"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.
The fact that he doesn't move, perhaps, makes this possible. No beating pulse to entice her. No breath to consider stopping. Just working on him, as one does a sculpture. Changing it enough to say this is good.
Finally, she sets the razor down. Has to, lest she start getting too many ideas. Dips a cloth in warm water, and washes away the soap. There. The last caress is nothing but fond, a distant and softer look in her expression as she takes Angel in.
He looks good. Different enough no one could mistake them. A sibling, instead of a duplicate. It settles on him like sunlight does, like morning might.
"Come on."
Offering her hand, to lead him over to the mirror. Come see what's been done. There's a spark of nerves - what if it hates it? - but she wants to believe that this is right. That its trust was not misplaced, in her hands.
"Yeah. Thank you, Fever. Here, open your arms, I'm gonna hug you." This is both consent test and being sure he doesn't startle her. He knows better than that with her.
It'd be more suffering if she didn't hug back, arms snug around it. Breathe in, breathe out - the sense is there that she needs this, as much as Angel wants to give it. She could crack some joke about how she's not going to barber just anyone, but it would ruin the moment, the feeling. So she doesn't, and just stays there, and thinks about mushrooms turning soil into something rich for other things to grow in.
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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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His eyes remain open, locked on her.
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Finally, she sets the razor down. Has to, lest she start getting too many ideas. Dips a cloth in warm water, and washes away the soap. There. The last caress is nothing but fond, a distant and softer look in her expression as she takes Angel in.
He looks good. Different enough no one could mistake them. A sibling, instead of a duplicate. It settles on him like sunlight does, like morning might.
"Come on."
Offering her hand, to lead him over to the mirror. Come see what's been done. There's a spark of nerves - what if it hates it? - but she wants to believe that this is right. That its trust was not misplaced, in her hands.
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Angel smiles. It's one of those slow, careful muscle-by-muscle smiles, but it lingers for a moment. "There I am!"
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There's warmth in her voice, and a little squeeze of its hand.
"Now you'll see Angel in the mirror. Every time."
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She opens her arms, ready for it. That he likes it, will live with it, is all the thanks she truly needs.
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