Greta carefully hangs the coat off to the side, more worried about making sure neither of them accidentally back into it than it dripping onto the tub or its surrounding tile. Any mess there will be easy enough to clean up; clothes are a bit more complicated. Then she turns back to Anne and blinks, a little surprised to see just how slight she looks without the coat on. It hadn't made her look bigger, exactly — there was never any mistaking Anne for a large person — but it had masked just how slim she was. And as Anne divests herself of the hat and sets it near the sink, she's left looking so... so bereft that Greta is seized with the sudden urge to put her arms around her, as if it's unthinkable that Anne not be covered back up with something.
Which is ridiculous. The swords still hanging at her hips belie any silly notions of Anne being fragile, and Greta doesn't have to know her well to know that coddling her would be a non-starter.
So she clears her throat and gets down to business, instead. "Well, I expect we could just wipe down the hat and coat," she starts. "The shirt... I suppose we could try a little hydrogen peroxide and see where that gets us. I've got a lot of blouses here that aren't so different, if you want to borrow one while we sort yours out." She leans her hip against the counter and looks at the blood streaking Anne's face, reaching out without a thought to push the curtain of her hair aside with her fingers, exposing a face so delicately featured that for a moment, it's all she can do to keep herself from coughing out an astonished breath or saying something stupid. Pirates can look however they like; it's only coincidence that Anne looks as if she ought to be bedecked in jewels and finery and gazing down at the peasantry from atop the ramparts of a bloody castle. But god, between the hat and the glowering and the roughness of her voice, Greta hadn't fully realized that she was gorgeous. Given ten minutes to fuss with her hair, Greta could probably render her unrecognizable to anyone else in the city who knows her (except Jack, of course).
Greta recovers herself, withdrawing her hand. "At least it looks as if your hair's been spared," she says. "Do... would you like me to fetch some shirts for you?"
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Which is ridiculous. The swords still hanging at her hips belie any silly notions of Anne being fragile, and Greta doesn't have to know her well to know that coddling her would be a non-starter.
So she clears her throat and gets down to business, instead. "Well, I expect we could just wipe down the hat and coat," she starts. "The shirt... I suppose we could try a little hydrogen peroxide and see where that gets us. I've got a lot of blouses here that aren't so different, if you want to borrow one while we sort yours out." She leans her hip against the counter and looks at the blood streaking Anne's face, reaching out without a thought to push the curtain of her hair aside with her fingers, exposing a face so delicately featured that for a moment, it's all she can do to keep herself from coughing out an astonished breath or saying something stupid. Pirates can look however they like; it's only coincidence that Anne looks as if she ought to be bedecked in jewels and finery and gazing down at the peasantry from atop the ramparts of a bloody castle. But god, between the hat and the glowering and the roughness of her voice, Greta hadn't fully realized that she was gorgeous. Given ten minutes to fuss with her hair, Greta could probably render her unrecognizable to anyone else in the city who knows her (except Jack, of course).
Greta recovers herself, withdrawing her hand. "At least it looks as if your hair's been spared," she says. "Do... would you like me to fetch some shirts for you?"