Her hand moves to his knee without hesitating; it's instinct, reaching out to steady him. She hums, a sort of oh, I see without actually using those words.
"If I were a cynical kind of person I guess I'd point out there's money for him too, there. But I'm not. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to feed you himself."
She holds her other hand out, letting the water flow over it as it starts to get hotter. "So what if..." She pauses. Shrugs slightly. "What if you made a little less money, and spent more time on something that actually was meaningful to you? Like your own work?"
Shoes off, thanks in part to the steadying hand on his knee. Shirt next, although that comes with much more of a fuss.
"My own work?"
And for a moment, he's clearly confused about it. For a moment, there's enough alcohol addling his brain that he can't both get off his shirt and remember his opera.
That earns him a kiss, a soft, heartfelt press of her lips before she reaches to adjust the taps and plug the drain.
"You've got a girlfriend who's got a job of her own. Who doesn't need much. And who very much wants to see you happy." She straightens up, taking one of his hands, damp fingers curling around his.
"I'm not saying quit entirely. But. Maybe pass on or two of those godawful pop commissions here and there, and take the time to work on your opera instead."
His girlfriend does have her own job. She does seem to not need much more than a dance and a kiss, and she does have a weird predilection for seeing him smile. It's lovely.
His fingers curl around hers contentedly, body swaying just a little as he squeezes.
"Not in the least, Cynric." She takes his hand in both of her own, earnest, entirely serious about this. "You need to do this. I'll be here for whatever you need, so you can. Now, stand up for a second?"
She pulls gently as she rises, carefully getting him to his feet, because there's still the matter of his pants. "Unless you were going to wear these in the bath," she teases, her fingers moving to unfasten them.
{ooc; In case we didn't have enough threads, silliness is ensuing.}
He won't remember the whole night. Or the whole day. He'll just remember bits and pieces. He'll remember the cheering in the bar. He'll remember the happiness in her voice at it being their home.
And he'll remember this quiet moment of clinging to her hands in the bathroom, deciding he was going to sit down in the morning to start penning out his opera.
Standing up is an unsteady thing. The laugh that bubbles up to his lips is also, somehow, slurred as he bumps his forehead to hers. "'course not. Ridiculous, Lois. Next you'll be asking 'f I'm Superman."
He's just going to cling if she's got his pants under control.
[ooc: ...no help that's one of my favorite memes. I'll be there shortly for yours and to pile some people in. :|a]
His pants are totally under control, nothing to worry about. She can finish undressing him and hold him up at the same time. "Well, if you are," she laughs, pushing what's left of his clothing down past his hips, "your secret is safe with me. And can apparently be hidden by a pair of really ugly glasses, disguises are an easy thing, I guess."
She lets him rest against her for a few long moments, before she steps back slightly, reaching for his hands. "Here. Step out of those and then we can get you in the tub."
"It's difficult, all the double life and bad prescriptions."
Woe to Supes. Woe to all the poor superheroes with their masks or their glasses or their names which clearly implied who they were.
Kicking off the pants around his legs certainly requires leaning against her. Getting into the tub absolutely requires her assistance. But then she'll join him, yes? Yes.
She will join him. Once she's sure he's safely in the tub, she steps back and undresses. Her clothes get piled on top of his, safely out of the way of the tub, and she pulls a couple of towels down from the linen closet too, setting those within reach.
She steps carefully into the tub, lowering herself without tripping over or sitting on any of his limbs. She settles against him, her back to his chest, sighing contentedly.
"The water's not too hot? I didn't set it to my usual standard of 'boiling'."
Rachel Conway is a very distracting woman when she's naked. It counteracts the exhaustive effects of having so much alcohol pounding through his system--and her ridiculously warm water surrounding him in the tub.
The counteraction fades slightly as she climbs in after him and he can get arms warm and right around her. Her hair is the perfect place to bury his nose and purr.
She squirms a little, settling in even closer. She leans back, resting the back of her head against him. It isn't quite tucking her head under his chin, but it'll do.
