Work Text:
“Ahí estas, Dani,” you tell her with satisfied finality, running your fingers through her short brown hair to separate and critically appraise the strands, fingertips disappearing within the dark curtain at the back of her head before emerging down near the nape of her neck. Growing up your grandmother used to say it like that by way of dismissal, but you’re not yet ready to let Dani go. You do, however, want her and her fidgeting leg, her wandering arms, and her swiveling head to know you’re almost done.
In reality you don’t mind taking the extra time to adjust the busy guerrilla’s position in the creaky wooden chair to make sure you snip only the hair you want, light hands cupping the sides of her head to bring it back to position or tapping her shoulders to remind her to straighten her spine. There’s nothing to be done about her bouncing leg, but it doesn’t really derail your work, and, moreover, it’s understandable, given Dani’s vulnerability at the mercy of your hands. Can’t quite spring into action to defend the hideout if you’re sat in a chair, ratty threadbare old towel draped around your shoulders, getting your routine haircut.
But today is different, you remind yourself. Smiling, you continue running your hands through Dani’s hair, gathering any loose strands and smoothing it back into place in preparation for her own assessment using the heavy handheld mirror she’d brought when she’d first asked for your help. Your hands reach her hairline for a final run when Dani’s head leans slightly back over the edge of the chair and into your touch, coming to rest against your abdomen. You step forward and press a hand to the top of her forehead, holding her to you with careful, tender pressure. She lets out a soft sigh, and you realize her entire body has quietened.
It’s nothing. She always does this. You’re her best friend – of course she feels comfortable with you.
You hope she can’t feel – or fuck, hear – your heart beating in your chest inches away from her head. (Stupid. Of course she can.)
Dani doesn’t move. You’re telling yourself you have a choice to make, but you snap out of it, thumb starting to rub small, slow circles in her scalp that evolve into an unhurried massage of the top of her head. You can see her shoulders rise and fall, but you can’t tell, over the knocking of your heart in your throat, over the pitching of your stomach, over the vibrating in your limbs, whether she’s at all agitated.
Friends. Best friends comforting each other in the middle of a fucking war. It’s fine.
With a final press of the back of her head into your body, you pick up the mirror on the counter and pass it to Dani over her shoulder, letting her take it to better inspect your handiwork.
“Gracias. It was starting to drive me fucking crazy.”
You laugh. “How does it look?”
Attention back toward the mirror, Dani squeezes an eye shut and cocks both an eyebrow and her head in mock deliberation. She grins at you in the reflection, lets out a light chuckle at the playful smack you give her, and says, “Perfect.”
She looks up, thoughtful. “You know, I should really learn how to do it myself. Then I don’t have to keep bugging you all the time.”
Ay, Dani. You choose not to think about having to stop your sessions – you’re too sure, by now. You smile at her, briefly squeeze her shoulder. “You’ll have to come by for lessons, then, guerrilla. I don’t know if you can top this, though.”
She laughs again, taunting. “Pinga. Is that a bet?”
It’s so easy with her. Today’s no different, except it is.
“Hmm. Let me see from the front.”
She straightens somewhat in her seat as you circle around to face her, removing the towel and making sure everything looks even. You bend down, drawing closer, dusting stray threads of fine hair out of her scarred eyebrows and off of her high cheekbones, steady hands belying your wavering resolve.
Then her green eyes pierce yours, just before darting down toward her shoes and the tattooed hands gathered in her lap. You pause your ministrations and take the opportunity to admire the lashes catching the afternoon glow, the pale nicks dotting the tanned skin, the smooth lips inches from yours.
Thumb and forefinger find her chin. Take it. Lift it, and her gaze along with it, gradually up until she’s facing you again. Her serious eyes aren’t quite wide under her raised brows, but you notice they can’t decide between your loving gaze and your parted mouth, and now you’re certain you understand the rise and fall of her shoulders.
“Dani.”
“I…Yes?”
You don’t realize it’s a whisper until it’s out. “Can I kiss you?”
She doesn’t say yes. She also doesn’t say no. But Dani’s lips fall into yours, far and away softer than anything you expected or have ever experienced – and you’ve long wondered what to expect.
You’ve always smiled at the term locking lips but it’s true and it’s right and it’s rapturous, her lips fitting exactly with yours even as you angle your head to deepen the embrace. You savor the taste of her; the particular glide of her upper lip between yours; the breath from her nose fanning across the top of your mouth (breathe, Dani); the gentle hum that escapes her after some time unknown to the both of you. You kiss again, her hands finding the flushed sides of your face, your hands running once more through the hair at the back of her head. It occurs to you that you’re still bending over her sitting in the old wooden chair in the middle of the kitchen, that she’s stroking the skin of your cheeks with disconcerting tenderness, that you never want this to end.
Slowly, teeth tugging your lower lip, Dani pulls away, and you fight back a whine. You’re breathless, heart soaring, head spinning, so you don’t catch the glint in her eye, until she asks, “Does this mean I get the lessons for free?”
Your heart flutters, elated, and the laugh you let out relieves it only momentarily. You touch a hand to her cheek, cupping it. You watch Dani’s brow furrow in response, mouth parting in desperate veneration and eyes honing in on your mouth, before she pulls you onto her lap and in, again.