object permanence

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

The most effective method when you're in (fr)enemy territory for the first time is first, snoop. Second, make yourself at home. Fujiko is devastatingly sure who owns the makeup currently scattered across a coffee table covered in newspapers and wires; its because of this she's acquainting herself with it.

Firstly, the foundation is pretty damn good. Lupin's got good taste. In makeup, at least. She had her doubts after watching some of his exploits with painted up beauties and the like [is the painting only as good as the canvas? she tries not to think of that, even now, now that her breathing is her own again], wondered if his acting is as bad as theirs, all sighs and fluttering eyelashes and no real upturn of the chin, but then again...Fujiko hasn't seen him in action nearly enough.

[don't tell him that, though]

Unearthed and cackled at and enraptured are his little bachelor treasures and delights, yet still he doesn't come. While the lady looter is content with skulking around her samurai friend doesn't find the same delight within these walls or junk.

Goemon continues to pace, doesn't even bother polishing his sword, proverbially or literally. She feels his gaze every time those too-long lashes part over those stony orbs. It's a neat tell, those looks.

[the hairs on the back of her neck, on her arms, stand at attention. and though she doesn't want to scare him-- too much--]

Fujiko sighs. The slap of Goemon's sandals halt the moment the sound leaves her lips.

"Is something wr--"

"Brush my hair for me, will you? It's gotten so long just one hundred strokes won't do anymore," she says, all doe eyes and chin tipped over her shoulder, enough so the delicate little strap slips down, down.

Not tickle-me-pink just yet, the samurai appears to be confounded. Befuddled. For a samurai who prides himself on training and discipline, Goemon's easy to read. Because he's a man. Because he searched for the truth of her. Because he's her boyfriend.

"You appear to have that job taken care of. You always look fetch-- your appearance is always neat. Nothing that I need to--"

"Is that your new form of flattery? You're getting a little better." Cue the pink, starting from the cheekbones and spreading right to the cute little ears. She wants nothing more than to tuck that hair behind his ear with a finger and then. "Primping is as primping does, but sometimes wigs aren't enough. So brush my hair or else I might get a little tender headed...as far as I can tell, I can't grow hair by meditating."

[though long fingers tugging at longer locks until her scalp stings wouldn't be so bad]

Goemon clears his throat, snatches the brush from her all in one motion [fingers hot against hers], and, with hands steadier than his pulse in his stomach, pulls bristles through chestnut locks. He's quiet, which isn't new. However, this isn't that same sort of peace. It's neither the kind from meditating, or triumph and pride he eludes from his very pores.

[he's just a boy, you know

all too-warm hands cradled at the back of her head and breath-held]

He's thinking. "Penny for your thoughts? The pouting might stick...I'll have to shoo the other girls off with sticks at this rate." Laughter in her voice, like chiming birds in cages of ribs.

[Adam's, which he gave willingly. The fool.]

Goemon hesitates-- no, he thinks. What you call hesitating in any other human being is that little pucker between his brows. Goemon measures his words as though his tongue is the scale and each sentence is the weight of the world.

"Thieves can't be trusted. How do you know this man will be? If he should savor something other than this diamond..." Brush strokes never cease, they're as steady as the samurai's conviction, as the bandages around his torso. Fujiko hums to herself, then chuckles.

[peals of bells turn into a cackle]

"Don't tell me you're jealous. If you can't handle it, boyfriend, then you might want to get out of the kitchen." Honey eyes regard his in the mirror, that frown and turn of his lip, and something fond and dangerous gathers in her belly.

"If you don't want to play at this game, suit yourself. I thought you wanted some fresh training," her tone dips low, conspiring. "Teamwork and then breaking the code of sharing is caring is the freshest training you can get."

When this explanation, as shoddy as it is, as confident as it is, gains no response, Fujiko sighs. It's gentler.

"You'll be alright, Goemon. I'll be with you-- ah-ah-ah, I know, you won't let their gentlemanly wiles distract you. Neither will I." Sharpness returns to her gaze, enough to halt the brush.

Calloused fingers twine in the ends of her hair and just for a second she wants to kiss the stubborn line of his mouth. One second of lack of control.

But the moment passes when he grumbles something about "troublesome thieves" just as the guests of honor arrive. The hosts of honor. Laughing and stumbling over themselves, Lupin and Jigen are red faced and dripping from head to toe, all the more glad for it.

At Goemon's combined look of disgust and the begrudging of someone's grandmother in law, Fujiko mouths,

"It'll only be temporary."

[that's the thing about things you can't quite see unless you squint or you're 30 hours with no sleep and blood loss....

Family is a little like that. The future Lupin Gang is exactly like that]