"what were you like as a kid?"
"what?" brendon knows what she said—even with her voice a slow and sweet syrup, courtesy of a long shift. it vibrates against his chest where she's got her cheek pressed, the colours of the tv flashing over their faces. he's selfish enough to make her repeat herself, to watch her squirm.
"dana said–" emma starts, and then pauses where she must be rethinking her words so as not get her (or their suddenly consistent ortho consults) in trouble. always considerate even when she's half asleep. "i was just wondering what you were like, you know, in school..."
he scoffs, his fingers still petting her hair. "trouble," it's a grunt, mostly the truth. depending on who you ask, he was a nightmare or an angel (his mother, and only his mother has shared that sentiment).
emma shifts and then she's facing him instead of the telly, a curious smile pulling at her lips even with half lidded eyes. it encourages his own, even if it doesn't look like it.
"trouble?" she giggles. "you?"
brendon scowls at that. "what?"
"i don't know, i just can't imagine it."
"okay." she hums, and he thinks she's contented, falling asleep like she should've been over half an hour ago—before she'd begged with those wide brown eyes to catch up on her show—until a moment later when they open again and she's muttering, "i wish i could meet the little you–" a yawn. "or could've."
it's the second laugh he cracks that day, quiet, barely a whistle to anyone else but a goldmine to emma who beams and puffs her cheeks proudly, sleepily.
a hand at the back of her head, he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead.
"no," he says firmly. "how many times have i told you? stay away from trouble."
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