[Tastes like iron and salt and something rotten, like she's watching him drag himself from (or into) black mud and tar - an ugly, vicious fear unfolding in the lines of him, in the hot flicker of the mark crackling around a closed fist. She stills. She breathes in. She isn't afraid. Not even as it spills out of him - like she's wrenched a knife back and this is what comes sloughing out after it (she's a soldier; regret for that kind of thing comes secondary to the liberation of not being the one on the ground).
There's something about the raw way he stops - inhales - sharpens and then gives that makes her mouth water. And he's talking to her now. She swallows, exhales by degrees and glances down to find her grip on the glasses has gone loose. She lets them go entirely. Reaching for the bottle, Shepard tops off his glass - pours herself another - and the rights the bottle with a small click of glass on metal.
Nauseatingly satisfied, she slides his glass back.]
no subject
There's something about the raw way he stops - inhales - sharpens and then gives that makes her mouth water. And he's talking to her now. She swallows, exhales by degrees and glances down to find her grip on the glasses has gone loose. She lets them go entirely. Reaching for the bottle, Shepard tops off his glass - pours herself another - and the rights the bottle with a small click of glass on metal.
Nauseatingly satisfied, she slides his glass back.]
You're forgiven.