"If your agent gives you any trouble over turning down work, send him to me. I'll handle him."
"We are a good team." She takes one of his hands and laces her fingers through his so she can use that hold on him to draw his arm tighter across her body. "You have yet to actually meet my boss yet. I guess it remains to be seen if I'm in need of avenging. He's... not really so bad, despite all the shouting we do at each other. It's like... If you took Maks and Pierre and put them together, I guess."
Hopefully that's neat shorthand for "tough on me and sometimes a pain in the ass, but a fatherly sort of figure and a good man, too".
"Put them together?" Give him a second. You're blowing his intoxicated mind. "That'd make... the best human person."
And this best human person purportedly owed him a drink the next time there was team bonding. It's overwhelming. Or, well. Overwhelming when already sloshed.
She laughs, bright and amused. "Is that what it is? Gosh. I'll have to be more careful using words and all."
She shifts a little; she can't quite turn enough to fully face him, but the idea is there. "Speaking of me and all my words, though. Joe took what I've been working on to the managing editors. That whole thing around the ER nurse they think poisoned people? If I can get it all together... They may be willing to let me have a series of articles over a few days or weeks."
So it's both of them, really,mating the first few tiny steps toward what they've dreamed of doing.
He'll be more properly enthused in the morning. Possibly after the painful hangover. For now? There's just sloppy kisses to her cheek because it's what he can reach.
"Going t' get all famous and move up t' a more famous boyfriend?"
No, she's neither going to wait for a reply or settle for just getting cheek kisses. Not after that.
She gently disentangles herself from his arms. Her hands grip the sides of the tub so she can pull away and get to her knees. There's a bit of water sloshing as she turns and then inches closer again, kneeling in front of him. She leans in and kisses him properly, one hand cupping his face, the other holding the side of the tub for balance.
It's just as well, because his only response is a soft affirmative hum--well, at least until she pulls away. Then it turns into a very unhappy hum, because he's ridiculously displeased about her moving away.
Much better when she moves closer again. Much better when he can kiss her contentedly, one hand lifting to tangle properly in her hair.
She hears the more protesting hum; when her mouth covers his she lets out one that's reassuring. See? She hasn't gone anywhere. It's better.
Much better. His fingers in her hair delight her. When she's settled her weight and she's sure she can lean in without toppling over onto him, she does so, her other hand moving to cradle the other side of his face.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"If I were a cynical kind of person I guess I'd point out there's money for him too, there. But I'm not. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to feed you himself."
She holds her other hand out, letting the water flow over it as it starts to get hotter. "So what if..." She pauses. Shrugs slightly. "What if you made a little less money, and spent more time on something that actually was meaningful to you? Like your own work?"
Like his opera.
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"My own work?"
And for a moment, he's clearly confused about it. For a moment, there's enough alcohol addling his brain that he can't both get off his shirt and remember his opera.
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She takes his shirt, setting it out of the way. He has been drinking for hours, maybe it really hasn't occurred to him.
"Your opera, Cynric. What if you devoted some more of your time to that instead of all this other stuff that obviously doesn't make you happy?"
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He sways thoughtfully for a moment, finding his balance again while marshaling his mind.
"...I need money. 've got a girlfriend."
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"You've got a girlfriend who's got a job of her own. Who doesn't need much. And who very much wants to see you happy." She straightens up, taking one of his hands, damp fingers curling around his.
"I'm not saying quit entirely. But. Maybe pass on or two of those godawful pop commissions here and there, and take the time to work on your opera instead."
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His fingers curl around hers contentedly, body swaying just a little as he squeezes.
"...you wouldn't mind?"
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She pulls gently as she rises, carefully getting him to his feet, because there's still the matter of his pants. "Unless you were going to wear these in the bath," she teases, her fingers moving to unfasten them.
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He won't remember the whole night. Or the whole day. He'll just remember bits and pieces. He'll remember the cheering in the bar. He'll remember the happiness in her voice at it being their home.
