Ficness! - Godliness is Next To Cleanliness
Title: Godliness is Next To Cleanliness
Tentative Series: Appearances
Author: Avarice
Email: rrburton@powerup.com.au
Rating: PG-13. Duo swears some. But just a bit.
Pairing: 2+3. Duo/Trowa for my friends not made of Gundanium *g*
Archive: Shibbalicious next update. Oh dear god, why would anyone else want it? *g*
Disclaimer: Bandai, Sunrise, et all. They created and own, and as such I blame everything on them. Don't come to me, I've changed my phone number.
Thanks to: DaMoyre, for the shibby beta job. Darcy, for reading through it at my request, even though the only thing she knows about gundam is 'I like the little cute blond one'. Sandrita, just cuz I love you.
Summary: Duo sees a slightly different Trowa. Duo POV.
Fluffy white towel? Check. Large bottle of 2 in 1 label brand shampoo and conditioner? Check. Bar of cinnamon-scented soap? Check. Filthy, stinky, dirty body?
I give myself a quick sniff and cough.
Eyuch. Check.
I just got back from another assignment, my third this week. All I'd like to know is exactly where in the Preventer contract it states "Active agents shall spend in excess of 18 hours per day in situations that leave them in such an unhygienic state, the base medical officer can have them quarantined for up to three weeks pending the prevention of a biohazard."?
Funnily enough, I didn't read that part. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have signed on the dotted line.
Damn government agencies.
Another great thing about the government -- pardon my sarcasm -- are the goddamn skinflint bureaucrats and their tightass budget.
Oh, I'm not talking about the state of the art weaponry or advanced vehicles. If you want a gun that can punch bullets through two inches of welded titanium, visit the armory. Need a car that can run to speeds in excess of 300km per hour, with double strength projectile-proof glass? Take a trip to the garage. Talk to Phil, tell him I sent you, and he'll make sure you get the one with the really cool stereo.
Want to see where they cut corners and save money? Stop by the agents' living quarters.
Yes, we are on the frontline, stopping would-be assassins, and foiling international and interplanetary terrorists with the most high tech equipment money can buy.
But d'you think they can spring for shower cubicles?
I have no qualms about the size of the room. It's pretty big, but then, there are a lot of people who use it. The place is partitioned by small tiled 2 ft divisions. They stick out perpendicular to the room's surrounding walls, at approximately 6 ft intervals. Each little division has a showerhead stuck on either side, making for a cozy little notch for two guys to get down and sudsy in. It's like the locker rooms at school all over again, except far less privacy. And that's saying something.
But we're all grownups (or close to it), right? Maybe not so much. Shenanigans are common. You'd probably think I'd be a big perpetrator of Shower Hijinx, but in actual fact, I don't give a shit what happens there. As soon as I get under that steaming water, I could be showering in a living room filled with nuns for all I notice or care.
Maybe it's a by-product of my upbringing. Back then getting clean was a rare occasion, and I sure as hell didn't have any desire to strip down and make with the soap. That was before I discovered how fucking *wonderful* it felt. Now, I spend at least twenty minutes in there every day, and forty every other day to wash the mane.
Two agents give me a wide berth as I reach the bathroom door. Thanks guys, I know I reek, but being treated like a leper is so uplifting...
It's pretty late, so I'm not expecting there to be more than one or two people -- if any at all -- to be using the facilities. Sure enough, the place is pretty much deserted. But over the air coolant systems and clank of pipes, I hear the sound of running water.
Someone else is getting clean. Well, cool. I didn't exactly feel like being alone anyway -- stinky or not. I'll say hi, have a chat, get nekkid and wet and clean, and then I'll be happy.
Whoever it is has squirreled themselves away in the furthest possible partition away from the door, and people who just might wander in to use the John.
The sound of the stream of water is random as a body moves underneath it, interrupting its flow. I take another few steps and dump my towel on the small wooden seat nearby.
"Hey man," I say, gripping the corners of my muddy shirt. "Just gonna jump in next to you there. Is that cool?"
Silence. I attempt to pull the shirt off over my head (buttons are a bitch when you're tired) and repeat my question at the same time. It's pretty noisy next to the water; maybe he didn't hear me.
"Hey. Can I take a shower here?" I ask in a significantly louder voice, unbuckling my belt with one hand. Hey, I'm a multi-tasker.
