[ As her storm of tears begins to subside, he strokes her hair once more, then lifts his hand away to reach into his waistcoat pocket. The handkerchief he retrieves is soft and white and smells faintly of roses, and he offers it to her without letting go of her with his other arm. ]
What did you want to say to me?
[ He will always listen, has always listened: to her weepy fears and worries when she was a child and newly brought home to him and Emma; to her plans, bright and delighted as she detailed them, drawing castles in the air for them both to wander through. All her little joys and defeats, the times she was angry or the times she was sad: whenever she needed someone to listen, he was there.
And he's here again now, and even if it isn't real maybe it's real enough. He's warm against her, breathing; no haunted, haunted shell of a man, faceless and faded. Perhaps it really is him, in all the ways that matter most. Except one. ]
no subject
What did you want to say to me?
[ He will always listen, has always listened: to her weepy fears and worries when she was a child and newly brought home to him and Emma; to her plans, bright and delighted as she detailed them, drawing castles in the air for them both to wander through. All her little joys and defeats, the times she was angry or the times she was sad: whenever she needed someone to listen, he was there.
And he's here again now, and even if it isn't real maybe it's real enough. He's warm against her, breathing; no haunted, haunted shell of a man, faceless and faded. Perhaps it really is him, in all the ways that matter most. Except one. ]