Natasha’s control was firm at hand, a weapon she reached for easily and automatically. While there was a part of her that wanted to linger over his hair, wanted to watch as she wound the dark strands around her fingers and felt the full weight of it, she kept her touches no more lingering than necessary. To fall down the rabbit hole of all she suspected but could not remember in full, to chase old feelings out of hiding that were so alarmingly accessible only to examine them in a new and harsher light would’ve helped neither of them as they were just then.
Still there was a quiet undercurrent to her thoughts that she could not stop or control. She had no way of knowing if most of the pictures that floated through her mind were products of her imagination or actual memories, but they were unending. There was an image of his hair smoothed away from his face in the steam of a shower and his face so close to hers that she could count the water droplets that had gathered in his lashes. Another of a cool, metal hand gentle on her waist and slipping over the skin of her back. A newer, fresh, and very real memory of that same hand tight around her throat. She blinked at his words and shifted his hair toward his cheek, showing him without saying outright how short she planned to cut it. “Not too short,” she agreed.
It was not the first haircut she had given, as it was a necessity in tight and trying times when a change of appearance was of upmost importance. She usually gave haircuts to herself, though not exclusively. “I have,” she said as she drew the first, thin section of his hair up at the proper angle between her first and middle finger and snipped cleanly beneath her fingertips. “It’s been a while, but my haircuts are usually pretty passable so hopefully I can do okay by you.”
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Date: 2014-08-19 04:40 am (UTC)Still there was a quiet undercurrent to her thoughts that she could not stop or control. She had no way of knowing if most of the pictures that floated through her mind were products of her imagination or actual memories, but they were unending. There was an image of his hair smoothed away from his face in the steam of a shower and his face so close to hers that she could count the water droplets that had gathered in his lashes. Another of a cool, metal hand gentle on her waist and slipping over the skin of her back. A newer, fresh, and very real memory of that same hand tight around her throat. She blinked at his words and shifted his hair toward his cheek, showing him without saying outright how short she planned to cut it. “Not too short,” she agreed.
It was not the first haircut she had given, as it was a necessity in tight and trying times when a change of appearance was of upmost importance. She usually gave haircuts to herself, though not exclusively. “I have,” she said as she drew the first, thin section of his hair up at the proper angle between her first and middle finger and snipped cleanly beneath her fingertips. “It’s been a while, but my haircuts are usually pretty passable so hopefully I can do okay by you.”