[The sound he makes is caught between a groan and a closed-mouth wheeze, immediately stifled but undeniably something that wants to be a very loud, very enunciated expletive. This is payback for all the times he cleaned up Sam's wounds, isn't it? Long-delayed, but payback nonetheless.
Jaw clenched, Nate resists the instinct to jerk his arm away and toughs it out, glancing between the towel and Lance expectantly. When he speaks, his voice is that special kind of strained.]
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Jaw clenched, Nate resists the instinct to jerk his arm away and toughs it out, glancing between the towel and Lance expectantly. When he speaks, his voice is that special kind of strained.]
You wanna just. Pour the bottle over me or. What.