'When I'm ready'? ( --comes the lofty, almost amused response, though he leaves it there to linger in the air between them. tseng's started up the bath, all the same, and there's some kind of comfort in hearing all the noise, as though it helps to muddle anything he worries about between them. )

I'm surprised you're not more hands-on, Tseng.

( but this is the game that they play, the lines that they dart back over and hide behind, as though blurring them is not quite as fun as deciding when and how they'll come into play. he could easily command tseng to strip him of his shirt, unbuckle his belt, drag all of his clothes down to his ankles, and tseng would do it, if he asked, if he told him he had to. that's not the kind of fear that he wants to instill in people: and not the kind of feeling he wants to instill, either, in someone that he has candid interest in.

so it's his own hands, that work to shrug out of his shirt, to carefully shed his pants, his underwear, his socks, everything else left in a neater pile than the bread crumbs he left behind previously--unabashed, he eases past the glass door of the shower, ducking his head beneath it first to let the water wash over his hair, smearing it into his face, casting hot steam down his bare arms and shoulders. with a pass of a palm over his nose, his eyes, wiping the water out of the way-- )

I seem to have misplaced my favourite shampoo, you know.

( it's not true. all the bottles are neatly lined up where he expected them to be, and it's obvious there's a smile in his voice, when he turns to put his back to the spray, to work his hands up through his hair and peel it back. )

Come in and help me find it. Your suit isn't welcome here.