Hair

Fran tugs angrily at the hairbrush as it catches on yet another knot. The viera, for all her otherworldly grace, is apparently not immune to the mortal concept of helmet hair. She struggles with the long, silvery tangle for what seems like hours, but is only minutes.

Fran is not one for pointless vanity, so it is not through a mirror that she sees his reflection, but a window. He is leaning against the door frame in that casual way of his, arms crossed comfortably over his chest. Somehow, she feels a surge of annoyance at the way he stands there, thinking she does not see him. She picks up a pair of scissors, hoping to shock, to elicit some sort of response other than that the strange, intense regard.

As her hand closes over the handle, she feels a sudden rush of air. He doesn't say anything, and she doesn't say anything, and the scissors are almost roughly pulled from her grasp. Fran watches him swap scissors for hairbrush and begin to work out all of the the tangles. Idly, she wonders how many women he had done this for in the past. She pictures each one of his 'lady friends', but none of them had particularly long hair.

She closes her eyes. Her hair is as smooth as spiderweb silk, but still he does not stop brushing. She finds herself relaxing. That is, until she hears the sound of the hairbrush clattering onto the desk. Now he is running his fingers through her hair.