Steve's looking down and then up. Quick glances between the ground and her face, or the approximation of it, having slid from his chair about as fast as the first moment. When most of her weight settled into his hand and arm, and she was catching her shoe still, and his only thought aside from not letting her fall, was not dropping the pint glass in his hand, or sloshing it on the ground, himself, or her.
The heels aren't terribly well chosen, he has to admit, but you know, they aren't really chosen for walking. It's all about muscle extension and probably has far more to do with that shiny plastic coloring than he'll ever really understand in women. Appreciation he has, even for the long, slim golden legs, muscles there settling, stretching, testing weight and balance again as she gets her footing.
Understanding and caring and even attention to it, not really much in the way of either.
Nor a want to be changed to having any of them. When all he does is barely glance toward the hand pressed in on his shoulder, when he's standing straighter without straightening entirely to make her reach up, rather certain she's got herself now. "It's fine. No harm, no foul."
And no one hit the ground. He still has his beer. He actually has the wave of feeling pleased he thwarted that being anything from a solid impact with the ground to a broken wrist or ankle. Something that would have sent them both needing to help her far more than the few seconds catching her before she could fall. Which plays itself out across his expression, when he's looking down at her, head tilted, expression faintly concerned by way of simply checking.
"You good now?" Just in case she did happen to twist or pull anything. Not that it seems like it.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2012-11-24 11:44 pm (UTC)The heels aren't terribly well chosen, he has to admit, but you know, they aren't really chosen for walking. It's all about muscle extension and probably has far more to do with that shiny plastic coloring than he'll ever really understand in women. Appreciation he has, even for the long, slim golden legs, muscles there settling, stretching, testing weight and balance again as she gets her footing.
Understanding and caring and even attention to it, not really much in the way of either.
Nor a want to be changed to having any of them. When all he does is barely glance toward the hand pressed in on his shoulder, when he's standing straighter without straightening entirely to make her reach up, rather certain she's got herself now. "It's fine. No harm, no foul."
And no one hit the ground. He still has his beer. He actually has the wave of feeling pleased he thwarted that being anything from a solid impact with the ground to a broken wrist or ankle. Something that would have sent them both needing to help her far more than the few seconds catching her before she could fall. Which plays itself out across his expression, when he's looking down at her, head tilted, expression faintly concerned by way of simply checking.
"You good now?" Just in case she did happen to twist or pull anything. Not that it seems like it.