He didn't stop her from grabbing the towel, though he regrets not doing so. Wrapped in a towel, she looks so very young. For a second he wants nothing more than to help dry her off, apologize and wrap her up in a bubble of protection. It was as if all the power he'd bestowed upon her had been stripped away, power attributed to her beauty and intellect and the clever way she could manipulate --
Oh, but that was it, wasn't it? And there it was, a flicker of steel in her eyes, despite how disheveled she was. How well her mask fit. God, she was remarkable, even when he had every advantage. It was entirely possible that she'd set out to destroy him from the very beginning. A calculated assassination wrapped cleverly in suggestions of neutral palettes and accent walls.
But why?
"Blue cotton sundress, green jacket, four onesies, grey boots..." he lists, all matter-of-fact, but his expression softens into a plea as he searches her demeanor for cracks, trying to see inside and pluck the answers from her eyes, the set of her shoulders, the clutch of her fingers in the fabric of the towel. "You have your secrets. I respect that. But tell me, where exactly did you plan to take our son? Did I abuse you, fail you in some spectacular way, that living in a biker camp would honestly be preferable?"
A leap of logic, perhaps, but he highly doubted that she'd planned to go to one of the other shelters for a weekend getaway. If anything, the recent issues with both the med center and LBJ had proven that they weren't safe. The Capitol was the safest place for her, for their son... but those specific things were missing from the inventory of their home. Practical things. He could only guess that she meant to run off to her brother, but as far as guesses went it wasn't entirely uninformed.