close, but the plan to cut off all senses backfires, a wash of darkness highlighting the sensation of touch. She opens them, just in time to watch his hand pull close, too near for focus as his nails carefully push back strands of hair, treating her with a gentleness that she doesn't want. That she doesn't need. But most importantly, that she can't afford to grow accustomed to. Perhaps trust is what Faye Valentine is in the greatest need of now, the lack forcing her to build walls that everyone on the island seems keen on tearing down. It's a tiresome process.
Even now, with the apology being his greatest weapon of all, Faye finds herself assuming the worst. Is sorry enough? Is it sincere, or does he see the flaws and weaknesses that Faye so carefully tries to hide from the rest of the populace? She's been running for so long, in one way or another, and every muscle in her body tells her not to stop now, that it'll only result in pain and loss— but she keeps on hitting snags, and Dean Winchester is one of them. She doesn't take a single breath as his fingers brush gently by her temple, but instead settles on the color of his eyes, her own darkened with anger. She isn't even sure where she should direct any of it, isn't sure that she wants to try, so it stays contained, pounds in her ears and against her chest.
"Stop it," she murmurs, the glance towards his hand more afraid than it is angry, her breath rushing back in a quaver. "Don't apologize unless you mean it. Don't apologize to the wrong person." It strikes her then, that maybe it isn't her he really wants to apologize to. Maybe it's a flash of golden hair, maybe it's the curve of a playful smile, and even though she knows that they aren't the same person, it's Julia who shows up in Faye's memories now. Beautiful, driven, and completely out of reach.
There's a soft sound that escapes her throat as she steps back just enough to hit the last lever that'll take them back to the Welcome Center, to the pavilion that leads home. The lurch of movement proves to be the last straw, Faye's brow knitting as she rushes forward again, palm over his hip until she's pushed both of them against the bathysphere wall, a brief kiss that catches air before she deepens that too, hair whipping out of place again, to where it splays over her cheek. Whether she's angry, whether she's scared, or whether she wants this, none of that seems to matter anymore. It's all and none at once.
no subject
Even now, with the apology being his greatest weapon of all, Faye finds herself assuming the worst. Is sorry enough? Is it sincere, or does he see the flaws and weaknesses that Faye so carefully tries to hide from the rest of the populace? She's been running for so long, in one way or another, and every muscle in her body tells her not to stop now, that it'll only result in pain and loss— but she keeps on hitting snags, and Dean Winchester is one of them. She doesn't take a single breath as his fingers brush gently by her temple, but instead settles on the color of his eyes, her own darkened with anger. She isn't even sure where she should direct any of it, isn't sure that she wants to try, so it stays contained, pounds in her ears and against her chest.
"Stop it," she murmurs, the glance towards his hand more afraid than it is angry, her breath rushing back in a quaver. "Don't apologize unless you mean it. Don't apologize to the wrong person." It strikes her then, that maybe it isn't her he really wants to apologize to. Maybe it's a flash of golden hair, maybe it's the curve of a playful smile, and even though she knows that they aren't the same person, it's Julia who shows up in Faye's memories now. Beautiful, driven, and completely out of reach.
There's a soft sound that escapes her throat as she steps back just enough to hit the last lever that'll take them back to the Welcome Center, to the pavilion that leads home. The lurch of movement proves to be the last straw, Faye's brow knitting as she rushes forward again, palm over his hip until she's pushed both of them against the bathysphere wall, a brief kiss that catches air before she deepens that too, hair whipping out of place again, to where it splays over her cheek. Whether she's angry, whether she's scared, or whether she wants this, none of that seems to matter anymore. It's all and none at once.