The night air, crisp and cool as it is, does nothing to clear his head; he feels as much outside himself when they arrive at the building as he did when her lips found his. Giddy enough that he does not, when he asks, even linger on the luxury of her living arrangement - and, to be fair, he has known plenty of other people in his father's circles who consider this level of extravagance unremarkable. It is still very much an extravagance, but that seems... less important than it might. So does the request for identification, although that may have as much to do with his military background than with the magic of the night: it does not occur to him until she protests that there could be any issue with offering identification, and by then he is already reaching for his wallet. He has, after all, nothing to hide.
The inside of her apartment comes as a surprise, he will admit. It is nothing like the sleek modernism of the rest of the building, any more than it is like his own simple, rustic furnishings at home; if anything, it reminds him most of his father's house, where all the furniture is family heirlooms, dark and foreboding. But any thoughts about interior design are short-lived (which may be a relief) as she leans up again to kiss him, bringing him back sharply to the situation at hand - and, belatedly, his own awkwardness around it.
He clears his throat, smiling, and murmurs a soft thank-you; hesitates a moment, despite everything, before taking off his coat. His shoes, too, out of habit; and he settles them neatly beside the door, although there doesn't seem to be any evidence that she expects her guests to do so. It just seems like good manners.
Into the living room, then; and he reaches up to unpin his hair as he goes, since it is already past the point of neatness and one or two of the pins are starting to dig into his scalp. He smiles at the cat as it uncurls to greet him, its claws flexing. "Hello," he greets it, as he nears the sofa, and holds out a hand for it to sniff, the way he might to a horse or a wild animal. "Do you mind if I sit?"
Apparently not; by the time Cersei returns, Faramir is sitting on the far end of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, hair loose around his shoulders now as he pets the hairless cat behind its ears.
no subject
The inside of her apartment comes as a surprise, he will admit. It is nothing like the sleek modernism of the rest of the building, any more than it is like his own simple, rustic furnishings at home; if anything, it reminds him most of his father's house, where all the furniture is family heirlooms, dark and foreboding. But any thoughts about interior design are short-lived (which may be a relief) as she leans up again to kiss him, bringing him back sharply to the situation at hand - and, belatedly, his own awkwardness around it.
He clears his throat, smiling, and murmurs a soft thank-you; hesitates a moment, despite everything, before taking off his coat. His shoes, too, out of habit; and he settles them neatly beside the door, although there doesn't seem to be any evidence that she expects her guests to do so. It just seems like good manners.
Into the living room, then; and he reaches up to unpin his hair as he goes, since it is already past the point of neatness and one or two of the pins are starting to dig into his scalp. He smiles at the cat as it uncurls to greet him, its claws flexing. "Hello," he greets it, as he nears the sofa, and holds out a hand for it to sniff, the way he might to a horse or a wild animal. "Do you mind if I sit?"
Apparently not; by the time Cersei returns, Faramir is sitting on the far end of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, hair loose around his shoulders now as he pets the hairless cat behind its ears.