[continuously, it feels like. it’s the door that smells like herbal-cigarettes, left mostly ajar. it’s also the one with Jem in the corner, stripping down to her thinner layers, fanning herself like the humidity is going dissipate that way.
the skiff is clinging to her back, which is possibly the second worst feeling behind having frozen hair. there is, at least, a thinner, cotton sweater she can pull on after it’s off.
to herself, she’s muttering:] Who fucking sweats this much in December in Europe?
[Answering the question that wasn't even posed to him as he slopes into the room. He takes the heat better than the cold, looks comfortable enough in shirt and pants and boots, no sign of all the extra layers he'd been bundling up in during the snow. He's got a hamper hooked over one arm, gets busy setting it down almost immediately, fishing out a jar from the carefully packed contents and holding it out.
The contents look suspiciously like strawberry milkshake.]
[Jem is an instant creature of pure delight, hands clutching the jar, shaking the contents, and then pressing the jar to her forehead like a balm. ] Have I told you that you're my favourite, lately?
[There's a drip of condensation down her nose, landing across her lip. She licks it away and flops down onto her bed, lays back and presses the jar to her neck next. ] I'm sure it tastes brilliant, too, but honestly - honestly, this is bliss.
Only a couple of times. [A shrug, loose, easy.] I can always stand to hear it more.
[There's another jar in the hamper, a few pastries, some apples, and he's unpacking them out onto the end of the bed. It might look like a serious attempt to get and keep that favourite status, but he tends to just do this, these days. Bring people food. It's only when he's done that he really notices what she's doing with the jar, looks a little amused about it.]
As fun as cuddling it looks, it's not going to hit your core temp if it isn't inside you.
[But he's right; she drags herself up to sit, undoes the lid and takes a sip, before she takes stock of the little spread he's brought her. It tastes like summer, back home - her real home. Milkshakes, fresh strawberries - she sighs, delighted, and holds the glass between both hands. ]
- Oh. Oh my god, you brought me a picnic? [Which is perhaps the sweetest thing anyone has done for her here, really. Her eyes light up and then go very soft. The glass is set aside, hands outstretched after to grab at Murphy, his hands. ] Come here.
[Her reaction has him looking over the spread again.]
Aren't picnics meant to have sandwiches?
[Not that the distinction seems to matter. She's reaching for him, and he goes, careful not to disturb any of the food as he lets her tug him in. Still, he's going to offer:]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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maybe i was going to invite back to my room for smokes and some stolen booze
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Okay, I actually meant pissing you off so much you'd be telling me to shut up all the time. But yeah, okay, sure.
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[continuously, it feels like. it’s the door that smells like herbal-cigarettes, left mostly ajar. it’s also the one with Jem in the corner, stripping down to her thinner layers, fanning herself like the humidity is going dissipate that way.
the skiff is clinging to her back, which is possibly the second worst feeling behind having frozen hair. there is, at least, a thinner, cotton sweater she can pull on after it’s off.
to herself, she’s muttering:] Who fucking sweats this much in December in Europe?
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[Answering the question that wasn't even posed to him as he slopes into the room. He takes the heat better than the cold, looks comfortable enough in shirt and pants and boots, no sign of all the extra layers he'd been bundling up in during the snow. He's got a hamper hooked over one arm, gets busy setting it down almost immediately, fishing out a jar from the carefully packed contents and holding it out.
The contents look suspiciously like strawberry milkshake.]
Here, while it's still cold.
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[There's a drip of condensation down her nose, landing across her lip. She licks it away and flops down onto her bed, lays back and presses the jar to her neck next. ] I'm sure it tastes brilliant, too, but honestly - honestly, this is bliss.
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[There's another jar in the hamper, a few pastries, some apples, and he's unpacking them out onto the end of the bed. It might look like a serious attempt to get and keep that favourite status, but he tends to just do this, these days. Bring people food. It's only when he's done that he really notices what she's doing with the jar, looks a little amused about it.]
As fun as cuddling it looks, it's not going to hit your core temp if it isn't inside you.
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[But he's right; she drags herself up to sit, undoes the lid and takes a sip, before she takes stock of the little spread he's brought her. It tastes like summer, back home - her real home. Milkshakes, fresh strawberries - she sighs, delighted, and holds the glass between both hands. ]
- Oh. Oh my god, you brought me a picnic? [Which is perhaps the sweetest thing anyone has done for her here, really. Her eyes light up and then go very soft. The glass is set aside, hands outstretched after to grab at Murphy, his hands. ] Come here.
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Aren't picnics meant to have sandwiches?
[Not that the distinction seems to matter. She's reaching for him, and he goes, careful not to disturb any of the food as he lets her tug him in. Still, he's going to offer:]
I mean, I could make some, if you want.
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[Which -] Which is fine, but like. You could just tell me.
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