Donovan's attempt to evade was for naught; she moved with him like she'd anticipated it, so that his back was just that much closer to literally being up against a wall. Or a bunk. "No playing. No trade," she agreed with a nod, except her hands were still on him. One of them had already somehow slipped beneath his topmost layer of leather, and her touch was warm even through the fabric still between their skin.<br/><br/>"Don is the<em> nice </em>one, says Dean," she mentioned, switching subjects again without preamble. "Yes? The responsible one, you are. The able one. The one who thinks, and decides, and leads." Her other hand rose, the ball of her thumb grazing over his smudged cheekbone. Beneath the smoke and bloodstains, he<em>was</em>quite becoming, with the strong but more refined features Aza associated with the nobility from the north and east, where viziers were kings and sorceresses were mages.<br/><br/>"But with leading, comes worrying," Aza went on, brows arched with what was probably concern. "And so little appreciation." She sighed, even as she edged forward into him again, and the bunk was much closer than it had seemed a moment ago. Her fingertips dropped down the side of his face to his shoulder, following the edge of his armor to its straps, and with a quick tug there the plate was half free. "A sympathetic partner, Dean is not. How weary you must be of sharing..."<br/><br/>Aza was equally adroit at disrobing as she was dressing, already setting his first layer of defense aside. Taking armor off was a hell of a lot easier than putting it all on anyway. Methuseld was probably thinking the same at that moment, though Aza was oblivious to that. She rarely had any idea what her energies did or could do; that was always someone else's enterprise. Or, occasionally, problem.<br/><br/>"You must be aware for Dean. Then who is aware for you?" she wondered, gazing up at him attentively even as her fingers nimbly worked his leather laces free.