pullmeoutalive | Ramey

[ Vasquez has had a lot of Marias in his life, but this may be the first time he’s ever had an Ethel.

Emma’s ire has only ever been directed toward him the once, way back when they first met, but he’s well aware of her stubbornness. Perhaps it was foolish to think that it wouldn’t rear its head here, and honestly he’s not quite so sure what to do with the fact that she doesn’t want him to go. Relief and reluctance are a strange cocktail, swimming around in his chest.

He finds his voice, finally, tries to dredge up some of that anger and fear from yesterday when he saw that man holding her there. ]

What if something happens, huh? What if you get hurt?

[ Or worse. ]

[ emma doesn't even flinch, doesn't even look close to agreeing with him. ]

I have faced down far worse than a few bounty hunters.

[ and she's not afraid.

lord, maybe she should be after yesterday, but...of all the emotions filtering through emma, fear for her own safety is oddly not one of them. if she's worried after anyone's life, it's vasquez. not because she thinks he can't protect himself (he's proved his skill and ferocity time and again), but because being pursued so relentlessly must wear. ]

[ He has a brief, flickering moment to wonder why he can't have her resolve. Why is he so scared?

A man like him wasn't meant to care for people, not this much. ]

I'm a dangerous man, Emma. Dangerous people will come after me. I can't invite that into your home time and again.

If something were to happen, I could never live with myself.

Dangerous people can come at a moment's notice for even men who are not dangerous, Vasquez.

[ who were the people of rose creek, to fall prey to dangerous men? so many dead, with no provocation, no reason, other than vicious, greedy bastards riding in to take what they had. terrible things happen to good people, no matter how righteous or hardworking they may be. trouble could come to emma's doorstep whether vasquez is there to call it down or not.

maybe that's why she doesn't shake in her boots at the promise of bounty hunters or warrant officers: nothing is guaranteed, and tomorrows aren't promised. why not reach for something that's made her happy, perilous though it may be? ]

I've lost a good deal to dangerous men. They don't frighten me anymore.

[ Her words strike him like a physical blow, throws the true reality of her situation into focus. Her husband, the people of Rose Creek, were not dangerous men, yet Bogue and his hired guns came for them anyway.

And Emma, fierce and brave and beautiful, still rose up and said to the world, I did not start this, but I will finish it.

Who is he to doubt her strength? Some outlaw with selfish inclinations and cowardice hiding somewhere in his heart. Even if he rode out of here today, there was no guarantee something wouldn't happen to her tomorrow.

And knowing he was not here to try and stop it would be so much more unforgivable. ]

... All right, querida. All right. I'll stay.

[ she's almost bracing herself for more of a fight, for more protests, for something insistently noble that, ultimately, feels poorly placed. emma does not see herself as a woman in need of protection; she neither needs vasquez present to keep her safe nor needs some honorable gesture that falls flat. if he leaves, she'd rather it be because he feels he has no reason to stay — not because it's for her own good to see the back of him.

but given how long he's been in her home, how many new excuses he finds to keep himself occupied and present... she can only assume that he wants to be there.

(with her, though she pushes down that quiet flicker of warmth and the accompanying flutter of— something. something she hasn't felt in a good, long while.)

but when he agrees— her relief is nearly palpable, and the tension slides out of her shoulders. she exhales a breath she hadn't quite realized she'd been holding, an uncertain smile finding its way to her lips. tentative, but hopeful. ]

Good.

[ she steps away from the tree, a bit closer to him, though not enough to close the distance between them. ]

Now, I do believe there's actually something that needs to be fixed in my home.

[ He has the sudden urge to reach out and take her hand, to caress the side of her face, spurred by the smile curving her lips.

He thinks better of it, though, for a number of reasons, not least of which is the fact that he must look like quite the sight, still dirty and spattered with dried blood, fresh from sleep. ]

Ah, I promised I would fix that for you, didn't I?

Yes, you did. And I can't very well have a broken bedroom door, can I?

[ for...a few different reasons.

it's admittedly not terribly appropriate for her, an unmarried woman, to have a man staying in her home to begin with, but then again, emma's not concerned by that. but she also knows that her nights aren't the most peaceful, and she doesn't find herself inclined to being overhead.

at least, she hopes she hasn't been. it isn't something she brings up or...wants to ask about, if she's honest. ]

Not at all.

[ He'd rather the reminder of what happened the previous night be dealt with, anyway, but Emma deserves her privacy.

(He can still hear her sometimes, sleeping fitfully, crying out, but she seems to quiet after a while. He's been dangerously close to opening her bedroom door a couple of times, though.) ]

I don't suppose I could talk you into a late breakfast while I work, eh?

[ emma's smile warms, and she gestures back to the house. ]

You just might be able to.

