[ lord, she can barely remember the last time someone held her like this (matthew, months and months ago), and it shakes something in her to find herself confronted with this contact, this comfort, when she's spent so long fighting off her own demons without someone here. the sob that she can't quite bite down is almost a bitter laugh, like there's something ironic that of all the people who might be here beside her, vasquez is the one with his fingers in her hair, with his voice carrying a low softness that, before, emma might not have thought him capable of.
she eases against him, slowly, steadily, until she's no longer quivering and the sobs have quieted.
her face is still pressed against his shirt, now embarrassingly wet with her tears, and she speaks into the fabric, not quite able to steel herself enough to pull back and look at him. not yet. ]
W-what does that...mean?
[ she'd asked him before, that very first time he'd used that word, and while she'd let it slip by the day before, now the question comes as a means of avoiding acknowledgement that she'd just spent too many moments being far too exposed with vasquez. ]
no subject
she eases against him, slowly, steadily, until she's no longer quivering and the sobs have quieted.
her face is still pressed against his shirt, now embarrassingly wet with her tears, and she speaks into the fabric, not quite able to steel herself enough to pull back and look at him. not yet. ]
W-what does that...mean?
[ she'd asked him before, that very first time he'd used that word, and while she'd let it slip by the day before, now the question comes as a means of avoiding acknowledgement that she'd just spent too many moments being far too exposed with vasquez. ]
Querida— what is that?