|| If I were dating you, I would tear all of your schedules to shreds.|
"I feel that would be unnecessary and just plain rude. Touch a fiber on my precious schedules and I will shred your skin."
"They confine you. And you could try, but you would never succeed."
"They do not confine me. They are my livelihood. Would you really take that away?
And I would not be so sure. Everything tears.”
"If you put it like that, I very may well. It would depend on what type of romance we entertained."
"You can only tear what you get your hands around."
"Why would there be a romance of any sorts between us? You have done nothing but be a bother, threatening my belongings and what not."
"It cannot be tht hard to wrap my fingers around your neck. Romantically or not."
Snowman raised a brow at the accusation, frowning. “I never truly threatened your belongings; only gave a hypothetical example of an improbable outcome.”
But then, she smiled.
"You could try to throttle me, and are welcome to. But I am sure you would find your grasp lacking."
With the neatly folded schedule safely tucked away, Tony took a step closer with hands clasped behind his back.
"Yet threatened my schedules feel. Improbable or not, a threat is a threat. Now, explain to me why my grasp would be lacking if flesh stands before me?"
The clock advanced and Snowman stood still. Her smile stayed just the same, quiet and knowing, holding secrets, speaking intimations that had never been made aloud.
That was what she was: a secret.
"Because," Snowman answered, "a hand could never wrap around the sky."
He pondered over her words for a moment, the gears not yet clicking into what she meant. Crinkling his nose, he felt it beat to play along until he could figure out what she was implying.
"Yet one can hold a piece of the sky, no?"
He was a good sport, wasn’t he?
Snowman nodded, holding out one of her hands. It was delicate, finely-boned, indicative of aristocracy. “Yes,” she answered, “one could very well hold a piece of the sky.”
In a flowing sweep, Snowman brought her hand up, the color of her skin melting to transparency as stars took its place.
"But the sky is the least of what I am."
He leaned closer, gloved digits scratching the blond scruff in thought. This was an interesting turn of events. What was once muscle and blood was the human’s final frontier, a place he often visited when transversing across realms.
But for it all to encased in a potentially living being? He just could don’t resist stretching the hand out to her, the beard momentarily forgotten.
As quickly as Snowman’s hand had melted away, it became corporeal, all the eternities veiled in thin, translucent skin. She honestly hadn’t expected the clock to extend a hand of his own; the flourish had been just to show him the stars.
But she would not deny him, or deny herself a chance to feel him. Her smile never flickered, but her eyes became cautious.
Snowman laid her hand in the one proffered her, careful to do so palm-up. That was an acceptable way to be touched by an acquaintance. Of course, allowing him to to touch her put Snowman in quite the spot: if she felt the need to fold space, she would have no choice but to take him with her. But, by the same token, he was close enough that compacting the spongy tissue of each of his bones, grinding his gears to a halt, whatever it took to nullify a threat, would take no more effort than batting an eyelash. Snowman would never truly be in any danger.