and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
"Mmh," he hums vaguely, fingers curling around the rag as he folds it for a last swipe before following her initiative. And suddenly, desperately, he wishes he could recall the pleasant sensation of warm water on his hands, but it's all just—water. Water texture. Impersonal and wet and not much else. "Busy with her own things, I suppose." He's tempted to say more, but it's been three hundred years of imprisonment and advances. Who's to say she hasn't changed? Who's to say they aren't different from him? Something flutters inside of him, residue of a body that was once more organic. What if they can feel things differently, better..? The sun..?"I wondered why she didn't do it herself, but... Regardless, I'm glad she told me to." He pauses to consider a particularly stubborn spot on the sill (or just his imagination). "I'm happy to hear it was appreciated."
Because of his attention to the sill he doesn't notice her blush as he waits for the answer, just works on making sure the window is spotless. She was curious? He mulls over it for a moment, then decides it fits her very well. He glances up from what he's doing, shyly almost. "And?" he prompts, softly.
Aamu
