“I don’t know why you don’t just cut it off, if you can’t be bothered with it,” Joan says.
Rowena’s given up any pretence of de-tangling her hair and instead, is staring intently at the table, thoughtfully tapping the comb against her hand. Probably solving a dozen crimes at once, Joan thinks, and steps forward to take the comb away from Rowena.
“Here, let me,” she says. Rowena doesn’t protest, so Joan moves to sit behind her.
Rowena complains incessantly about her hair – it gets in the way during her experiments, it hampers her when she’s fighting, it frizzes up horribly with the slightest hint of humidity, it’s unwieldy and inconvenient. The only reason she hasn’t already lopped it all off, Joan thinks, is because she’s just too bloody lazy to go to a salon.
Of course, that works out well for Joan, who’s always had a thing for long hair. Rowena’s is the prettiest she’s seen in a long time, and if Rowena’s too lazy to comb it out herself, that just gives Joan the perfect excuse to bury her fingers in those luxurious black curls. It’s not like she’ll get her hands on them any other way.
They would look beautiful, she thinks, spread out on the sheets. She industriously works through each section of hair and imagines it spilling out around Rowena’s pale skin, down her long neck and sharp collarbones and small breasts. Such sweet curls, which a thoroughly unscientific study has convinced Joan are the perfect barometer of Rowena’s mood. When Rowena’s in a black mood, they’re sad and limp, and when she’s just got her hands on an interesting case, they’re vivaciously bouncy.
And somewhat intractable. The knots take a while to give way, but when they do, her hair springs free and instantly falls into its normal wildness. Rowena’s in a good mood, Joan thinks.
“You do enjoy this, don’t you?” Rowena says, a smile edging her voice. Joan is suddenly, instantly, terrified that Rowena knows exactly how much Joan enjoys this.
“Have you got a new case?” Joan asks carefully.
“Mm, yes,” Rowena says. “It does sound interesting. It’s in Dover, though, and it will likely take a few days. Feel like a trip?”
“Of course,” Joan says, trying to remember if there are any meetings or appointments she needs to cancel. The last of the knots vanish under her fingers, and she briefly runs her hands through Rowena’s hair, checking for any more tangles.
Rowena arches contentedly under her. Joan freezes.
“Go pack, then,” Rowena says, turning and pressing a kiss to the corner of Joan’s mouth. “We’re leaving now. I want to make sure we have plenty of time there.”
no subject
“I don’t know why you don’t just cut it off, if you can’t be bothered with it,” Joan says.
Rowena’s given up any pretence of de-tangling her hair and instead, is staring intently at the table, thoughtfully tapping the comb against her hand. Probably solving a dozen crimes at once, Joan thinks, and steps forward to take the comb away from Rowena.
“Here, let me,” she says. Rowena doesn’t protest, so Joan moves to sit behind her.
Rowena complains incessantly about her hair – it gets in the way during her experiments, it hampers her when she’s fighting, it frizzes up horribly with the slightest hint of humidity, it’s unwieldy and inconvenient. The only reason she hasn’t already lopped it all off, Joan thinks, is because she’s just too bloody lazy to go to a salon.
Of course, that works out well for Joan, who’s always had a thing for long hair. Rowena’s is the prettiest she’s seen in a long time, and if Rowena’s too lazy to comb it out herself, that just gives Joan the perfect excuse to bury her fingers in those luxurious black curls. It’s not like she’ll get her hands on them any other way.
They would look beautiful, she thinks, spread out on the sheets. She industriously works through each section of hair and imagines it spilling out around Rowena’s pale skin, down her long neck and sharp collarbones and small breasts. Such sweet curls, which a thoroughly unscientific study has convinced Joan are the perfect barometer of Rowena’s mood. When Rowena’s in a black mood, they’re sad and limp, and when she’s just got her hands on an interesting case, they’re vivaciously bouncy.
And somewhat intractable. The knots take a while to give way, but when they do, her hair springs free and instantly falls into its normal wildness. Rowena’s in a good mood, Joan thinks.
“You do enjoy this, don’t you?” Rowena says, a smile edging her voice. Joan is suddenly, instantly, terrified that Rowena knows exactly how much Joan enjoys this.
“Have you got a new case?” Joan asks carefully.
“Mm, yes,” Rowena says. “It does sound interesting. It’s in Dover, though, and it will likely take a few days. Feel like a trip?”
“Of course,” Joan says, trying to remember if there are any meetings or appointments she needs to cancel. The last of the knots vanish under her fingers, and she briefly runs her hands through Rowena’s hair, checking for any more tangles.
Rowena arches contentedly under her. Joan freezes.
“Go pack, then,” Rowena says, turning and pressing a kiss to the corner of Joan’s mouth. “We’re leaving now. I want to make sure we have plenty of time there.”