"I'm not deaf, Duo," a soft, firm voice answers me. I wrestle the shirt off my head to meet forest-green eyes and a feathery auburn brow slightly raised in expression.
"Tro!" a big grin breaks out on my face. "You won't mind me jumping in with you, will you? Old friend, Trowa?"
Those eyes study me for a moment, before shoulders move in the subtlest of fashions, acquiescing. Besides, I can tell he agrees because he turns his back on me. Good ol' Tro. I won't get the conversation I was hoping for, but it'll be companionable silence.
I strip off my trousers and gleefully twist the taps on the opposite showerhead. Ahhh... warm. First things first, get the rest of the body clean, then the hair comes out. The temp of the water is nice and hot. Gonna turn my skin pink, but that's okay. Makes me feel like the dirt is actually being stripped off my skin.
Water turns to a murky grey as it slides down my legs and into the drain. Geeyah. Yes, I was *that* filthy. I turn and give Trowa a quick glance, but he has his back to me, one foot in his hands, washing an instep. Thorough guy.
It's funny, though. I always find it kind of funny showering at the same time as Tro. He's so quiet. I mean, other people cough, stomp about, groan, mumble... hell, Wufei *hums*. But not Trowa. He's just... silent. I guess you don't get gifted with a nickname like 'The Silencer' for being chatty, right?
Now that I look at him, it's kind of amazing that he excels at going unnoticed a lot of the time. I mean, the guy is a stud. Calvin Klein model material. Had not the war changed what could have been a normal upbringing, I'd say it's entirely possible Trowa's body could be plastered over billboards all over the colonies, modelling the latest jockeys or something.
Mercenary life, then the circus, two wars and now the Preventers have kept him in top shape, though he has a little more muscle weight now and is not as thin as he used to be. Which is good. Rake-Trowa, while still good looking, wasn't exactly a poster boy for health.
Me? I should *be* so lucky to stay in shape. I drum my fingers on my belly. Not bad, but I don't have the muscle tone I used to. Hey, dodging OZ and fighting mobile suits at 15 will keep you surprisingly trim. Preventer life is practically civilian to what I'm used to, what with regular meals, a steady income and a roof over my head. So now I'm actually starting to have a normal weight and not be mistaken for an underdeveloped teenage girl too much.
But Tro, if anything he's gotten musclier. He was always far and away the tallest of us, and while I've caught up a little, he's still got half a head on me. I think he was always going to grow into this sculpted specimen. Everything about him is in lines. The ridges of his abdominal muscles, the sharp angles of his hips and shoulder blades. There's nothing on the guy's body that hasn't been ruled with a t-square and a protractor.
Everything's angular, but it's downplayed by other stuff. There's this dusky olive quality to his skin, like a permanent light natural tan. Could be Mediterranean, could be European, could be Hispanic. It's like all the most attractive features of any given racial group got together and decided Trowa should be their representative.
Sure beats the hell out of my plain old Caucasian epidermis with some slight freckling from last summer's trip to the beach. And oh yeah, I think I might be getting a sock line. Damn Preventer uniforms.
Yeah, so plain old ordinary me up against Trowa the Ripped. The only things that make me in anyway special are my hair, or eyes (hey, I admit my eyes are nice). But even then, he's got them as well. Eyes the shade of forest leaves and hair the colour of the bark of an old red oak.
Body clean, time for the hair. I step out of the direct spray of water for a moment to start unravelling my braid. Dampness turns my hair to the colour of burnt caramel. I notice strange stuff like that. For example, when wet, Quatre's hair goes from a pale gold to a warm, yellowed honey. Wufei's looks like crude oil, it's already so dark. A rich, deep chocolate is Heero's. And as for Tro, it's akin to dark rust.
I glance over at him to confirm my idea and Satan on a bicycle nearly fall over. He has turned towards me to wash his arms, and I get a three quarter view of his face. And I mean *his* *whole* *face*. His hair is wet and plastered right back on his head, leaving a full and unencumbered view of Trowa. The real Trowa, I guess.
Instantly I know that all the lines and angles on his body make up for his face, because it's balanced by being made up entirely of curves. The roundness of his eyes (there's two of them!), and arch of eyebrows (two of them, too!). Curves of cheekbones, gentle scoop of a long nose with the little dip just underneath it, and the fullness off his lips.
Wow. He should *not* shield that face from the world. I don't really notice I'm kind of staring at him until he turns away again, shoulders tense.
