[Time has been a healer, if not for Warsman's heart or mind, then for his body. Little by little, almost imperceptibly to all but the most sophisticated equipment, the micro-machinations of his body piece together his ruined hardware. Every now and then his consciousness emerges from the oblivion, swimming in and out of consciousness to a new restoration. In the night, his pressures mointors came back on line: he felt the linen of the bed, the tube in his throat, the wires under his skin.
This morning, it was his sight. By the time his visitor arrives he's only just adjusted to the light streaming in through his over-sensitive optic sensors. The result is that, as the tall, elegant shape of a woman steps into the room it takes a moment for him to register her face as a whole: he sees the elegant curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the eyes that promise everything but give nothing.
By the time she touches his mask, his entire body has weakened in deference to love. Elle.
The name forms in his throat, but with no way to be spoken it chokes him there, too. She came back for him, just as she promised, risking the balancing act that is her reputation, and he can't even acknowledge her with a single word. If his eyes could light up they could at least let her know that her words have touched him, but even the simplest of gestures are beyond him still, and all while her presence taunts his senses. It's like being trapped behind a one-way mirror.
So focused is Warsman on her, absorbing what he can of her presence, that he doesn't even register the book in her lap. Nor, in fact, does he register something more important: the delicate rush of gooseflesh making its way across his thighs and arms, hidden beneath the sheets. A single touch could spread it like wildfire.]
no subject
This morning, it was his sight. By the time his visitor arrives he's only just adjusted to the light streaming in through his over-sensitive optic sensors. The result is that, as the tall, elegant shape of a woman steps into the room it takes a moment for him to register her face as a whole: he sees the elegant curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the eyes that promise everything but give nothing.
By the time she touches his mask, his entire body has weakened in deference to love. Elle.
The name forms in his throat, but with no way to be spoken it chokes him there, too. She came back for him, just as she promised, risking the balancing act that is her reputation, and he can't even acknowledge her with a single word. If his eyes could light up they could at least let her know that her words have touched him, but even the simplest of gestures are beyond him still, and all while her presence taunts his senses. It's like being trapped behind a one-way mirror.
So focused is Warsman on her, absorbing what he can of her presence, that he doesn't even register the book in her lap. Nor, in fact, does he register something more important: the delicate rush of gooseflesh making its way across his thighs and arms, hidden beneath the sheets. A single touch could spread it like wildfire.]