And he'll remember this quiet moment of clinging to her hands in the bathroom, deciding he was going to sit down in the morning to start penning out his opera.
Standing up is an unsteady thing. The laugh that bubbles up to his lips is also, somehow, slurred as he bumps his forehead to hers. "'course not. Ridiculous, Lois. Next you'll be asking 'f I'm Superman."
He's just going to cling if she's got his pants under control.
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His pants are totally under control, nothing to worry about. She can finish undressing him and hold him up at the same time. "Well, if you are," she laughs, pushing what's left of his clothing down past his hips, "your secret is safe with me. And can apparently be hidden by a pair of really ugly glasses, disguises are an easy thing, I guess."
She lets him rest against her for a few long moments, before she steps back slightly, reaching for his hands. "Here. Step out of those and then we can get you in the tub."
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"It's difficult, all the double life and bad prescriptions."
Woe to Supes. Woe to all the poor superheroes with their masks or their glasses or their names which clearly implied who they were.
Kicking off the pants around his legs certainly requires leaning against her. Getting into the tub absolutely requires her assistance. But then she'll join him, yes? Yes.
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She steps carefully into the tub, lowering herself without tripping over or sitting on any of his limbs. She settles against him, her back to his chest, sighing contentedly.
"The water's not too hot? I didn't set it to my usual standard of 'boiling'."
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The counteraction fades slightly as she climbs in after him and he can get arms warm and right around her. Her hair is the perfect place to bury his nose and purr.
"'s perfect. Honest."
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She squirms a little, settling in even closer. She leans back, resting the back of her head against him. It isn't quite tucking her head under his chin, but it'll do.
"If your agent gives you any trouble over turning down work, send him to me. I'll handle him."
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In a million ways. He could rattle them off if he were more sober. Maybe. If he were more sober but still feeling this generally uninhibited.
"Handling each other's bosses like... dunno. Avenging angels."
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Hopefully that's neat shorthand for "tough on me and sometimes a pain in the ass, but a fatherly sort of figure and a good man, too".
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And this best human person purportedly owed him a drink the next time there was team bonding. It's overwhelming. Or, well. Overwhelming when already sloshed.
"You've got t' bring me with you next time."
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Her hand drifts to his knee, resting on it, her thumb tracing a little circle where it lands.
"He may interrogate you, though. Hazard of the profession."
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"Hazard of dating you and all your words."
Or just a hazard of not being a word-y person, perhaps. Clearly, at this level of intoxicated he wasn't one.
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She shifts a little; she can't quite turn enough to fully face him, but the idea is there. "Speaking of me and all my words, though. Joe took what I've been working on to the managing editors. That whole thing around the ER nurse they think poisoned people? If I can get it all together... They may be willing to let me have a series of articles over a few days or weeks."
So it's both of them, really,mating the first few tiny steps toward what they've dreamed of doing.
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He'll be more properly enthused in the morning. Possibly after the painful hangover. For now? There's just sloppy kisses to her cheek because it's what he can reach.
"Going t' get all famous and move up t' a more famous boyfriend?"
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She can't at all reach to give those kisses back. All she can do is squirm happily and receive them.
"There won't be any moving anywhere. I'm going to get published and you're going to have your opera produced and I don't want anybody else."
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"Y' know? Neither do I."
Which he will resume not admitting to freely when he's sober.
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No, she's neither going to wait for a reply or settle for just getting cheek kisses. Not after that.
She gently disentangles herself from his arms. Her hands grip the sides of the tub so she can pull away and get to her knees. There's a bit of water sloshing as she turns and then inches closer again, kneeling in front of him. She leans in and kisses him properly, one hand cupping his face, the other holding the side of the tub for balance.
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Much better when she moves closer again. Much better when he can kiss her contentedly, one hand lifting to tangle properly in her hair.
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Much better. His fingers in her hair delight her. When she's settled her weight and she's sure she can lean in without toppling over onto him, she does so, her other hand moving to cradle the other side of his face.
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