one_man_army | upstairs, for trudy

upstairs, for trudy

The first order of business is most definitely the desire to get out of his dirty work clothes and into a shower - the same goes for her as far as her flightsuit goes. Dinner will come later, probably. And possibly a raid on the cabinet in their small kitchen that holds the liquor, if the conversation topic proves it necessary.

But first: shower.

He unlocks the door to their apartment upstairs and holds it open for her, lights coming on as she walks through.

"Was it just me, or tonight did the bar seem a little...off, to you?" he asks, closing the door behind them and locking it.

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"It seemed off," she says, once the door is locked. Holster off and slung over a chair, she sits down heavily and starts working on her boots. "Like...you know, if I was flyin' into it, I'd be cautious."

Edited 2012-11-04 02:57 (UTC)

"Exactly," he agrees. "Something wasn't right but I couldn't quite figure it out."

He peels out of his jacket and hangs it over the same chair that holds her holster (though doesn't cover the weapon) and reaches for the handgun tucked in the concealed-carry sleeve at the small of his back.

The Glock goes on the bookcase nearest the door to the bathroom, and then he also finds a chair and sits to untie his boots.

"It feels damn good t'be getting these off," he mutters, tugging the laces to loosen them.

"Gettin' soft, Benton," she says, as if she massaging her feet when she pulls her socks off.

"The bar...ended recently again, that you know of?"

He shakes his head.

"Not that I've heard, but I'd only been back a short while before you came by the Window," he offers.

Boots off, then socks and shirt - all left in a relatively neat pile beside the chair. He stands and works on getting off his jeans.

(He looks a little thin, but not unhealthy by any stretch of the imagination - just evidence of the many months he's spent working long hours doing various forms of manual labor, on a relatively basic diet.)

He'd thought about going on into the bathroom and turning on the water, but he'd rather linger and watch her peel out of the flightsuit, if he's being honest.

"Reassuring," she mutters, standing to strip off with an efficient practicality. It's when her fingers enclose around the hooks of her bra that she glances up.

And her smile turns bright and crooked, all at once.

And, very deliberately, she unhooks her bra.

"Hot water, Carl?"

"I'm beginning to wonder if it's overrated," he says, moving towards the bathroom to start the shower. "Given my other options at the moment."

Though he does realize that if he turns on the hot water and gets into the shower, he'll soon have her joining him, and that is a very good prospect to consider.

He sets two towels out on the rack before turning on the taps and adjusting the temperature; by the time she makes it to the doorway, he's slid out of his boxer-briefs and has already stepped into the oversized shower, his head ducked beneath the spray.

(There are streaks of red - dust - running down his skin as he rinses off.)

"I suppose I shouldn't tell you that I want a shower more than sex, then," she says, drily, stepping out of her underwear.

Not that she'd be opposed to shower-make-outs.

Still, hot water is hot water, and Milliways doesn't run out, and actually has decent size showers. She'll take it.

"Given the engine grease and the sweat, I kind of figured it might be a given," he comments from beneath the spray.

(There is a layer of fine sand swirling down towards the drain.)

"Besides, the feeling is mutual at the moment. Not that I'm ruling out sex entirely," he adds, opening his eyes to glance up as she walks into the room. "Because I think after a shower, it might be a bit more enjoyable."

"And a bed. A bed sounds real good," Trudy adds. Shampoo first, working it all through her thick curls, then conditioner and twisting her hair out of the way to let it soak through.

Grease requires more scrubbing than sand, and working in the tropics is never pleasant. It almost feels like she's gaining a new skin entirely as the grime is washed from her skin.

Thankfully, the fact that he's merely covered in sand and dried sweat (and the fact that his hair is much, much shorter) gives him time to step aside and shave his face while she scrubs at her skin, trying to work the layer of grime off.

(It doesn't take long, but practice and steady hands help in that regard.)

When he's through, he turns back to her and brings his hand up to run his thumb over her jaw, letting it come to rest at the corner of her mouth.

"Think you missed a spot," he says, leaning closer. "But let me check, just to be sure."

What was that she had said about shower-make-outs? Because there's definitely no wayward engine grease where he's 'checking', that's for sure.

Shower-make-outs are the best make-outs, that's what she said.

Well, the way she kisses him back would lead credence to the idea that that's what she said.

Slowly, he takes control of the situation - his hands come to rest against her hips and he guides her until her back is lightly pressed against the cool tile of the shower wall, and it's obvious that while he is enjoying this very much, he's also savoring it, by the way he returns the kiss.

At the point where they break, he nuzzles his cheek against hers, voice low enough that if anyone else was trying to listen in, the sound of the water falling in the shower would drown out his words.

"Missed you, Marine."

She's had a long day. A damn long day, with a lot of petty things not going right and a few too many idiots to yell at. So letting Carl handle her and press her against the wall?

It's a nice break, letting someone else take the reins for a moment.

"You, too."

Another kiss, and then she grins.