[ and while he works, she cooks for them both. it lets her fall back into their rhythm, to momentarily push aside the events of the day before. it's hard to forget the men that had laid dead on her floor, but there's something about watching vasquez fix her door, about sharing a meal with him like they have so many times in the past weeks, that makes this easier.

but the door gets properly repaired, and emma thanks him for it, just like she always does each time he finishes another of his projects.

maybe it's the exhaustion that makes her sleep so deeply that night. the little rest she'd gotten the day before made falling asleep near immediate (and fairly early, all things considered). it's been a while since she's slept that heavily, a luxury she hasn't enjoyed since before bogue rode into rose creek, but unfortunately, with the state of her dreams, it may be a luxury she could stand to forego.

it always starts the same: always with matthew. some nights, she thinks it'll play out differently, that something will change, that she can save him, but— each and every time, she sees her husband take that bullet. sometimes, she tries to hold him back. others, she'll rush forward, want to grab bogue, to step in the way, to do something, anything, but over and over, that gunshot fills the air, and matthew collapses in the dirt.

she sees bogue's men, pouring into her town, that she takes down one after another. she sees them hit the ground, knowing it was her rifle, her bullet, that put them down, and she knows— that she doesn't care. that she doesn't regret it, and lord, if that doesn't twist something inside her all the more. she sees the people of rose creek, her neighbors, folks she could have even called friends, falling in the streets. she sees isabelle, and leni's husband, goodnight, and billy, and horne, and—

always matthew.

emma cries out — in her dream, and in reality. she isn't aware of it, isn't in control, and she thrashes against the tangle of her blankets, her breathing coming in rough, broken sobs. so many nights, she can drag herself away from the vicious claws of her nightmares, but now, with the bone-deep exhaustion that keeps her buried in her dreams, she can't settle.

she doesn't quiet, only sinking deeper into the flashes of matthew's death, of all those ghosts she's never managed to shake. ]

[ Vasquez retires to his usual spot in the common room that night with a little more ease and much less heavy exhaustion. That he and Emma seemed to have reached some kind of understanding about what it means to keep him around has lifted a weight off of his shoulders that he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.

But without bone-deep weariness to drag him down, Vasquez sleeps lighter, and even all this time within Emma's walls couldn't break that habit. Her cries of alarm punch through his consciousness like a bullet and he sits bolt upright, gun in his hand.

He's heard Emma's nightmares before, and though he's a little disoriented when he first wakes, it quickly catches up to him that he's hearing one now. It seems to be worse than the others, because usually Emma will shake herself awake or pull away from the dream, settle into quieter noises until sleep claims her again. She cries out a second time, and Vasquez decides that he can't bear to leave her to suffer any longer.

Quietly, he pushes his way past the bedroom door and moves to the edge of her bed. She's thrashing and crying, hair flying every which way, blankets in a kicked up mess. ]

Emma.

[ He's hesitant to touch her, for fear of scaring her, but he lightly perches on the edge of the bed. ]

Emma. Querida, please.

[ at first, her name doesn't rouse her. she's still caught in the dream, breath hitching on another sob, but with the weight of vasquez on her bed, the repetition of her name, her eyes snap open.

unseeing, staring out into the dark, emma is still unable to catch a full breath. her groggy, sleep-filled mind seems convinced those ghosts will follow her out of her nightmares, and it's with nothing short of panic that her hand snaps out, grabbing onto vasquez's arm before she even realizes who's sitting beside her.

before, bad dreams had been so easy for her to banish. they'd never been so violent, so insistent, and had always been simple enough that the curl of matthew's arm around her waist, the brush of his lips across her cheek, was all it took to settle her back into something like peace. but now, matthew is gone (forever), and her nightmares don't seem willing to allow themselves to be beat back so easily, as made evident by the way she digs her fingers into vasquez's forearm like it's a lifeline. ]

[ The way her fingers close around his arm might very well leave bruises, and he carefully closes his free hand around her wrist to draw it away. ]

Easy, querida, easy. I'm right here.

[ With his hand around her wrist he guides her to him, loops his arms around her, as if his mere presence could chase away whatever haunts her. Quiet assurances and reminders to just keep breathing tumble from his lips in Spanish, even as he half-buries his face in her hair. ]

Todo estará bien. Estoy aquí.

[ emma doesn't fight him as he gently pulls her upright, as his arms curl around her, but she tenses as he holds her close. slowly, breath by breath, that tension eases, until finally, she melts into his arms. her breathing hasn't fully steadied, the shaking hasn't died down, but she's soothed by the voice in her ear and the occasional word she's picking out with her growing coherency. ]

—Vasquez.

[ it's the first thing she manages, the first sign that she's finally grounded in reality. she knows that everything left behind in the dark is just a memory, and she's here, now, safe — with those ghosts firmly rooted in her dreams. ]

I...

