[Her cheeks still feel hot and blotchy. He isn't the only one who looks like he went through a wringer right now. She does feel like crap, though, but distantly.]

I don't know, I don't think so. I threw away so much. I'll have to look. [Murmuring, not quite able to take her eyes off him, the shots of silver all through his hair, the tiredness around his eyes she wants to lift away. Oh my god, Bruce, stop touching yourself the way she wants to be touching you.] I can pick one up tomorrow. There should be some new razors in the bathroom, though.

[Somehow, in the course of saying that, her hands have found their way to his face, brushing along the fuzz of his jaw. She doesn't really remember moving, or leaning closer, but she swallows and finds she can't move back, either. It's not really a sense of boundaries on her part, or even any particular awareness of the space that was and is no longer between then. It just feels like things happening, and her letting them happen, and him letting them happen like the steps of a dance. Slow, slow, quick-, quick-, slow.]

I should probably wash my face, too. Is this okay, Bruce? I don't want to hold back. [Two separate thought processes running in parallel and spilling together, neither particularly controlled.]