[ There's no snarky reply to her first remark. But Hei's half-smile treads the line between predatory and playful. Sleep isn't on the schedule tonight. He pretends not to notice the way her eyes wander; he's too comfortable with the physical edge of the spectrum not to know what he's got, or to be ashamed of it. It's not arrogance but matter-of-factness. His body is just another tool for the trade, but he has no vanity or impulse to cherish it (The opposite, really). ]
[ At the gleaming cart in the corner bar, he finds a dark bottle of syrah wine. (Maybe someone in the hotel has unplumbed depths?) He doesn't bother with flutes or broad-bowled glasses. Just uncorks the bottle -- repressing a wince at how similar the sound is to gunfire -- and returns to the bathroom. At the doorway, leaning shoulder against the jamb, he opens his mouth to speak -- but stops midway. Fuck. ]
Um...
[ Congratulations. The ensemble -- chosen by him but conveniently forgotten up until now -- nixes words. Rooted to the spot, he can only stare. ]
action;
[ At the gleaming cart in the corner bar, he finds a dark bottle of syrah wine. (Maybe someone in the hotel has unplumbed depths?) He doesn't bother with flutes or broad-bowled glasses. Just uncorks the bottle -- repressing a wince at how similar the sound is to gunfire -- and returns to the bathroom. At the doorway, leaning shoulder against the jamb, he opens his mouth to speak -- but stops midway. Fuck. ]
Um...
[ Congratulations. The ensemble -- chosen by him but conveniently forgotten up until now -- nixes words. Rooted to the spot, he can only stare. ]