"What are you looking at?" His voice is a little confrontational, but mainly with that neutral quality that I like to call his 'Not that I care, but...' voice.
"Your hair," I answer, automatically. I didn't really want to say I was gawking at his face, for crying out loud. He half-turns towards me again, giving me the Barton wordless prompt (patent pending). "It looks different, pulled right out of your face like that," I add, willing for the water to dissolve my utter lameness.
He reaches a hand up and touches it, giving away a microsecond of hurt before indifference just freezes on his face like a block of ice. As usual, I've spoken honestly, but he's taken it the wrong way. Maybe I should learn how to talk better, or he should lighten up, or *something*. But I know it's not for lack of beauty he hides. It's out of some desire to partly blend into his surroundings, partly to keep some things to himself, and not expose something he believes would make him vulnerable.
"Hey, Trowa," his wrist stiffens as I latch onto it and pull it away from his hair. "Don't take offence, man. Different doesn't mean bad."
He raises his eyebrow, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind he doesn't believe a fucking word of it. "Look, I wear my hair in a braid most of the time, but I wear it down, too," I say, gesturing to how it currently hangs. "Sometimes I wear it in a ponytail," I grab a fistful of hair and roughly demonstrate the requisite style. "And when I'm alone in my room at night, I like to wear it like this." The ponytail parts down the centre and suddenly I'm sporting messy handlebar pigtails. "Now is this necessarily bad?"
He stands and just gapes (or the Trowa interpretation of) at me for a long moment. I think I've made an idiot out of myself with absolutely no result, but then he does it. The left eyebrow rises just slightly higher than the right -- no *wonder* I never saw him do that with his crash helmet of hair covering it -- and a tiny, amused smirk curls his lips. I love proving acting like a mental patient (mostly) always works. Maxwell, One; Modesty, Zip.
I roll my eyes and toss my head around, making the long segments of hair sway wildly. "Okay, bad is quite the understatement here. More like hideously-"
"Different," Trowa interrupts suddenly, the quirky smirk still in place. I grin, and let go of my hair.
"Yeah, different. You shouldn't read so many of levels into my comment, Tro. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say."
His eyes soften at that, and I know he accepts my statement. "You look kind of cool, actually." I continue as I start to lather shampoo through my hair. "You know those old monster movies that date back to the 20th C? The classic Draculas like Christopher Lee and Bela Lugosi had hair just like that. And they were the smoothest, handsomest guys around. Strong, refined features, had the mysterious thing going in spades." I pause. "Of course, they also went around feeding on the necks of pretty young things..." I grasp my own throat dramatically. "You don't do that, do you?"
"Not lately," he replies in a deadpan voice.
"Phew, good to hear. But I'm right, y'know. Just need to dress you in a black suit, cape and bleach a line down the centre of your hair and you're it, man."
"A skunk?"
"Yeah, but a skunk in a snappy wardrobe."
He makes a small snort and turns the taps off, stepping out of the shower area and grabbing his towel. I prattle on about vampire skunks and the women who love them, and how the screenplay I will never write is going to be huge on all the colonies while he gets dressed. Trowa spends a minute or two towel drying his hair, all the while pretending he's not interested, when I know for a fact he is listening to every single word I'm saying.
Once it's semi dry, he flips his head ever so slightly, allowing the damp mass to resume its usual place obscuring most of his features. I'd say 'rightful place', but since seeing his face fully, there's not a reason in the world I can think of that it should cover that face all the time any more.
He gives me a little nod and then starts to head out, even as I'm still playing water baby.
"Hey Trowa?" I call out when he's halfway across the room. He turns and quietly waits. I then ask him the question that has been burning on my mind.
"What do you think I look like with my hair down?" I ask, letting my locks come forward and fall about over my chest, reaching mid-thigh.
"I think," he says slowly, after pondering the question for a good minute "that you look like Botticelli's Venus."
I sputter in mock-outrage. "How *dare* you compare me to a naked chick riding a clam!" But he's already leaving, a mysterious Mona Lisa smile on his face. Hah. So he's an old painted woman, too. I'll have to tell him that next time.
My shampoo/conditioner is rinsed out, but I want to spend a few more moments soaking up the warmth. As I relax, with my newly shining hair and sparkly clean skin, I can't help but chuckle replaying our conversation through my head.
Surprise me, Trowa. Who knew there was a sense of humour under there after all...
