She stares at the ceiling once he goes. Maybe grateful she hadn't set off a sprinkler set, and gotten drenched pre-shower. Maybe, also, annoyed that he didn't seem to have or even be buying the smallest clue, and every new graze of that knowledge felt like it was gouging out more of her skin, and there weren't skin layers left to furrow through. Sprinklers were easy. Most man-made structures were.
It wasn't, like, say if the ceiling just started raining. That might give her a headache to figure out.
It's stupid and even more frustrating, which has get in the shower to at least get clean. Leaving her last piece of clothing and her wand outside of it, not too far away, in case of anything. That was training as well as just plain smart considerations at this point. The hot water was heaven, and it was nice to get the blood and some traces of oil off her skin. She worried the knot of scar tissue with her fingers.
Attempting, after a few seconds consideration, the smallest of healing spells that wouldn't have helped it in the slightest, and was rewarded with the feeling like someone has suddenly punched her in the face. Yeah. Yeah, that was going to get old fast. Aggressive, receptive, deflective, and on and on, was fine, but not that. She blinked it back, and went back to the soap. Finishing up everything and just standing there in the high-pressure heat for another minute, maybe it was two, skin pinkening everywhere, before turning off the shower.
Easy enough to towel off and take a long second looking at the piled clothes. Dean's clothes. Even if he hadn't hand delivered them, she'd recognize this assortment, or at least she'd make the association to it, even if it was someone else's. Jeans and solid color undershirt and matching flannel. It was just missing a pair of well-worn leather boots and jacket thrown somewhere nearby. There's an old ache of prickled scar lines too deep at that thought.
It's a perverse play in hilarity, she thinks, once the jeans are on. Belted, and cuffs rolled to her ankles, and still hitting the tops fo her feet, because she didn't think he'd take too kindly to her resizing all of his clothes to fit her (even if she might have extended the right pocket to be able to hold her wand). The shirt goes on loose over it, and the flannel is still in her hands, when she's opening the door -- before taking a step back in some surprise to find him just waiting there on the hallway wall.
A jangled surprise, but something too familiarly warm splashing the inside of her chest at just him, being him, leaning on a wall, like he was holding it up while just waiting for her, and it made things hurt a little more than expected. "This going to be my new form of house arrest? Do I get to keep you as my babysitter now?"
no subject
She stares at the ceiling once he goes. Maybe grateful she hadn't set off a sprinkler set, and gotten drenched pre-shower. Maybe, also, annoyed that he didn't seem to have or even be buying the smallest clue, and every new graze of that knowledge felt like it was gouging out more of her skin, and there weren't skin layers left to furrow through. Sprinklers were easy. Most man-made structures were.
It wasn't, like, say if the ceiling just started raining. That might give her a headache to figure out.
It's stupid and even more frustrating, which has get in the shower to at least get clean. Leaving her last piece of clothing and her wand outside of it, not too far away, in case of anything. That was training as well as just plain smart considerations at this point. The hot water was heaven, and it was nice to get the blood and some traces of oil off her skin. She worried the knot of scar tissue with her fingers.
Attempting, after a few seconds consideration, the smallest of healing spells that wouldn't have helped it in the slightest, and was rewarded with the feeling like someone has suddenly punched her in the face. Yeah. Yeah, that was going to get old fast. Aggressive, receptive, deflective, and on and on, was fine, but not that. She blinked it back, and went back to the soap. Finishing up everything and just standing there in the high-pressure heat for another minute, maybe it was two, skin pinkening everywhere, before turning off the shower.
Easy enough to towel off and take a long second looking at the piled clothes. Dean's clothes. Even if he hadn't hand delivered them, she'd recognize this assortment, or at least she'd make the association to it, even if it was someone else's. Jeans and solid color undershirt and matching flannel. It was just missing a pair of well-worn leather boots and jacket thrown somewhere nearby. There's an old ache of prickled scar lines too deep at that thought.
It's a perverse play in hilarity, she thinks, once the jeans are on. Belted, and cuffs rolled to her ankles, and still hitting the tops fo her feet, because she didn't think he'd take too kindly to her resizing all of his clothes to fit her (even if she might have extended the right pocket to be able to hold her wand). The shirt goes on loose over it, and the flannel is still in her hands, when she's opening the door -- before taking a step back in some surprise to find him just waiting there on the hallway wall.
A jangled surprise, but something too familiarly warm splashing the inside of her chest at just him, being him, leaning on a wall, like he was holding it up while just waiting for her, and it made things hurt a little more than expected. "This going to be my new form of house arrest? Do I get to keep you as my babysitter now?"