Molly wasn't sure that she liked the way Jim looked at her sometimes. It often happened without warning, this shift in his mood, and they would be doing something completely ordinary, like eating dinner, when Molly would catch the strange man with whom she had entangled herself examining her in the same way that she remembered seeing hawks eye prey animals in nature documentaries. The first several times it happened, it had been unnerving, but eventually she had learned to return the gaze.
Still, there was something about Jim.
She had long become used to hiding bruises and rope-burn from her co-workers in order to avoid knowing looks and prying questions - the last thing she needed was one of the hospital's resident busybodies to make assumptions. Jim had never hurt her, she commonly asserted to herself. Not on purpose, anyway. Perhaps he had gotten carried away once or twice, but he had never raised a hand to her in anger.
Hell. Molly thinks, shivering lightly. He very rarely even raises his voice. She shudders as lips graze over the tendons of her neck.
But god, those eyes.
There were times when those dark eyes of his turned flat and expressionless, like a shark or a doll. It was times like those, when his jaw tightened beneath pale skin, and his voice stilled to a deafening calm, that she was almost afraid of him. That carefully controlled tone, with its barely checked promise of violence hovering just beyond thin lips, and the tight, precise motions that came with it was more frightening than any abuse he could have threatened or even enacted.
Molly Hooper closes her eyes as warm breath rolls over the side of her neck.
"You're thinking." Jim's voice purrs in her ear, his voice very different than the one he uses when they are just talking, or the one he uses at work; certainly it is different than that tight, cool tone he uses when he is angry.
"Mn." She voices a quiet affirmation, one which, she notes quietly as she tilts her head back against his shoulder, could probably have gone unsaid.
"What about?" His voice has changed again, and is almost playful, encouraging her to relax even as his thumb traces the line of her oesophagus.
"Mn...nothing." There is something in her own voice that seems odd, but she can't put her finger on it. Not while Jim's other hand is creeping up her thigh, a thumbnail worrying a hole in the sheer material of her stockings. It had become an expensive habit of his--buying her new stockings only to completely ruin them himself.
She tilts her head slightly as his teeth find her earlobe. "Nothing," she confirms. "Absolutely nothing."
I'm in far too deep now, anyway. The thought drifts to the surface of Molly Hooper's mind like a final air bubble.