So I wrote this in response to reading a segment of GE where Nathaniel speculates whether or not Jane is a werewolf. He guesses that she can't be one, because of her petite frame. I guess otherwise.
Disclaimer: No.
Hair
by KyuuketsukiShounen
Jane Farrar does not smile when she shaves her legs. Admittedly, there are few duties she meets with a smile, and even fewer done with any sense of genuine feeling. And certainly she considers the task of shaving a duty.
With every pass, the razor clears perfect lines of smooth skin. Her legs almost feel glossy afterwards, as if she were just a giant walking doll cast in plastic. She supposes that's the idea. Jane works tirelessly to maintain the image; silky legs slipped into stockings, and then a pair of just barely suggestive heels. All of it juxtaposed against her uniform, skirt cut at a conservative length. And of course there's the taming of her mane to be done each morning.
Every morning, pull out the curling pins. Conditioner in the shower. And then in front of the mirror, the real work begins. A complex series of brush strokes, with a very secret sequence of hair products. Nothing in excess. And a few pins to keep it all in place.
At the very least, the war has clapped down any trends of elaborate make up. It only takes a few minutes to apply all the proper powders. Just a hint of mascara. A touch of lipstick. For this she is thankful.
The entire routine is done in record time, as though she were a machine, gears and springs whirring inside her. And when she steps into the great offices at Whitehall, she is a perfectly trimmed version of herself, leaving the slight scent of pomegranates and lemon in her wake.
Every single day.
The fools think it means she loves control, craves it. Jane Farrar loves control the way a lame man loves his cane. Jane Farrar loves control the way she loves Duvall's dirty meaty fingers, hunting across her body like jackals when no one is looking. She wears the crisp uniform with tolerance and gratitude. And contempt. There is always a price for security, and she does what she must.
The idiots don't know it sleeps inside her at day. They do not believe and who can blame them? She looks so different from the rest of the Night Police. Such a frigid slight girl, they must think. She could never be a wolf. Whitwell looks down her nose to ask Jane how she could possibly abide by Duvall's sloppy department. It's clearly another back-handed attack, but Jane knows Whitwell also sees herself when she looks at the younger girl. She thinks that Jane is just like her, bleached and sterile outside and in; but beneath the clean lines of her pressed blouse, Jane is blemished and alive.
She can be a beast. She can be wild. They don't know that she can outrun any wolf on the Night Police, can rip out all their throats. She sees the incredulity in their eyes, the question of what business she has in the midst of werewolves. This art diverges from the precisions of Hermetic magic; it is only killing. And Jane Farrar, the frigid slight girl can grow larger than any of them, stronger than any of them, hairier than any of them.
Stupid hulking brutes at midnight, much of the Night Police does not change much at the break of dawn. But when she sees the sun on the horizon, Jane reins in the claws, and the fangs, and growls. She shrinks back down to her slim build so neatly contained, like a prim and pristine box to kennel the wolf. She becomes her old human self. Her old human self, she calls it, but not the real Jane.
She sometimes fantasizes about what it would be like to simply stop shaving. She could wear pants for a week or two to let the hair grow. The buildings of Whitehall would buzz with rumors. She notices the eyes that watch jealous or hungry at her legs as she passes; they would all certainly notice when suddenly the uniform skirt hemmed at a frustratingly appropriate level was switched out for unflattering slacks.
Perhaps an injury, they might speculate. Or a strange mark? A tattoo? They could imagine so many wonderful things. Rug burn. Bites. And finally when the murmurs would build so thick upon one another that they echoed through the halls, pinging against the vaulted ceiling, she would show them.
She would tear away her pants to show them. Show them this part of herself. Hairy and ugly. Hairy and beautiful. And then she would rip away the rest of her clothing, nails transforming from crisply clipped to long and yellow and pointed.
The tough synthetic fabric of her uniform would rip apart with jagged edges, hardy threads snapping with frayed ends. The buttons would clink to the floor, one two three and four. And then she would tear at the elastic and soft cotton of her underwear.
She would not unclasp her bra civilly, she would destroy it. Demolish the thing that contained more than it did support, measuring her by the cupful into a category of letters and numbers. And then her panties. She would not hook her thumbs into them, slip them off slowly with a smirk. She would not let them pool onto the ground. Just one slash; white ribbons of lacy fabric would flutter to the ground.
And then they would see everything.
They would see that Jane Farrar is beast. That Jane Farrar is wild. She would glare at every one of them wildly through her mane, naked and panting like a Neanderthal. The men would be shouting their condemnations, red-faced with spit flying. Whore! some would cry out, with their erections straining against their pants. And the women would glower in a jealous lust. Hissing. Spitting. Admiring.
More than her legs, they would see all the hidden places where hair grows. Hair everywhere. And they would finally know that she was beautiful.
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(A/N): I feel like a lot of people don't like Jane, but I actually really like her character in the same way I like Azula from Avatar. Crazy beautiful dangerous.
Reviews are appreciated!