When he finishes the coffee, he places the mug on the floor by his feet, then stretches his arms over his head, grunting a little as he works out the stiffness in his muscles. He leans back again, and turns his head to look at her. She's watching, corners of her mouth upturned in a way that's almost coy. "Morning," she offers at last.
He smiles, and ruffles her messy hair. "Mornin', kiddo. How you feelin'?"
"Probably a lot better than you will when you look at your desk."
He laughs, and gives a grimace that's only half for show. "That bad?"
"Pretty bad. In terms of volume, not content."
"You flipped through it?"
"How could I not? The news is always relevant to my interests."
"Fair enough." His look turns serious. "Hope that doesn't mean you plan to go out and get a head start on the heroics before you're back in peak condition."
She shakes her head, her smile turning mischievous, and tugs the hem of the shirt. "In what armor, I ask you?"
"Good. Operation: Three Dog Monopoly is a success."
"What are you monopolizing, ratty tee-shirts?"
"Naw. Over-ambitious teenage girls."
She just laughs, like the tired thing that had come in dressed a slave had never existed, sounding nearly the same as she did on their few previous encounters when she was a little more new and naive and he told her tall tales (always with that grain of truth) of his childhood in a commune of 'free spirits' and his youthful adventures in the wastes. He feels like there's some badly veiled flirtation being passed between them here, but he tries not to linger on it or it'll drive him crazy.
He settles in for the long haul at the combination paradise/prison that is his desk, leaving her in the company of a dog that expresses relief by pile-driving his master in a blur of fur and furiously wagging tail as soon as the door is open. The combination of feminine and canine laughter fills the studio from ceiling to floor. The scene is so close to what he imagines a normal home should feel like he thinks he could almost become a morning person if all his mornings could just go like this, but much like the repressed ruminations over the Wanderer's legs he finds the pleasantness of the thought a little uncomfortable to consider, and throws himself instead into making up to the public for his late arrival on the airwaves.
Between segments he calls back to her to inform her, just in case it wasn't obvious, that she has free reign of the place while she's crashing here. Around ten he finds out that she takes that to mean she gets to exercise her need to dote on someone when she deposits a bottle of water and a steaming bowl of noodles on the desk in front of him, then goes about tidying up the ashes and papers around him despite protests that eventually only earn him a surprisingly sharp punch in the shoulder and a "deal with it." The whole time, he makes a valiant effort to keep his eyes on his work, and not the pale curves just above the junction of thigh and torso that the shirt fails to fully cover.
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timeasmymeasure
Since When, 3c/3
Date: 2012-06-18 07:12 pm (UTC)He smiles, and ruffles her messy hair. "Mornin', kiddo. How you feelin'?"
"Probably a lot better than you will when you look at your desk."
He laughs, and gives a grimace that's only half for show. "That bad?"
"Pretty bad. In terms of volume, not content."
"You flipped through it?"
"How could I not? The news is always relevant to my interests."
"Fair enough." His look turns serious. "Hope that doesn't mean you plan to go out and get a head start on the heroics before you're back in peak condition."
She shakes her head, her smile turning mischievous, and tugs the hem of the shirt. "In what armor, I ask you?"
"Good. Operation: Three Dog Monopoly is a success."
"What are you monopolizing, ratty tee-shirts?"
"Naw. Over-ambitious teenage girls."
She just laughs, like the tired thing that had come in dressed a slave had never existed, sounding nearly the same as she did on their few previous encounters when she was a little more new and naive and he told her tall tales (always with that grain of truth) of his childhood in a commune of 'free spirits' and his youthful adventures in the wastes. He feels like there's some badly veiled flirtation being passed between them here, but he tries not to linger on it or it'll drive him crazy.
He settles in for the long haul at the combination paradise/prison that is his desk, leaving her in the company of a dog that expresses relief by pile-driving his master in a blur of fur and furiously wagging tail as soon as the door is open. The combination of feminine and canine laughter fills the studio from ceiling to floor. The scene is so close to what he imagines a normal home should feel like he thinks he could almost become a morning person if all his mornings could just go like this, but much like the repressed ruminations over the Wanderer's legs he finds the pleasantness of the thought a little uncomfortable to consider, and throws himself instead into making up to the public for his late arrival on the airwaves.
Between segments he calls back to her to inform her, just in case it wasn't obvious, that she has free reign of the place while she's crashing here. Around ten he finds out that she takes that to mean she gets to exercise her need to dote on someone when she deposits a bottle of water and a steaming bowl of noodles on the desk in front of him, then goes about tidying up the ashes and papers around him despite protests that eventually only earn him a surprisingly sharp punch in the shoulder and a "deal with it." The whole time, he makes a valiant effort to keep his eyes on his work, and not the pale curves just above the junction of thigh and torso that the shirt fails to fully cover.