The joke lands where it should, drawing another surprised relieved laugh out of him; he hadn’t actually known the extent of it, it’s not like he ever met any of those long-lived rifter elves. And then,
half-joking, half-mock-affronted, but with perhaps a little bit of genuine pedantry, because Stephen really can be a little vain when he lets himself be: “Grey. They’re more streaks of grey than white, I’ll have you know—”
“Only because the rest of your hair is black,” she says, a laugh still threaded through the words, lifting her hand to sweep her fingers through it, illustratively and because she can and she'd like to.
(Sometimes, in the evening, she stops what she's doing to watch him because the novelty that he's right there hasn't worn off yet.)
Mollified, Stephen leans into her touch and savours that simple, enjoyable sensation; Gwenaëlle’s fingers at his temples, at the nape of his neck, combing through his scalp. Perhaps if the physical change had come on more slowly, through mere natural aging, he’d have been less self-aware about it. But it had come on like a shock: waking up after the accident to find that those few greys had multiplied, his whole look gone frayed and wan overnight, exacerbated by injury and his fucked-up face. (He still remembered the technicalities behind it: norepinephrine, a burst of acute stress, hormones affecting hair follicle pigmentation. A thing he never thought he’d experience firsthand.)
But Gwenaëlle thinks he looks very distinguished and very handsome now, and so at the end of the day he can’t really mind all that much.
He’s surveying the rest of the room and its wreckage. The mostly-empty paper on Gwenaëlle’s desk, the spill of ink, the broken chair. “I’ll help you clean this up,” Stephen says, head turning, pressing a kiss into her shoulder. “We can move up one of the spare chairs from below.”
But he doesn’t make any gesture to move just yet. They sit there for a while, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the mess. Her grief’s still there, he can sense it like some deep waters lurking just out of view, but at least the weight is— less, hopefully, for having been shared.
There’s the physician’s urge to press his fingers into everything, to fix everything. This is a wound that he can’t stitch back together or sew up with his bare hands, but at least there’s company and that’s not nothing. It isn’t inadequate that you’re here.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
half-joking, half-mock-affronted, but with perhaps a little bit of genuine pedantry, because Stephen really can be a little vain when he lets himself be: “Grey. They’re more streaks of grey than white, I’ll have you know—”
no subject
(Sometimes, in the evening, she stops what she's doing to watch him because the novelty that he's right there hasn't worn off yet.)
potential 🎀
But Gwenaëlle thinks he looks very distinguished and very handsome now, and so at the end of the day he can’t really mind all that much.
He’s surveying the rest of the room and its wreckage. The mostly-empty paper on Gwenaëlle’s desk, the spill of ink, the broken chair. “I’ll help you clean this up,” Stephen says, head turning, pressing a kiss into her shoulder. “We can move up one of the spare chairs from below.”
But he doesn’t make any gesture to move just yet. They sit there for a while, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the mess. Her grief’s still there, he can sense it like some deep waters lurking just out of view, but at least the weight is— less, hopefully, for having been shared.
There’s the physician’s urge to press his fingers into everything, to fix everything. This is a wound that he can’t stitch back together or sew up with his bare hands, but at least there’s company and that’s not nothing. It isn’t inadequate that you’re here.