#thief.

*tries to get a sip of her drink while she's not looking*

*grabs his jaw and directs him to look at her before he can*

She hears his words and turns, looking over his shoulder as her golden blond hair falls into her eyes. She grins immediately, tugging absently on the too-big shirt that falls to just above her knees. She offers him a shrug of one shoulder, the shirt slipping to reveal the smooth ivory expanse of her shoulder, unmarred by the scars that decorate the rest of her body.

“Oh? And what shall you do if I don’t? Take it?”

“...Maybe.”

The worst part of this is that she looks so good in his clothes. For a long moment Reinhardt says nothing, his entire attention span split evenly between the sinuous contours of her exposed legs and the unspoken question of whether or not she was wearing anything at all under the shirt.

The inevitable logical conclusion is that he will simply have to find out for himself.

Besides, he does actually need that shirt back. His wardrobe -for some mysterious reason- has been dwindling as of late, and at his size comfortable clothing isn’t exactly easy to come by.

The table between them is low, but by Reinhardt’s estimation probably still too wide for him to reliably clear from a standing start. Ever so slowly, he starts to inch his way around to the side, acting for all the world like he’s trying to avoid spooking a frightened bunny rather than a seasoned warrior capable of deadlifting more than a quarter of a ton.