I'll let the flames take me high, burn down the whole damn sky
A small shrug moves her shoulders, because of all the things her late husband had to complain about, the shaving had been the least of the concerns, so she almost doesn't notice the oddity in comparison. "I dunno," she defends without meaning to, lips tilting from a steady purse of concentration to something secretly amused. "Some days, I feel like the effort of taking a shower just might kill me." She sighs through her nose, "hasn't, yet, but when you're low, small things feel too big to see the other side of, when really all you have to do is stand up and step over 'em." Case in point, here she is shaving Sunjata's unusual amount of scruff from him. Clyde hadn't had nearly as good a reason, and she suspects she doesn't either, all things considered.
Admittedly, she doesn't want to dwell on past misery when there's plenty at present, so she happily hangs onto his next words, gaze flicking briefly back to the earrings as he mentions them before resuming the guidance of the metal blade across his skin and hair. "No shit? I sp'ose I should keep my voice down around you," she says, dropping to a whisper by the end. Then, as a test, she mumbles out nearly inaudibly on just breath, "if you can hear this, stick out your tongue."
She keeps the humor up as if it could shield against the tension humming under her own skin, the very same her own hand drew taut. It's been months now since she has touched anyone this closely or this tenderly, crawling into glass bottles and smoke rings instead of the heat she feels rolling off him like a tide that she knows could pull her under so easily. She has not wanted it all this while, the habit of finding comfort in someone's body no longer as simple as it had once been. Part of her doesn't trust herself to dare, afraid her sense would flee again, as it's already proven to do once before. The other part, the one she doesn't want to give any light to, is using this stretch like one more way to hold onto the hurt. It keeps her missing him, like she's afraid to find out she's okay, that she's let go, because some small, quiet part of her wishes he hasn't. She keeps her ghosts on purpose, like being haunted is the only thing truly keeping her from being alone.
Pausing with a knowing glance when he mentions Nate, her defenses drop for the moment. From one haunted heart to another, she leaves room for the ghost to join them. "They're lovely," she murmurs, gentle with affection rather than play this time. Then, because she knows the chill the phantom visits leave, sees it now like fresh strain on the grain of his expression, her decisive touch softens. Leaving his cheek be, allowing him to prop his head himself as her razor finishes its last trails down his neck, she instead cards those fingers along his hairline, tucking back errant strands, not that she has any right to try and help him piece himself back together when she's still a mess.
It's not long before she decalres, "there, good as new," with a final flourish of her blade, both in mouth and hand. The towel at his neck would work well for wiping himself clean.
Admittedly, she doesn't want to dwell on past misery when there's plenty at present, so she happily hangs onto his next words, gaze flicking briefly back to the earrings as he mentions them before resuming the guidance of the metal blade across his skin and hair. "No shit? I sp'ose I should keep my voice down around you," she says, dropping to a whisper by the end. Then, as a test, she mumbles out nearly inaudibly on just breath, "if you can hear this, stick out your tongue."
She keeps the humor up as if it could shield against the tension humming under her own skin, the very same her own hand drew taut. It's been months now since she has touched anyone this closely or this tenderly, crawling into glass bottles and smoke rings instead of the heat she feels rolling off him like a tide that she knows could pull her under so easily. She has not wanted it all this while, the habit of finding comfort in someone's body no longer as simple as it had once been. Part of her doesn't trust herself to dare, afraid her sense would flee again, as it's already proven to do once before. The other part, the one she doesn't want to give any light to, is using this stretch like one more way to hold onto the hurt. It keeps her missing him, like she's afraid to find out she's okay, that she's let go, because some small, quiet part of her wishes he hasn't. She keeps her ghosts on purpose, like being haunted is the only thing truly keeping her from being alone.
Pausing with a knowing glance when he mentions Nate, her defenses drop for the moment. From one haunted heart to another, she leaves room for the ghost to join them. "They're lovely," she murmurs, gentle with affection rather than play this time. Then, because she knows the chill the phantom visits leave, sees it now like fresh strain on the grain of his expression, her decisive touch softens. Leaving his cheek be, allowing him to prop his head himself as her razor finishes its last trails down his neck, she instead cards those fingers along his hairline, tucking back errant strands, not that she has any right to try and help him piece himself back together when she's still a mess.
It's not long before she decalres, "there, good as new," with a final flourish of her blade, both in mouth and hand. The towel at his neck would work well for wiping himself clean.
Colt
I spent the night on the ceiling, drank the whole weight of my weakness
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
