Strange is old enough, blasé enough, and in enough stringent control over his reactions, that his head won’t turn over a nice pair of legs and long bare thighs and tits and ass.
But his gaze does catch on those scars.
They draw the eye, dragging one’s attention inexorably downward, following the jagged line of tissue marching around her thigh. The attendant was even more surprised when Gwenaëlle first shimmied out of her clothes, but the employee has long-since mastered her own poker face: they’re paid very, very well to have no opinion on their customers’ bodies, only to locate what clothing will look best on said bodies. And goodness, but Gwenaëlle wears that baby-blue swimsuit well.
He purses his mouth, biting down on any tiresome remark on the scars. He already knows what took a bite out of her, after all; just hadn’t known the extent of it until now.
“When you said ‘coverup’, I was expecting some kind of long flowing shawl. A muumuu sipping a piña colada on the beach,” he says, even though he’s aware the comments might sound inane to a Theodosian. (Do they have muumuus? Do they have piña coladas?) “It’s like a very smart jacket. It looks good. High-end.”
The compliment is quick, curt, like delivering an official prognosis.
“It’s a shame it’s winter here, so you won’t get to enjoy it on the beach.” A beat and then, remembering that he doesn’t have to be coy about his magic any longer — Doctor Strange has been hopelessly, ostentatiously, melodramatically public about it in New York — so he adds, an offer, “Although if you did want to experience any of the tropics — our Rivain — I can portal you there anytime. Everyone’s in a bit of a standstill until we get a lead on that artifact, after all.”
no subject
But his gaze does catch on those scars.
They draw the eye, dragging one’s attention inexorably downward, following the jagged line of tissue marching around her thigh. The attendant was even more surprised when Gwenaëlle first shimmied out of her clothes, but the employee has long-since mastered her own poker face: they’re paid very, very well to have no opinion on their customers’ bodies, only to locate what clothing will look best on said bodies. And goodness, but Gwenaëlle wears that baby-blue swimsuit well.
He purses his mouth, biting down on any tiresome remark on the scars. He already knows what took a bite out of her, after all; just hadn’t known the extent of it until now.
“When you said ‘coverup’, I was expecting some kind of long flowing shawl. A muumuu sipping a piña colada on the beach,” he says, even though he’s aware the comments might sound inane to a Theodosian. (Do they have muumuus? Do they have piña coladas?) “It’s like a very smart jacket. It looks good. High-end.”
The compliment is quick, curt, like delivering an official prognosis.
“It’s a shame it’s winter here, so you won’t get to enjoy it on the beach.” A beat and then, remembering that he doesn’t have to be coy about his magic any longer — Doctor Strange has been hopelessly, ostentatiously, melodramatically public about it in New York — so he adds, an offer, “Although if you did want to experience any of the tropics — our Rivain — I can portal you there anytime. Everyone’s in a bit of a standstill until we get a lead on that artifact, after all.”