"Maybe on my ass. Nice big letters, PROPERTY OF THE MOTHERS." He rumbles a little laugh. "Or maybe something on my chest. Something mine; I've got his two already."
She laughs too, grabbing the shampoo and applying it to his hair. Slow, gentle, massaging the scalp to work it in. He's trusting her to do this, so she owes Angel something worthy of that trust. To treat him with the care it deserves.
"You could even change his ones. Cover them somehow. Make them anew."
She takes her time, feeling him unwind, pressing in a little more to encourage him to stay relaxed. This is not the agony of rebirth, but the luxury of choosing for the self. This is life, not survival.
"Whatever you choose, I want to know when you get it. I'll want to see how it came out."
The water gives off a little steam, as she pours it over his head again. Warm, rinsing away the day's traces, leaving the more herbal scent of the shampoo.
"Good. Awesome. Thank you." Both eyes close again and he continues turning into a puddle of melted wax under her fingers. "One idea I had, it's a little bit silly, is a few mushrooms growing next to flowers--the flowers Serranai gave my bees. Because the fungi break down rotting leaves and shit, leaving good soil for flowers to grow in, you know? The idea that...decay feeds the bloom."
Working out the suds, it gives her another opportunity to press in little circles, in the spots where she knows she personally gets headaches. Not for him, not now.
"Life and death, hand in hand. It all comes back together. Out of the rot, something flourishes, fruits, and the flowers keep blooming. You might get even healthier plants. Here, sit up."
A towel for his hair, patting it through. It'll still be damp, but she can consider how to cut it, what he might like. It's got to be something he can live with, else they're going to need to run to the Temple and pray for Mom's help in making a corpse's hair grow.
He sits up as instructed, nodding as he hears her getting what he's talking about with the tattoo idea.
"That's exactly it. The seasons are a cycle, life is a cycle. Everything passes on. And even if I'm not part of that cycle in the immediate sense, I still serve it."
"Much more artistic than writing the names of the Mothers on your ass."
She tugs the edge of the towel down over his eyes and grins, before indicating he should get up and get in the chair. She's not tall enough to do this right with him standing.
He goes over to the chair, sitting up nice and straight and proper for her.
"I don't know how good our local tattoo artist is at calligraphy yet." There's a brief glance toward her home shrine, acknowledging the identity of said artist, and his relationship to her. For some reason, Angel seems to lean toward keeping those aspects of Sheogorath separate.
"Even if I did rush, he'd be delighted that I did. Something about encouraging me to make choices because I feel like it, reveling in my own free will."
She shrugs, stepping back and looking at Angel's hair.
"Do you have any more preferences that came to mind?"
"I know I want to be completely clean-shaven. But for the hair? Mostly, I want to have it off my neck more. But I kinda want it still long-ish in the front." He reaches back to touch the hair on the back of his head gently.
Silence falls over them as she works, too intent on bringing the idea to life to chat much. The rasp of the blades through hair is the only thing, careful and small snips, her rotating around it to keep checking. A delicate procedure, this, but steadily a new style emerges. Not Gabriel - no, it wouldn't be his style. But Angel's, all Angel's, fresh for this chosen life. When she touches it, it's gentle but firm, knowing when she needs to turn its head or fluff its hair, seeing how things fall.
Finally, finally, she's satisfied, and draws back with a nod. That's better than she expected it to be, frankly, but that's what scissors can do instead of praying and hoping with a knife. Turning its head left, then right, and gently wiping away any small bits from its face or shoulders with the towel. She'll sweep after.
"...Do you want to see it now, or do you want the shave first? Give yourself a bigger surprise, that way."
That'll require the tools brought from his place, but they can certainly do that. More warm water, and working the soap into a lather. She's only watched people do this before, but she can replicate it, can pull it off, apply it to his skin. The razor, by contrast, is a more familiar tool. Picking it up, she can hear the shriek of her own instincts, veiled and clawing, and simply....breathes. Push it down, push it away. Be steady, she can feel it and find it.
"I ought to tease you, putting such a dangerous thing in my reach."
