The squeak is a surprise, and the corners of her mouth tick upwards. That she could even elicit such a sound from Iman is a thrill: she is a famous hero, and Greta is no one, a baker, and yet here they are, making out in an alleyway like a pair of teenagers. Is this even real?
She doesn't care. Iman's fingers are in her hair, and her lips are soft, and she's being so gentle - reverent, almost, as if Greta is the lofty, unattainable one, and she can't believe her good fortune. Which doesn't make the least bit of sense, she's not--there's nothing intimidating about her, surely?
She's sliding one hand up Iman's back in what she hopes is an encouraging sort of way; the other is experimentally fondling the hijab when Iman suddenly stills. Oh, dear. Should she not have touched the scarf? Greta opens her eyes, expecting to see shock or reproach and not the expression Iman's currently wearing, which is... stunned, but not in a bad sort of way.
What's happened? What is she missing? Why have they stopped? Is... is that all?
"Iman?" she hazards, searching her gaze for some sort of explanation. "Is--are you..." she fumbles uncertainly, terrified all of a sudden that she's made some sort of mistake, got the wrong idea. Well, of course she did. She's only a baker, and Iman is a hero, and they might get a moment in an alleyway but nothing that will last; she doesn't get to keep this. Why would she?
She releases Iman's hijab, and wonders if she ought to extricate herself completely, but she can't bring herself to do that. Instead, she finds herself lifting her hand to Iman's face, brushing her fingertips against her cheek. "I--" she starts.
no subject
She doesn't care. Iman's fingers are in her hair, and her lips are soft, and she's being so gentle - reverent, almost, as if Greta is the lofty, unattainable one, and she can't believe her good fortune. Which doesn't make the least bit of sense, she's not--there's nothing intimidating about her, surely?
She's sliding one hand up Iman's back in what she hopes is an encouraging sort of way; the other is experimentally fondling the hijab when Iman suddenly stills. Oh, dear. Should she not have touched the scarf? Greta opens her eyes, expecting to see shock or reproach and not the expression Iman's currently wearing, which is... stunned, but not in a bad sort of way.
What's happened? What is she missing? Why have they stopped? Is... is that all?
"Iman?" she hazards, searching her gaze for some sort of explanation. "Is--are you..." she fumbles uncertainly, terrified all of a sudden that she's made some sort of mistake, got the wrong idea. Well, of course she did. She's only a baker, and Iman is a hero, and they might get a moment in an alleyway but nothing that will last; she doesn't get to keep this. Why would she?
She releases Iman's hijab, and wonders if she ought to extricate herself completely, but she can't bring herself to do that. Instead, she finds herself lifting her hand to Iman's face, brushing her fingertips against her cheek. "I--" she starts.
And then she wakes up.