[ but she has no explanations to cover up the rising embarrassment that accompanies knowing he must have heard her, even seen her in throes of such a brutal nightmare. her face is still wet with tears, and she hasn't managed to stop trembling, but she's more aware, enough so to feel almost mortified by her own blatant, violent responses.

a weakness. vulnerability. ]

Edited (i can html i swear) 2017-02-04 07:58 (UTC)

Ssh, ssh.

[ Even as she says his name, he keeps her wrapped up in his arms, one hand coming up to gently comb his fingers through her hair. Anything to drive away whatever may be causing her to tremble. More of his native tongue slips from his mouth, quiet assurances, among whispers of her name and that word again and again- querida. ]

[ 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. ]

Querida— what is that?

[ Emma has a strange way of bringing things out in him. A desire to fix and protect, and a gentleness he did not know he possessed. Shadows, perhaps. Distant echoes of the man he could have been had he not run away from home, terrified of what caring for someone would mean for him.

Because he cares for her. He cares for her so deeply it makes his chest ache.

Her question makes him fall still, and he's quiet for a very long moment. It scared him, the first time he called her that, but it kept spilling out anyway. He could dodge around calling Faraday guero with hardly any effort, but this word- this woman- were so very different. ]

Dear. [ His voice is still soft, now with the barest hint of embarrassment. ] Sweetheart.

[ now that gives emma pause. she's not entirely sure what she expected his answer to be, but— she doesn't think that was it. everything is still a swirl of confusion, a mess of tangled emotions that tugs at that quiet warmth behind her sternum, that feeling that's kicked up more and more often in the softer moments with him.

smiling together over a joke at dinner.

walking in the door to find vasquez waiting for her, still covered in dirt from a long day, just then taking off his boots.

seeing that hat hung next to matthew's. ]

Sweetheart.

[ finally, careful and tentative, she sits up, pulling away — but not trying to break free from his arms. she rests a palm on his chest as she looks up at him in the low light of the oil lamp next to her bed, something searching in her eyes, an uncertainty that she can't quite put her finger on. this steps beyond the metaphorical lines they've drawn over the weeks, more than the comfortable balance they've struck together, and emma can't help being cautious. ]

You mean that?

[ He feels her start to pull away and loosens his hold on her- he doesn't let go, but gives her leave to break away if she wants it. She doesn't, and the press of her palm against his chest is strangely electric.

He glances down and meets her gaze, that searching look in her eyes catching him and holding him there. ]

Si. Of course I do.

[ of course i do.

the breath emma takes is slow, an attempt to steady herself as she stares into his eyes. she has that intensity, that fire and determination that almost impossible to tamp down, but for the moment, there's something quieter to it. a nervousness she doesn't often let slip.

her fingers move higher, from his chest and to the side of his neck, her thumb brushing lightly, oh so lightly, against the curve of his jaw. ]

How do I say that to you?

[ Oh God.

He sucks in a breath, quick and quiet as her hand comes to rest on his neck, and he leans into the touch without quite realizing it. It feels like they're both teetering on some precipice, and that look in her eyes is bound to pull him right over. ]

Querido.

Querido.

[ it's soft, said almost reverently as she tastes the unfamiliar syllables. ]

Querido.

[ she tries it again, still quiet as her palm cups his cheek, gives the smallest, gentlest of tugs to pull his face closer to hers. her heart pounds in her chest, her pulse rushing in her ears as she feels herself stepping nearer to that cliff with its promised point of no return.

another breath catches, and finally, she braces herself to throw that halting caution to the winds as her lips brush against his. ]

[ That word on her lips, unfamiliar and experimental as it may be, might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

Then she tugs him closer, and for a brief, startling second, his pulse pounds in his ears, something wild and winged and warm fluttering in his stomach. Their lips meet, barely brushing, and there he goes, falling headlong over the edge he had so carefully traversed before.

He leans in, pressing their mouths together again, gently, giving her every chance to back away but hoping to God she doesn't. ]

[ she could pull back, could easily break out of his arms, put distance between them, but—

she doesn't.

his lips press to hers again, and she meets him with that same gentleness, that tentative hesitation and warmth as her fingers slip from his cheek to knot in his hair. not pulling at him, not trying to drag him away, but anchoring herself.

the kiss lingers, soft and sweet, and she pulls away just to breathe. she doesn't go far, instead brushing her nose against his, as something of a smile starts to tug at her lips.

and once more, with a faint, near-laugh in her voice: ]

Querido.

[ He wraps his arms around her anew, pulling her close now that it seems she has no intention of pulling away. His fingers comb through her hair, and he hums against her lips, warm and pleased.

When they part, he lets out a soft, low chuckle, resting his forehead against hers.

It's almost freeing, being in free-fall like this. ]

Tienes una hermosa sonrisa, querida.

[ She's going to ask what that means, he knows she will, so he heads her off. His hand slips around to the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her lower lip ]

You have a beautiful smile.

Ramey > open rp

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