Ease and intimacy with a partner used to be second nature to him. Back before Titan, before prison, he joked that he was the easiest man on Mars. He'd spend hours on a lazy morning just reveling in partnership: hours and hours of this entirely sybaritic hedonism. He used to love it. Lounging around with someone, dallying unconcerned, no measure of hurry or reality invading the day. He could have been crown prince of the slow tug of satisfaction.
Since prison, though, he hasn't had much call for that and it's with this reluctant awareness now that he realizes he rarely ever lies on his stomach any more. Too many ugly, violent memories are burned into his body at some cellular level and right now he almost moves to roll onto his side, as if that simple action could wipe away the trauma of what he survived there.
Two things stop him: first, the stoic part of him speaks up with a reminder that those days are over. He's here now by choice, not by coercion; nobody's going to force him to do anything or use his body in any way. The second thing is the warmth of Faye's hand on the low flat part of his back. It's tiny and warm and kind and a little bit insistent but in a good way, not some if you don't let me have my way with you, I'll kill you, freak sort of thing in the least.
Being pretty had its flip side in prison.
Maybe it's time to rediscover the source of that catlike contentment he used to ooze. Maybe Faye's the one to help him on that journey. Maybe that's why he's still here.
There are so many intangibles. All he knows for absolute fact is that in their moments of intimacy, he hasn't thought about prison once. If he could wipe the whole thing from his mind for good, how perfectly satisfied he'd be.
Finally, he does roll to his side, but it's not out of discomfort or of trying to escape his past. It's so he can look at Faye: at the sleepy near-blissful expression in her eyes, at the glimpse of straight white teeth between the softness of her lips. He moves close enough to touch her with the length of his body, allowing himself to once again revel in every bit of sensation.
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Since prison, though, he hasn't had much call for that and it's with this reluctant awareness now that he realizes he rarely ever lies on his stomach any more. Too many ugly, violent memories are burned into his body at some cellular level and right now he almost moves to roll onto his side, as if that simple action could wipe away the trauma of what he survived there.
Two things stop him: first, the stoic part of him speaks up with a reminder that those days are over. He's here now by choice, not by coercion; nobody's going to force him to do anything or use his body in any way. The second thing is the warmth of Faye's hand on the low flat part of his back. It's tiny and warm and kind and a little bit insistent but in a good way, not some if you don't let me have my way with you, I'll kill you, freak sort of thing in the least.
Being pretty had its flip side in prison.
Maybe it's time to rediscover the source of that catlike contentment he used to ooze. Maybe Faye's the one to help him on that journey. Maybe that's why he's still here.
There are so many intangibles. All he knows for absolute fact is that in their moments of intimacy, he hasn't thought about prison once. If he could wipe the whole thing from his mind for good, how perfectly satisfied he'd be.
Finally, he does roll to his side, but it's not out of discomfort or of trying to escape his past. It's so he can look at Faye: at the sleepy near-blissful expression in her eyes, at the glimpse of straight white teeth between the softness of her lips. He moves close enough to touch her with the length of his body, allowing himself to once again revel in every bit of sensation.
"Hi."