~fin
My first 2+3. How did I do? Comments, please! =)
Tentative Series: Appearances
Author: Avarice
Email: rrburton@powerup.com.au
Rating: PG-13. Duo swears some. But just a bit.
Pairing: 2+3. Duo/Trowa for my friends not made of Gundanium *g*
Archive: Shibbalicious next update. Oh dear god, why would anyone else want it? *g*
Disclaimer: Bandai, Sunrise, et all. They created and own, and as such I blame everything on them. Don't come to me, I've changed my phone number.
Thanks to: DaMoyre, for the shibby beta job. Darcy, for reading through it at my request, even though the only thing she knows about gundam is 'I like the little cute blond one'. Sandrita, just cuz I love you.
Summary: Duo sees a slightly different Trowa. Duo POV.
Fluffy white towel? Check. Large bottle of 2 in 1 label brand shampoo and conditioner? Check. Bar of cinnamon-scented soap? Check. Filthy, stinky, dirty body?
I give myself a quick sniff and cough.
Eyuch. Check.
I just got back from another assignment, my third this week. All I'd like to know is exactly where in the Preventer contract it states "Active agents shall spend in excess of 18 hours per day in situations that leave them in such an unhygienic state, the base medical officer can have them quarantined for up to three weeks pending the prevention of a biohazard."?
Funnily enough, I didn't read that part. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have signed on the dotted line.
Damn government agencies.
Another great thing about the government -- pardon my sarcasm -- are the goddamn skinflint bureaucrats and their tightass budget.
Oh, I'm not talking about the state of the art weaponry or advanced vehicles. If you want a gun that can punch bullets through two inches of welded titanium, visit the armory. Need a car that can run to speeds in excess of 300km per hour, with double strength projectile-proof glass? Take a trip to the garage. Talk to Phil, tell him I sent you, and he'll make sure you get the one with the really cool stereo.
Want to see where they cut corners and save money? Stop by the agents' living quarters.
Yes, we are on the frontline, stopping would-be assassins, and foiling international and interplanetary terrorists with the most high tech equipment money can buy.
But d'you think they can spring for shower cubicles?
I have no qualms about the size of the room. It's pretty big, but then, there are a lot of people who use it. The place is partitioned by small tiled 2 ft divisions. They stick out perpendicular to the room's surrounding walls, at approximately 6 ft intervals. Each little division has a showerhead stuck on either side, making for a cozy little notch for two guys to get down and sudsy in. It's like the locker rooms at school all over again, except far less privacy. And that's saying something.
But we're all grownups (or close to it), right? Maybe not so much. Shenanigans are common. You'd probably think I'd be a big perpetrator of Shower Hijinx, but in actual fact, I don't give a shit what happens there. As soon as I get under that steaming water, I could be showering in a living room filled with nuns for all I notice or care.
Maybe it's a by-product of my upbringing. Back then getting clean was a rare occasion, and I sure as hell didn't have any desire to strip down and make with the soap. That was before I discovered how fucking *wonderful* it felt. Now, I spend at least twenty minutes in there every day, and forty every other day to wash the mane.
Two agents give me a wide berth as I reach the bathroom door. Thanks guys, I know I reek, but being treated like a leper is so uplifting...
It's pretty late, so I'm not expecting there to be more than one or two people -- if any at all -- to be using the facilities. Sure enough, the place is pretty much deserted. But over the air coolant systems and clank of pipes, I hear the sound of running water.
Someone else is getting clean. Well, cool. I didn't exactly feel like being alone anyway -- stinky or not. I'll say hi, have a chat, get nekkid and wet and clean, and then I'll be happy.
Whoever it is has squirreled themselves away in the furthest possible partition away from the door, and people who just might wander in to use the John.
The sound of the stream of water is random as a body moves underneath it, interrupting its flow. I take another few steps and dump my towel on the small wooden seat nearby.
"Hey man," I say, gripping the corners of my muddy shirt. "Just gonna jump in next to you there. Is that cool?"
Silence. I attempt to pull the shirt off over my head (buttons are a bitch when you're tired) and repeat my question at the same time. It's pretty noisy next to the water; maybe he didn't hear me.
"Hey. Can I take a shower here?" I ask in a significantly louder voice, unbuckling my belt with one hand. Hey, I'm a multi-tasker.
"I'm not deaf, Duo," a soft, firm voice answers me. I wrestle the shirt off my head to meet forest-green eyes and a feathery auburn brow slightly raised in expression.
