( a part of her is surprised when he actually does it — lowers his head, lets her weave her hands into his hair and start massaging, building up suds. it's odd, doing this for another person — but she doesn't dislike it. it gives her something to focus on; making sure that the spray is angled away from him so that the suds don't drip into his eyes, ensuring she doesn't miss any spots and works the shampoo into his scalp. if she's self conscious with him looking down at her when they're both naked, she doesn't bother to show it.

instead, once he speaks, she makes a noise low in her throat — almost like an absent sound, like she's stopped paying attention. )

Says the guy who runs around in a cape and a mask. ( the response is tart, smile a touch more present than before. she glances over at the door, his pile of clothes with those two items conspicuously absent. ) I expected you to wear the mask in the shower, too.

( not that her jumpsuit is any better — but she hadn't been wearing it together. the blood stained heap is much more casual than that. a tight black dress. a wrap that matches but isn't too matchy-matchy. heels that are definitely ruined. the jumpsuit was good for certain situations; breaking and entering, recon, silent wet work. but to get in to normal places? you had to dress like a civilian. and she's an expert at blending in, no matter how distinctive her hair or other parts of her appearance.

snaking her arms around his neck, she massages shampoo into his nape, taking a few extra moments to press her fingers against a few knots she discovers on the side of his neck — irritated muscles. )

You don't seem too much like a priest right now. ( her gaze dropping from his face to his bare chest, the bow of his waist, a little lower pointedly. ) No vow of celibacy?