( he does at least continue--lets the countdown trail off softly, from 'three' to 'two' and finally, 'one'; by that point, he's already stepped himself close to the fully lowered partition, stepping one boot over the edge like he's climbing in through a window in the middle of the night. glass in hand, he downs what's left of it: hisses, a little, as it hits his throat, and pools down into his stomach.
there's a neat little table with some pretty vase and flowers, next to the open partition, where he sets that empty glass down, as though marking his territory. )
Not like I had that many to begin with.
( manners, that is. he knows them, anyway: doesn't mean that he employs them. endeavor might have beaten certain sensibilities into him, but sometimes it's like spitting right back into his face to leave them to the wayside.
he waits, letting her rustle around for something suitable: his gaze isn't on her, but rather, looking around the room, up at the ceiling, noting the lamps, the lighting, the picture frames here and there. it's obvious he's after something, but when his gaze slides back to her, it's with a half of a smile: a little wicked, on a face like his, as he clears the distance between them to reach for an end of the ribbon.
he drags it, pulling it slowly from her grasp into his; bundling it up between his palms, he wraps it a few times, gives it a firm yank, and nods. )
Good. Now you take everything from the waist down off.
( he assumes he isn't going to be met with resistance--but he does lift a brow, as he starts to turn away, as though waiting just in case she'd like to argue. )
no subject
there's a neat little table with some pretty vase and flowers, next to the open partition, where he sets that empty glass down, as though marking his territory. )
Not like I had that many to begin with.
( manners, that is. he knows them, anyway: doesn't mean that he employs them. endeavor might have beaten certain sensibilities into him, but sometimes it's like spitting right back into his face to leave them to the wayside.
he waits, letting her rustle around for something suitable: his gaze isn't on her, but rather, looking around the room, up at the ceiling, noting the lamps, the lighting, the picture frames here and there. it's obvious he's after something, but when his gaze slides back to her, it's with a half of a smile: a little wicked, on a face like his, as he clears the distance between them to reach for an end of the ribbon.
he drags it, pulling it slowly from her grasp into his; bundling it up between his palms, he wraps it a few times, gives it a firm yank, and nods. )
Good. Now you take everything from the waist down off.
( he assumes he isn't going to be met with resistance--but he does lift a brow, as he starts to turn away, as though waiting just in case she'd like to argue. )