Work Text:
It’s not just the drugs, she knows, though certainly they aided the process.
The sharpness that was once there has been worn down, like a pebble dulled by wind and rain. Though in his case, it's a warped sense of faith that has been doing the dulling. It’s like a safety pin has been snapped free somewhere inside of him, leaving the rest unsure of what to do next.
She’s still surprised when his hand comes up to cup the edge of her jaw where angle and curve meet, the fingers just brushing the outer shell of her ear with a reverence she’s only seen him use a handful of times.
She is still shaking when she returns home afterward, the imprint like a seal burned into her skin. It’s there even when she tries to sleep, scratching the skin as though trying to claw its way from the inside out.
Under the covers, her fingers twitch nervously while her mind follows suit – wondering whether Pearse has somehow marked her; whether it can be burned away like an old scar; whether this is really her fault in the first place.
When she dreams, she dreams of him, his weight pressing her down into a desk, his mouth mapping that junction of curve and corner with sweeter precision.
When she wakes, she imagines she can still feel his curls between her fingers.
Curls? She wonders, why curls? Why does her subconscious provide such an imagery? One cowlick does not a head of curls make, though maybe her subliminal thoughts are telling her something about unkemptness being forced back under the waning willpower of the bearer but heck, even the conscious her can see that.
That existential memory lingers in her hands and fingers when she goes back to work, and everything she touches feels like him.
When he pages her to his office, she knows she’s damned. She goes anyway.
And as it turns out, his hair really is that curly.