Subject: Ropes of a woman's hair.
Author:
Posted on: 2011-07-22 19:44:00 UTC
"That's not what I always heard," Suicide said, because honestly, if there was ever a phrase that cried out for an innuendo and an eyebrow raise that was it. And frankly, he remembered a few times where something that hurt had been . . . dammit, no point thinking about it now, not when they both had places to be and things to do. They'd probably baited the Universal Laws by having as much time as they had.
Still, Suicide took a moment to admire the picture Jenni made standing beside the bed--wearing a smirk and nothing else, a combination he definitely approved of--before reluctantly sitting up himself. Instead of standing up himself, though, he leaned over the edge of the bed and reached around Jenni to retrieve part of his uniform, taking the opportunity to trail a quick kiss across the smooth skin of her hip while he was in the neighborhood. Okay, okay, they really had to get up and that was technically not helping, but with Jenni still right in front of him he considered it extenuating circumstances.
Eventually, he managed to find all of his clothes (how the hell had his belt wound up all the way over there?) and began reassembling himself. Jenni had changed into fresh clothes and was brushing out her long hair, a hair tie already looped around a couple of fingers in preparation for making a quick braid.
A thought occurred. Suicide silently promised himself that, yes, they did have to go and all that, but . . . dammit . . . he literally was an old-fashioned guy. Ancient-fashioned, even.
"C'mere," he said, pulling Jenni down to sit on the bed next to him. She seemed surprised, but she complied.
Plucking the hair tie from her hands, Suicide ran his hands through the long dark-brown hair. It was clean--a change from what he'd usually worked with, back in the day--but there was also more of it, which he approved of. It took him a moment to remember how he used to begin (only one of his current hands had done this, and the years were hard on the body memory) but as he ran one strand through his fingers, it began to come back. Jenni habitually wore her hair in a braid, didn't she? Divide into three plaits, twist and weave, don't yank or the master you're doing this for will have you beaten with an olive branch. Out of habit, he used the more complicated braid that began at the crown: any loose hair in a fight could be damned dangerous.
In a way, it was a more intimate act than any of the (admittedly excellent) things they had gotten up to the night before. It was something he'd done only for the great men he'd served, usually when they'd broken an arm and couldn't dress their hair themselves. He was oddly unsure why he was doing it now . . . Something about the whole situation, sharing stories about last stands the way they had, had gotten a modicum of trust from him.
