Spoken with a little of her previous arch teasing, as she's slowly finding her feet, the correct gears again. Familiar words, familiar tones, stepping around the sudden gaping hole in the sidewalk she -- they -- usually run down. Giving her the shower is a poor consolation prize for losing him.
Or, not losing him. He's still right there, and she still plans on staying and keeping him company, and she loves him just like she did before, and he's still the one person who just keeps appearing in her life, who is always at the other end of a few months or a tour, and sometimes in between. But losing his throat under her lips, losing the low sounds he makes, losing her fingers slipping into the dip of his back, her legs wrapping around his hips. Losing kisses, and the laughter breathed between them, and playfulness that made them feel like kids, more than adults who are too hardened, seen too much, done too much, been all over the world without roots to pull them back.
One eyebrow arches, and she leans to pick up her tote, sling it over her shoulder. "But don't think you're off the hook."
Mildly regimental, like a librarian peering over glasses at a tardy book returner. It's all a lot, too much to try and figure out now, and she does sort of feel like a shower might help her take a step back, gain a little perspective.
And yeah. Maybe feel a little sorry for herself, but she can go ahead and get that out of her system before she comes back down, and before he's done with his. It's really the only option, so it's the one she's going to take.
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Spoken with a little of her previous arch teasing, as she's slowly finding her feet, the correct gears again. Familiar words, familiar tones, stepping around the sudden gaping hole in the sidewalk she -- they -- usually run down. Giving her the shower is a poor consolation prize for losing him.
Or, not losing him. He's still right there, and she still plans on staying and keeping him company, and she loves him just like she did before, and he's still the one person who just keeps appearing in her life, who is always at the other end of a few months or a tour, and sometimes in between. But losing his throat under her lips, losing the low sounds he makes, losing her fingers slipping into the dip of his back, her legs wrapping around his hips. Losing kisses, and the laughter breathed between them, and playfulness that made them feel like kids, more than adults who are too hardened, seen too much, done too much, been all over the world without roots to pull them back.
One eyebrow arches, and she leans to pick up her tote, sling it over her shoulder. "But don't think you're off the hook."
Mildly regimental, like a librarian peering over glasses at a tardy book returner. It's all a lot, too much to try and figure out now, and she does sort of feel like a shower might help her take a step back, gain a little perspective.
And yeah. Maybe feel a little sorry for herself, but she can go ahead and get that out of her system before she comes back down, and before he's done with his. It's really the only option, so it's the one she's going to take.