[ He stares at Hawke, breathing hard. His tattoos--because that's what they are now, in this dream, not technology but magic, strange and searing--throw a ghostly patina over his dark face. He wants to kiss her. Desperately so. He feels like he's done it before, a hundred times, in a hundred different moods, a hundred different memories. It's not always friction between them. He's not always angry. Sometimes it's soft. A comfort at the end of a long day. Peace and quiet.
But not right now. His veins crackle with the electricity of the moment, his agitation begs for release. He cups her chin with one hand.
no subject
But not right now. His veins crackle with the electricity of the moment, his agitation begs for release. He cups her chin with one hand.
In this world, he's loved her for years. ]
Tell me to go, and I will.