Lita misses the removal of the club vest, shirt, and Kevlar while taking the tour de Rodeo and by the time she realizes it's already too late. Even though she's more than a little disappointed to miss the show, it's probably better this way. Appreciating the view would slightly undermine her professionalism and isn't that the only reason she's here? Lita isn't under any illusions that she'd be standing in his room in any other scenario, fantasy or otherwise. Her gaze does linger on the Kevlar for a few seconds and she stares at it, wondering why he'd never worn it with her. The obvious answer was that it would point to him being someone that got shot at a lot. Except, it was more about what its absence when he was with her meant. Hiding who he was, keeping her closer for longer...had that meant more to him than catching a bullet? Lita couldn't (and didn't want to) think about James' reasoning. It would only confuse and unnerve her more than she already was.
"Hate to burst your bubble," Lita says with a rueful shake of her head. "But I kinda thought it would have been me doing this part, not you," she says, inclining her head to where he was undoing his belt buckle. "Most, if not all of my fantasy scenarios were definitely less clinical and decidedly more...well, you know."
Does he know? It hadn't simply been the promise of sex if they had continued along the road they had traveling been on; although, that had been (and still was) something Lita thought about all the time. Except that it wasn't just that, somehow. It was the promise of something deep and lasting and real she couldn't get out of her mind. Maybe he felt that about her, once. Maybe it was just as likely another masterfully concocted ruse. Lita hates that she can never tell and might never find out.
He's joking as he shucks his shoes and jeans in one fell swoop. The worst part is, even though James is all sarcasm and quips, there is a sort of magic there. No amount of hurt or anger or frustration can erase it completely and it frustrates Lita to no end that she feels it still. Lita sits down next to him on the bed and, after he rips off the James Hawkins' version of a bandage, observes the wound without touching him first, trying to figure out what sort of industrial strength gunk he's plugged the hole with.
"As immune to germs as you think you are there, T-1000," Lita says, laying on the sarcasm thick along with a healthy dose of disapproval. "Obviously you're not quite as impervious to stab wounds. You're gonna wish you had a few fingers of your buddy's moonshine in you now, because this is probably going to hurt like a sumbitch."
Lita gets out all the materials she'll need to clean the wound, not remotely trusting the antiseptic nature of backyard grain alcohol to do the job. For a moment, she hesitates. It's the closest they've been since they last time they were together, they were on a bed, she was going to be touching his thigh....it was slightly torturous to keep her professionalism from slipping. The latex gloves did help, as did the festering, barely treated gash covered in superglue.
"Sorry, my hands might be cold," Lita murmurs, turning her attention to the injury. "Just, uh...tell me if it's too much and you want me to stop."
She quirks her head and winces slightly, mentally lambasting her word choice, but there's nothing to be done about it. There is something on her mind besides what it feels like to have her hands on him again and it's a subject that will certainly keep her mind from straying in the gutter.
"So, you going to tell me what happened back there with Pete earlier?"