"Now get out so I can wash the conditioner outta my hair without you bein' distractin' at me."

Edited 2012-11-04 05:18 (UTC)

"I thought you enjoyed a challenge," he comments, but he doesn't protest the order. He rinses the last bits of soap off of his body before stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel, drying himself quickly before wrapping it around his waist.

He leans against the sink and watches her rinse her hair.

"Did you even want to bother with dinner tonight, or would you rather just go to bed?"

"You mentioned something about cheeseburgers before? I could do that. I need to wind down first," she says, finally turning off the water and twisting her hair to drain it. She has a lot of hair; it'll take a while.

"I ju-u-u-ust clocked off when I came in."

Thinking of the day he's had, he nods slowly at her mention of relaxing a bit. "Winding down would probably be a good idea for me too," he admits. "Do you want your usual? I can send down the order while you're getting changed."

Trudy beams at him.

"Organization skills. I like it."

"Just because I'm Army doesn't mean I've got shite for brains," he points out, moving out of the bathroom. He grabs a pair of flannel pajama pants from the dresser and pulls them on. "They did teach us how to multitask."

He grabs the canister for the room service system and writes an order down on the pad, then sends the canister sliding down the tube and on its way to the kitchens.

Or wherever it ends up, anyway. All he knows is that it works.

By the time she's gotten her hair situated and comes out of the bathroom, she'll find him sprawled on one side of the couch, and wearing a clean undershirt to go with the pants.

Her hair is in a braid by the time she walks out, the ends of it fluffy from the hair-drier. One of his old shirts gets called into duty as a top, and a nice pair of pajamma pants. They are red. There are black stars. Trudy is incredibly fond of them.

The only thing left to do is crawl onto the couch and sprawl on him. Because she can.

"I think I feel somewhat like a person again."

"You certainly look more like a person," he teases, wrapping his arms around her to allow her to press against him and still get comfortable. "And smell like one. Less like a machine shop. Not that I dislike that, but, you know."

He grins, then his mouth softens to a more normal expression as the conversation shifts.

"Did you have to work on your bird today?"

"Yeah, the vine-breaks were both loose, and left rotor was throwing a temper-tantrum. It was great," she says with a snort.

"That is definitely grounds for a pain-in-the-ass label on the day," he agrees. "Did you at least get it fixed, or are you going to be down for another shift?"

"Another shift, but that should do it." She moved her head to look up at him, going over if she should ask what was wrong.

"That's good, for everyone's sake," he says.

(He knows how she can get without her flying time, and it's rarely a good mood for anyone she comes into contact with - and given how easy he gets off, he'd hate to be the 'other guy'.)

He can tell what she wants to ask, and he nods.

"S'been a long week," he confirms. "We've had a lot of violence in the area and everyone's been on high alert."

"Constant threat, or is it dying down?" she asks, more military than girlfriend for the moment.

(But girlfriend, too. Always.)

"If anything, it's ramping up," he mutters. Reaching up, he rakes a hand through his still-damp hair before letting it come to rest against the back of his neck. "Last week one of the supply trucks got raided on the way back from town. Roughed up the driver a bit but they let him go, thank God. Sometimes they don't."

"Yeah," Trudy says, quiet and dry. "And nothin' I can do, right."

"You know if I needed help, you'd be the first t'ask," he says honestly. "And if I do think that you could, I will ask. I just...don't know if there's honestly much t'be done about it. There's no government or military support, and the UN won't touch the problem."

"Well, the UN." Trudy rests her head back down on his chest, but doesn't shut her eyes.

"You be....careful though, yeah? Not stupidly heroic?"

"I'm always cautious," he replies. "Moreso now than ever."

"Good."

"I'm quite keen on the idea of coming back to you at the end of this, you know."

"Are you now?"

He reaches down to cover one of her hands with his own, interlocking their fingers.

"Mmmhmm. I am." A smirk. "Somehow, you've convinced me."

She's not smiling, for the record. Not at all.

"Gotta say, can't imagine what I've done to deserve that."

"You are incredibly persuasive when you want to be."

"It's a superpower."

He laughs at that, shifting on the couch a bit to stretch out beneath her.

"Roll over a bit, will you?" he asks.

She raises her eyebrows but obliges, shift and turning so that she's sprawled over him, chest to chest.

She has, though, deliberately shimmied down a bit, and folds her hands on his chest and props her chin up on them.

"Like that?"

He lightly rests his hands on the back of her neck, tracing his fingertips in slow, teasing patterns along her spine, as far as he can reach.

"I was thinking of havin' you a bit closer in this direction," he murmurs. "This'll do for now, I suppose..."

"Ohhh, you meant more like this," she says, moving her hands down to brace against the sofa underneath them before sliding up his body to kiss him.

"This better?"

With her higher on his body, he can slide his hands lower on hers.

"Much, actually," he murmurs.

Gods, he's missed her.

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upstairs, for trudy

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