Shut up. [ He uses his hold on Irving's arm to push him against the wall as he unearths his keys from the pocket of his slacks and jams them into the lock over the door handle, all without breaking his stareā€”then pulls him in through the doorway just as abruptly and slams it behind the two of them with his foot. ]
Shoes off. I don't want you tracking pigeon shit into my house.
[ He's English ā€” he needs to be reminded.
(...God, but in this state he's almost ready to just accept the future task of cleaning and just get him on the ground right here in the entryway without bothering with cleanliness - anything to feel even the tiniest modicum of friction, of pressure, anythingā€” motivated by a need that's much more visibly apparent once he undoes the straps of his gun belt and briskly removes his overcoat, thanks in part to the notably less forgiving first layer of the entire ensemble. He doesn't verbally address it.) ]
no subject
Shoes off. I don't want you tracking pigeon shit into my house.
[ He's English ā€” he needs to be reminded.
(...God, but in this state he's almost ready to just accept the future task of cleaning and just get him on the ground right here in the entryway without bothering with cleanliness - anything to feel even the tiniest modicum of friction, of pressure, anythingā€” motivated by a need that's much more visibly apparent once he undoes the straps of his gun belt and briskly removes his overcoat, thanks in part to the notably less forgiving first layer of the entire ensemble. He doesn't verbally address it.) ]