For a second, she thinks that she might really have scared him off. The way that the warmth of his hands leaves her, the way that he sets her gently down against the rail that winds around the perimeter of the bathysphere, even guides her hands and helps her find support. And the truth of the matter is, when Faye Valentine scares people away, she doesn't try to hang on. Not anymore. Sometimes, the fractures in one's heart dig too deep, and in this, Spike Spiegel is the one to blame. There's nothing more painful that Faye has experienced than losing something that someone fights hard to keep. Her breath stills, preparing for that sigh.
It never quite arrives.
There's a touch of alarm in Faye's eyes when she continues to watch Dean's movement, the panic arising from where Faye has, in her years, remained fairly inexperienced. Desire is something which isn't easy to wield. It's far simpler to lose oneself blindly in the pleasure than it is to remain considerate— or at least, Faye tries to convince herself of that fact, the only way to explain all the times she's been left rather unfulfilled in the rare evenings when loneliness turns into desperation. But this is different, the tough of rough fingers brushing gently over her skin, the bridge of his nose pressed against her side, and suddenly she feels impossibly young. No longer jaded, and instead overwhelmed.
"Oh god," she murmurs, breath hitching as her hands grip the bar tight, knuckles stretching to bone white. A whimper fights to escape from her lips even as she presses them tightly together, toes curling as a heel meets the wall with a clang of metal. "God, Dean."
Even through the haze of her mind, she can't help thinking: her cover's blown.
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Date: 2011-08-23 03:16 am (UTC)It never quite arrives.
There's a touch of alarm in Faye's eyes when she continues to watch Dean's movement, the panic arising from where Faye has, in her years, remained fairly inexperienced. Desire is something which isn't easy to wield. It's far simpler to lose oneself blindly in the pleasure than it is to remain considerate— or at least, Faye tries to convince herself of that fact, the only way to explain all the times she's been left rather unfulfilled in the rare evenings when loneliness turns into desperation. But this is different, the tough of rough fingers brushing gently over her skin, the bridge of his nose pressed against her side, and suddenly she feels impossibly young. No longer jaded, and instead overwhelmed.
"Oh god," she murmurs, breath hitching as her hands grip the bar tight, knuckles stretching to bone white. A whimper fights to escape from her lips even as she presses them tightly together, toes curling as a heel meets the wall with a clang of metal. "God, Dean."
Even through the haze of her mind, she can't help thinking: her cover's blown.