( he could stare. he could make this uncomfortable. he's always been quite good at it — misunderstanding conversations with marlene, misreading signs with maya, mis-everything with greer. it's not that natasha's not attractive (she is), it's not that she's not his type (she is), but that standing and ogling wouldn't do anything. not for her and not for him.
(how many men has she had to put up with staring at her? countless, probably.)
her shape and her movements are partially obscured, unclear behind the fogged-up glass of the shower screen and the pattering and the splashing of the water. still, he catches the slight, sharp movement, though he doesn't manage to piece together quite what nor why before she talks, before she redirects the conversation. )
It wouldn't, ( he agrees, tone mild and almost conversational. it's punctuated by a pause, one that hangs between them as she remarks that if he's good (essentially), she'll wash his hair, and he's not quite sure what to make of it — which means, ultimately, that he ignores it. ) I know I've told you, ( he adds instead, although he's not sure if he has or if he's just so used to it being common knowledge — or as common as anything is in their line of work. ) I like them to see me coming.
( he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pulls it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. he'll deal with it later. tomorrow? after sleeping, whatever time and day that ends up meaning for his laundry. socks after that, then belt, and then—.
a head, appearing quite suddenly at the edge of the shower. his gaze flickers from her to her face to her arm, pauses, the back to her face. pointedly, dryly. ) Let me look at it.
no subject
(how many men has she had to put up with staring at her? countless, probably.)
her shape and her movements are partially obscured, unclear behind the fogged-up glass of the shower screen and the pattering and the splashing of the water. still, he catches the slight, sharp movement, though he doesn't manage to piece together quite what nor why before she talks, before she redirects the conversation. )
It wouldn't, ( he agrees, tone mild and almost conversational. it's punctuated by a pause, one that hangs between them as she remarks that if he's good (essentially), she'll wash his hair, and he's not quite sure what to make of it — which means, ultimately, that he ignores it. ) I know I've told you, ( he adds instead, although he's not sure if he has or if he's just so used to it being common knowledge — or as common as anything is in their line of work. ) I like them to see me coming.
( he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pulls it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. he'll deal with it later. tomorrow? after sleeping, whatever time and day that ends up meaning for his laundry. socks after that, then belt, and then—.
a head, appearing quite suddenly at the edge of the shower. his gaze flickers from her to her face to her arm, pauses, the back to her face. pointedly, dryly. ) Let me look at it.