"Tro!" a big grin breaks out on my face. "You won't mind me jumping in with you, will you? Old friend, Trowa?"
Those eyes study me for a moment, before shoulders move in the subtlest of fashions, acquiescing. Besides, I can tell he agrees because he turns his back on me. Good ol' Tro. I won't get the conversation I was hoping for, but it'll be companionable silence.
I strip off my trousers and gleefully twist the taps on the opposite showerhead. Ahhh... warm. First things first, get the rest of the body clean, then the hair comes out. The temp of the water is nice and hot. Gonna turn my skin pink, but that's okay. Makes me feel like the dirt is actually being stripped off my skin.
Water turns to a murky grey as it slides down my legs and into the drain. Geeyah. Yes, I was *that* filthy. I turn and give Trowa a quick glance, but he has his back to me, one foot in his hands, washing an instep. Thorough guy.
It's funny, though. I always find it kind of funny showering at the same time as Tro. He's so quiet. I mean, other people cough, stomp about, groan, mumble... hell, Wufei *hums*. But not Trowa. He's just... silent. I guess you don't get gifted with a nickname like 'The Silencer' for being chatty, right?
Now that I look at him, it's kind of amazing that he excels at going unnoticed a lot of the time. I mean, the guy is a stud. Calvin Klein model material. Had not the war changed what could have been a normal upbringing, I'd say it's entirely possible Trowa's body could be plastered over billboards all over the colonies, modelling the latest jockeys or something.
Mercenary life, then the circus, two wars and now the Preventers have kept him in top shape, though he has a little more muscle weight now and is not as thin as he used to be. Which is good. Rake-Trowa, while still good looking, wasn't exactly a poster boy for health.
Me? I should *be* so lucky to stay in shape. I drum my fingers on my belly. Not bad, but I don't have the muscle tone I used to. Hey, dodging OZ and fighting mobile suits at 15 will keep you surprisingly trim. Preventer life is practically civilian to what I'm used to, what with regular meals, a steady income and a roof over my head. So now I'm actually starting to have a normal weight and not be mistaken for an underdeveloped teenage girl too much.
But Tro, if anything he's gotten musclier. He was always far and away the tallest of us, and while I've caught up a little, he's still got half a head on me. I think he was always going to grow into this sculpted specimen. Everything about him is in lines. The ridges of his abdominal muscles, the sharp angles of his hips and shoulder blades. There's nothing on the guy's body that hasn't been ruled with a t-square and a protractor.
Everything's angular, but it's downplayed by other stuff. There's this dusky olive quality to his skin, like a permanent light natural tan. Could be Mediterranean, could be European, could be Hispanic. It's like all the most attractive features of any given racial group got together and decided Trowa should be their representative.
Sure beats the hell out of my plain old Caucasian epidermis with some slight freckling from last summer's trip to the beach. And oh yeah, I think I might be getting a sock line. Damn Preventer uniforms.
Yeah, so plain old ordinary me up against Trowa the Ripped. The only things that make me in anyway special are my hair, or eyes (hey, I admit my eyes are nice). But even then, he's got them as well. Eyes the shade of forest leaves and hair the colour of the bark of an old red oak.
Body clean, time for the hair. I step out of the direct spray of water for a moment to start unravelling my braid. Dampness turns my hair to the colour of burnt caramel. I notice strange stuff like that. For example, when wet, Quatre's hair goes from a pale gold to a warm, yellowed honey. Wufei's looks like crude oil, it's already so dark. A rich, deep chocolate is Heero's. And as for Tro, it's akin to dark rust.
I glance over at him to confirm my idea and Satan on a bicycle nearly fall over. He has turned towards me to wash his arms, and I get a three quarter view of his face. And I mean *his* *whole* *face*. His hair is wet and plastered right back on his head, leaving a full and unencumbered view of Trowa. The real Trowa, I guess.
Instantly I know that all the lines and angles on his body make up for his face, because it's balanced by being made up entirely of curves. The roundness of his eyes (there's two of them!), and arch of eyebrows (two of them, too!). Curves of cheekbones, gentle scoop of a long nose with the little dip just underneath it, and the fullness off his lips.
Wow. He should *not* shield that face from the world. I don't really notice I'm kind of staring at him until he turns away again, shoulders tense.
