Iron Station Savage Masks IC IV

[mmdeforrest]

November 7th
Providence
One of Emi’s hands comes up to skim the side of John’s jaw before tilting his head back up to look into her eyes.

While I would like to do such things with you, you’re right about me being skittish about your family being here, she says gently. Her face flushes slightly. I don’t want to influence their minds by forcing them not to pay attention, and I’m not as familiar with the feeling of their consciousnesses to be able to make any emotions or power I might emit during such… activities… flow around them. I really don’t want to have an awkward conversation in the morning about everyone having oddly amorous dreams or something.

I hope you understand, she says, looking deeply into his eyes. I want to. I really do, John.

The psychic sighs and her brow furrows slightly. But I can’t.

The word can’t cleared his brain instantly and his eyes grew serious and focused wholly on her.

Then we don’t, John projected with finality. He could hear in his tone the echoes of the way both his parents would make it clear to the other that whatever that topic was, the discussion was over because an important line was about to be crossed and they wanted—needed—that line respected by the other.

If he was fortunate enough to have Emi stay in his life, they would develop such tones that they would recognize with one another.

Someone may take my probationarily returned Man Card for saying this, he continued as his hands drifted to her hips and a position he would not be embarrassed to be caught in if his mother came up the stairs.

Projecting this.

Except that his hands were still under her nightshirt—which would be a compromised position to be caught in by his mother.

He was beginning to falter under the dual pressure of her eyes and his feelings.

Focus, John.

Whichever it is, it’s enough right now that you want to even if we can’t. It may sound sappy but it makes me feel…

DON”T SAY IT.

(Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.)

Cared. Feel cared for.

Besides, he continued with a sheepish smile, hoping Emi wasn’t too upset or startled by his mental outburst, I’m certain that I would not be able to remain at all composed during that kind of a breakfast conversation.

“Good night, mo chuisle”*, he whispered, trying out his grandfather’s pet name for his grandmother on Emi for size. “Pleasant dreams.”

Spoiler: * The translation from the Irish

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