Her strokes are steady, sure. Perfect. The blade will only do what she wants it to.
"Like holding out food to a hungry beast, the teeth snapping at you."
But she's delicate. Exact. The work of a master whose tools feel like their own limbs. Her thumb tracing over where she's used the razor to make sure there's no lingering hairs.
"Don't move."
The blade glides over the most vulnerable parts. The way the body curves up, skin rising over the jawbone to the face, and to press too hard would cut the skin. Clearing his death, where it clings in this form. What's left behind will be different.
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Collecting water in a bowl she'd set out, she gently pours it on his head, free hand carding through his hair to make sure it's dampened.
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"You could even change his ones. Cover them somehow. Make them anew."
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He relaxes as she works, melting in an almost, almost human way.
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"Whatever you choose, I want to know when you get it. I'll want to see how it came out."
The water gives off a little steam, as she pours it over his head again. Warm, rinsing away the day's traces, leaving the more herbal scent of the shampoo.
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Not that she'd mind that in the slightest. Her social calendar has been freer, lately.
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"Dunno if you realize this, but you're one of my closest friends. Of course I'd have you come sit with me."
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"Then consider it a promise. When you finally settle on what you want, I'll come with you and watch the whole thing."
She raises up a hand to shield his eyes from the water, if he won't close them. It's got to run clear before she's satisfied.
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Working out the suds, it gives her another opportunity to press in little circles, in the spots where she knows she personally gets headaches. Not for him, not now.
"Life and death, hand in hand. It all comes back together. Out of the rot, something flourishes, fruits, and the flowers keep blooming. You might get even healthier plants. Here, sit up."
A towel for his hair, patting it through. It'll still be damp, but she can consider how to cut it, what he might like. It's got to be something he can live with, else they're going to need to run to the Temple and pray for Mom's help in making a corpse's hair grow.
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"That's exactly it. The seasons are a cycle, life is a cycle. Everything passes on. And even if I'm not part of that cycle in the immediate sense, I still serve it."
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She tugs the edge of the towel down over his eyes and grins, before indicating he should get up and get in the chair. She's not tall enough to do this right with him standing.
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"I don't know how good our local tattoo artist is at calligraphy yet." There's a brief glance toward her home shrine, acknowledging the identity of said artist, and his relationship to her. For some reason, Angel seems to lean toward keeping those aspects of Sheogorath separate.
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"Ask him to write his own name as a sample. Of course, he may not stop at one rendition."
It's complicated, she'd explain if he ever asked. But it's wrapped up in a familial love.
"I've thought about getting one for myself, but I have no idea what it would be, and where it should exist."
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Says the guy for whom haircuts are permanent.
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She shrugs, stepping back and looking at Angel's hair.
"Do you have any more preferences that came to mind?"
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"I have an idea. I think you'll like it."
Reaching out, she smooths the corpse's hair into a slightly different arrangement - there, that's her vision.
"If you despise it, I will personally research methods of fixing it, but I really don't have too much to do."
Okay. The scissors are picked up. Okay. If nothing else, her hands are steady with blades, always. Let's begin.
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Angel sits stone still. It's incredibly good at stone still, and trusts Fever completely with anything sharp.
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Finally, finally, she's satisfied, and draws back with a nod. That's better than she expected it to be, frankly, but that's what scissors can do instead of praying and hoping with a knife. Turning its head left, then right, and gently wiping away any small bits from its face or shoulders with the towel. She'll sweep after.
"...Do you want to see it now, or do you want the shave first? Give yourself a bigger surprise, that way."
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"I ought to tease you, putting such a dangerous thing in my reach."
Her strokes are steady, sure. Perfect. The blade will only do what she wants it to.
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Because he feels completely safe here in front of her, see?
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But she's delicate. Exact. The work of a master whose tools feel like their own limbs. Her thumb tracing over where she's used the razor to make sure there's no lingering hairs.
"Don't move."
The blade glides over the most vulnerable parts. The way the body curves up, skin rising over the jawbone to the face, and to press too hard would cut the skin. Clearing his death, where it clings in this form. What's left behind will be different.
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