Re: babs/dami log: the manor
Barbara's eyes were a corona in constellatory emerald, with a brightness to them Damian could not source—physically, anatomically. Emotionally, of course, he could.—He was watching her closely, standing nearly hip-to-hip, if she allowed him to slip incrementally nearer. She was speaking, quite seriously, answering his question about the cloned young woman, but, rather shamefully, Damian wasn't listening. Not with complete attention. After all, there were too many variables. And there were other things he found more compelling in the present. They would figure it out between them, the girl's purpose, who she was to the League and why, but they need not do it this very moment.
The smile on Barbara's lips was a reflection of his own. Unlike nearly everyone else, she seemed able to determine the intention of his words with accuracy and regularity. She was as sharp-edged as he often was. Her morals were stringent. Neither of them required fat to bone in conversation, something to soften what was usually truth. She was not like Woods, who recoiled as if each vowel was personal. As if he was that important.—They had their differences too, naturally, or Damian suspected he wouldn't like her (the reasoning behind which he did not want to delve into). She could be blunt, but she was softer than he was, warmer.
He might've blushed at the bit about handsomeness, but it could be difficult to discern on cheeks already dark and skin cold.
"Father is far more conventionally so," Damian admitted in what he imagined was statement of fact. (Subjectivity—as a thing—did not often occur to the man who was taught his perception was reality.) It didn't hurt his feelings. Western ideals were bizarre as it was.—And when he pulled away, it was just because he was fighting the heat that flared over him in proximity to Barbara just then. He didn't realize it was insulting or confusing to her. He tugged on the bottom of his shirt and moved toward the kitchen.
The man milled around the island situated in the near-center of the room toward the refrigerator. He pulled open the door and stared into the humming white interior. He was not looking for anything. He glanced over his shoulder at Barbara, hearing the stirring of pride in her tone. He smiled. "I guarantee you they do." They did. "It would have to be unique enough to not be in the file, yet common enough to be slipped into conversation." He closed the door to the refrigerator without taking anything, turned, and leaned against the cool silver, stoppered on rubber soles.—Eyes of monsoon blue-green moved up Barbara. He gave a smile. "غزال؟"