( so they go through all the motions of what she figures is what people call a casual hook-up.
walking down the hallways, having just met some hapless stranger at a bar, all robin really has is his impression — a good posture; vices that go along the lines of smoking and drinking; how fiercely he can look in a single, heart-rendering instant when he perceives an imminent threat. his expression doesn't shift much at all even after opening the door to an otherwise occupied room, but discomfort seems to tic his brow, just a little, whenever it happens. she gets the sense that he wears the suit easily out of habit, jacket brushed into worn submission, but his rough-edged authenticity would make him a poor businessman.
her smile winks at the edges of each eye as she thinks about it, as he heaves some world-weary breath and tips his head in a reluctant invitation for her to join him in the room. he'd already told her what he was, after all. there's no illusion. )
You could be colder, Mister Devil Hunter.
( she says, with no real heat in it at all, as she walks up with more confidence than she might be feeling. she's given him her name, but he hadn't given her his, and it's with that knowledge and clinical surety that she helps coax the door open and walks in right after him.
... where they might stand, for a moment, in the middle of that enclosed space with that awkward stretched silence. the room's not built for much besides that it contains the accoutrements of what might be necessary for a careless fling: dim lighting, and a minibar with a sink attached, and drawers that contain who-knows-what, and a bed that seems attached to the wall in a luxurious circle, pillows and sheets almost flooding over in maroon and gold that still shines in the shadow.
the door, despite one so easily opening a few doors down, does lock from the inside. this, she finds out, by clicking it counter-clockwise herself. )
no subject
walking down the hallways, having just met some hapless stranger at a bar, all robin really has is his impression — a good posture; vices that go along the lines of smoking and drinking; how fiercely he can look in a single, heart-rendering instant when he perceives an imminent threat. his expression doesn't shift much at all even after opening the door to an otherwise occupied room, but discomfort seems to tic his brow, just a little, whenever it happens. she gets the sense that he wears the suit easily out of habit, jacket brushed into worn submission, but his rough-edged authenticity would make him a poor businessman.
her smile winks at the edges of each eye as she thinks about it, as he heaves some world-weary breath and tips his head in a reluctant invitation for her to join him in the room. he'd already told her what he was, after all. there's no illusion. )
You could be colder, Mister Devil Hunter.
( she says, with no real heat in it at all, as she walks up with more confidence than she might be feeling. she's given him her name, but he hadn't given her his, and it's with that knowledge and clinical surety that she helps coax the door open and walks in right after him.
... where they might stand, for a moment, in the middle of that enclosed space with that awkward stretched silence. the room's not built for much besides that it contains the accoutrements of what might be necessary for a careless fling: dim lighting, and a minibar with a sink attached, and drawers that contain who-knows-what, and a bed that seems attached to the wall in a luxurious circle, pillows and sheets almost flooding over in maroon and gold that still shines in the shadow.
the door, despite one so easily opening a few doors down, does lock from the inside. this, she finds out, by clicking it counter-clockwise herself. )
... May I ask for a favor?