Natasha is no artist, but thankfully it required little creativity to look at the softness of his hair and map out the pattern of the last hair cut he’d received and improve upon it. She worked efficiently but not rushed, moving from one section to another when his hair was falling short and smooth and considerably lighter against the back of his neck. His words made her smile, both at the near wryness of them and the fact that he’d offered them to her at all. “Well, I could’ve tried shaving your head,” she said lightly, “but you’re safe from that. I wouldn’t like it any more than you would, I think.”
At the sound of the creaking chair arm and the mechanical whir of his arm she looked down at how he’d gripped her chair and slowed, but did not stop. In the silence that followed his next, whispered statement, she looked at the back of his head as though it were some sort of substitute for looking into his eyes. The memories came in a hazy, painful jumble, and she exhaled slowly through the ache. “Yes,” she said, also soft. “It’s hard for me to remember, but yes. We have.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-09-01 01:34 am (UTC)At the sound of the creaking chair arm and the mechanical whir of his arm she looked down at how he’d gripped her chair and slowed, but did not stop. In the silence that followed his next, whispered statement, she looked at the back of his head as though it were some sort of substitute for looking into his eyes. The memories came in a hazy, painful jumble, and she exhaled slowly through the ache. “Yes,” she said, also soft. “It’s hard for me to remember, but yes. We have.”