[ The complaint earns her a wry grin as he takes her arm gently by the wrist and elbow, straightening it enough to study her hand by sight and touch, exploring her palm, between each of her many fingers. It's probably not necessary; she's no doubt perfectly aware of what is and isn't normal when it comes to her own hands, but... well, she did say she wanted no stone left unturned. Far be it for Mordin to argue. Before long he's at her forearm, tracing a broad stroke up the vein that culminates at the inside of her elbow, other hand still gently supporting her at the wrist. Her own orders: by the end of this there'll be no part of her left that he hasn't touched. ]
Exhilarating. Challenges, risks, rewards. Occasionally tumultuous. Argued constantly. [ His tone is unmistakably fond. ] Both stubborn. Didn't know how to stop. Someone always—had to be right. Often was right. Usually me.
[ Winding his way up to her shoulder maybe takes him a little longer than it would for a human doing the same things. Salarian hands are different, their palms smaller, their fingers thinner and fewer. But Mordin's are both nimble and thorough, and their slow climb to her shoulder arrives after a while, touch skating soft from her trapezius muscle to the side of her neck down to her collarbone. He can't help but admire the way her frame is at once relatively small and unmistakably powerful. Marvels that Cerberus supposedly rebuilt her exactly as she was.
He can feel her tension. Understandable, of course. He knows exactly why they're talking and that it ought to continue. ]
Young for a captain. Liked to hear himself talk. At first chafed at the notion of taking orders from upstart idealist, but then grew... grudging respect. Still a cloaca.
[ A small pause. ]
Lift arm over head, if ready.
[ And Shepard's been a human woman long enough to know what's coming next. ]
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-05-29 07:50 am (UTC)Exhilarating. Challenges, risks, rewards. Occasionally tumultuous. Argued constantly. [ His tone is unmistakably fond. ] Both stubborn. Didn't know how to stop. Someone always—had to be right. Often was right. Usually me.
[ Winding his way up to her shoulder maybe takes him a little longer than it would for a human doing the same things. Salarian hands are different, their palms smaller, their fingers thinner and fewer. But Mordin's are both nimble and thorough, and their slow climb to her shoulder arrives after a while, touch skating soft from her trapezius muscle to the side of her neck down to her collarbone. He can't help but admire the way her frame is at once relatively small and unmistakably powerful. Marvels that Cerberus supposedly rebuilt her exactly as she was.
He can feel her tension. Understandable, of course. He knows exactly why they're talking and that it ought to continue. ]
Young for a captain. Liked to hear himself talk. At first chafed at the notion of taking orders from upstart idealist, but then grew... grudging respect. Still a cloaca.
[ A small pause. ]
Lift arm over head, if ready.
[ And Shepard's been a human woman long enough to know what's coming next. ]