"What are you looking at?" His voice is a little confrontational, but mainly with that neutral quality that I like to call his 'Not that I care, but...' voice.
"Your hair," I answer, automatically. I didn't really want to say I was gawking at his face, for crying out loud. He half-turns towards me again, giving me the Barton wordless prompt (patent pending). "It looks different, pulled right out of your face like that," I add, willing for the water to dissolve my utter lameness.
He reaches a hand up and touches it, giving away a microsecond of hurt before indifference just freezes on his face like a block of ice. As usual, I've spoken honestly, but he's taken it the wrong way. Maybe I should learn how to talk better, or he should lighten up, or *something*. But I know it's not for lack of beauty he hides. It's out of some desire to partly blend into his surroundings, partly to keep some things to himself, and not expose something he believes would make him vulnerable.
"Hey, Trowa," his wrist stiffens as I latch onto it and pull it away from his hair. "Don't take offence, man. Different doesn't mean bad."
He raises his eyebrow, and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind he doesn't believe a fucking word of it. "Look, I wear my hair in a braid most of the time, but I wear it down, too," I say, gesturing to how it currently hangs. "Sometimes I wear it in a ponytail," I grab a fistful of hair and roughly demonstrate the requisite style. "And when I'm alone in my room at night, I like to wear it like this." The ponytail parts down the centre and suddenly I'm sporting messy handlebar pigtails. "Now is this necessarily bad?"
He stands and just gapes (or the Trowa interpretation of) at me for a long moment. I think I've made an idiot out of myself with absolutely no result, but then he does it. The left eyebrow rises just slightly higher than the right -- no *wonder* I never saw him do that with his crash helmet of hair covering it -- and a tiny, amused smirk curls his lips. I love proving acting like a mental patient (mostly) always works. Maxwell, One; Modesty, Zip.
I roll my eyes and toss my head around, making the long segments of hair sway wildly. "Okay, bad is quite the understatement here. More like hideously-"
"Different," Trowa interrupts suddenly, the quirky smirk still in place. I grin, and let go of my hair.
"Yeah, different. You shouldn't read so many of levels into my comment, Tro. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say."
His eyes soften at that, and I know he accepts my statement. "You look kind of cool, actually." I continue as I start to lather shampoo through my hair. "You know those old monster movies that date back to the 20th C? The classic Draculas like Christopher Lee and Bela Lugosi had hair just like that. And they were the smoothest, handsomest guys around. Strong, refined features, had the mysterious thing going in spades." I pause. "Of course, they also went around feeding on the necks of pretty young things..." I grasp my own throat dramatically. "You don't do that, do you?"
"Not lately," he replies in a deadpan voice.
"Phew, good to hear. But I'm right, y'know. Just need to dress you in a black suit, cape and bleach a line down the centre of your hair and you're it, man."
"A skunk?"
"Yeah, but a skunk in a snappy wardrobe."
He makes a small snort and turns the taps off, stepping out of the shower area and grabbing his towel. I prattle on about vampire skunks and the women who love them, and how the screenplay I will never write is going to be huge on all the colonies while he gets dressed. Trowa spends a minute or two towel drying his hair, all the while pretending he's not interested, when I know for a fact he is listening to every single word I'm saying.
Once it's semi dry, he flips his head ever so slightly, allowing the damp mass to resume its usual place obscuring most of his features. I'd say 'rightful place', but since seeing his face fully, there's not a reason in the world I can think of that it should cover that face all the time any more.
He gives me a little nod and then starts to head out, even as I'm still playing water baby.
"Hey Trowa?" I call out when he's halfway across the room. He turns and quietly waits. I then ask him the question that has been burning on my mind.
"What do you think I look like with my hair down?" I ask, letting my locks come forward and fall about over my chest, reaching mid-thigh.
"I think," he says slowly, after pondering the question for a good minute "that you look like Botticelli's Venus."
I sputter in mock-outrage. "How *dare* you compare me to a naked chick riding a clam!" But he's already leaving, a mysterious Mona Lisa smile on his face. Hah. So he's an old painted woman, too. I'll have to tell him that next time.
My shampoo/conditioner is rinsed out, but I want to spend a few more moments soaking up the warmth. As I relax, with my newly shining hair and sparkly clean skin, I can't help but chuckle replaying our conversation through my head.
Surprise me, Trowa. Who knew there was a sense of humour under there after all...
~fin
My first 2+3. How did I do? Comments, please! =)