Federico’s fingers twitch at the sound of Robin’s voice, but the movement is faint, barely more than a reflex. Her words drift through the heavy fog of sleep, muffled and distant, like hearing someone speak underwater. His body registers the noise, registers the presence near him, but exhaustion still holds him down like lead weights pressing into his bones.
(He didn’t pull in a couch because he wasn’t going to sleep. Just a moment of rest, nothing more. He was only closing his eyes for a second—)
And yet, he has. He has fallen into a rare, dreamless sleep, one so deep that even the usual undercurrent of vigilance has dimmed. His grip on his shotgun is slack but not released, his body curled slightly around it, instinct keeping some level of readiness even in unconsciousness. It’s the only sign that some part of him still refuses to let go.
But then, the voice again—soft, but present. Persistent.
'Wake up, sleepyhead...'
....Arturia? Why is she...
A soundless breath escapes him, his brow twitching slightly. His body begins to respond before his mind does. The weight of exhaustion presses harder for a moment, unwilling to let him surface, but his training—his survival instincts—won’t let him stay under. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around the stock of his weapon.
A shift in his breathing. A slow drag of awareness creeping back.
And then—
His eyes snap open.
Before his mind fully catches up, muscle memory takes control. The shotgun is already raised before he even registers who he’s looking at, his hands steady despite the sluggishness still clinging to his limbs. His breath is uneven, his posture rigid with alarm, pupils blown wide with the aftershocks of too little rest and too much strain.
His focus sharpens on Robin. Recognition sets in, but it’s sluggish, lagging behind the instinct that tells him to be ready for an attack.
"....Signora?" His voice is hoarse, rough from disuse. Slowly, his breathing steadies. His shoulders ease—just a fraction. His gun lowers slightly, but not completely. Not yet.
"...Ah. You're awake."
Which is good. It should be good. But the memory of what she tried to do still lingers, tangled in the edges of his thoughts like static that won’t quite clear.
The tuning, the pressure in his skull, the way it almost—
Federico exhales through his nose, steady, deliberate. His grip is still tight. Too tight. The ghosts of that moment are still too close. He now sees Robin as a threat.
no subject
(He didn’t pull in a couch because he wasn’t going to sleep. Just a moment of rest, nothing more. He was only closing his eyes for a second—)
And yet, he has. He has fallen into a rare, dreamless sleep, one so deep that even the usual undercurrent of vigilance has dimmed. His grip on his shotgun is slack but not released, his body curled slightly around it, instinct keeping some level of readiness even in unconsciousness. It’s the only sign that some part of him still refuses to let go.
But then, the voice again—soft, but present. Persistent.
'Wake up, sleepyhead...'
....Arturia? Why is she...
A soundless breath escapes him, his brow twitching slightly. His body begins to respond before his mind does. The weight of exhaustion presses harder for a moment, unwilling to let him surface, but his training—his survival instincts—won’t let him stay under. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around the stock of his weapon.
A shift in his breathing. A slow drag of awareness creeping back.
And then—
His eyes snap open.
Before his mind fully catches up, muscle memory takes control. The shotgun is already raised before he even registers who he’s looking at, his hands steady despite the sluggishness still clinging to his limbs. His breath is uneven, his posture rigid with alarm, pupils blown wide with the aftershocks of too little rest and too much strain.
His focus sharpens on Robin. Recognition sets in, but it’s sluggish, lagging behind the instinct that tells him to be ready for an attack.
"....Signora?" His voice is hoarse, rough from disuse. Slowly, his breathing steadies. His shoulders ease—just a fraction. His gun lowers slightly, but not completely. Not yet.
"...Ah. You're awake."
Which is good. It should be good. But the memory of what she tried to do still lingers, tangled in the edges of his thoughts like static that won’t quite clear.
The tuning, the pressure in his skull, the way it almost—
Federico exhales through his nose, steady, deliberate. His grip is still tight. Too tight. The ghosts of that moment are still too close. He now sees Robin as a threat.