...live hair that is
Shining and free...
-Rupert Brooke, The Great Lover
Tony Stark is many things, but speechless is not often one of them. Except in cases like this. It's a hot July day and he's just been confronted with a scene he's not sure isn't a mirage.
'Um,' he says, and stops, trying not to gape. He's got reason. Natasha, in cutoff jeans ending at the knee and a tanktop, is sitting Indian-style on the floor. Clint's settled on the couch behind her, and he's braiding her hair.
Honest-to-goodness, wilfully tangling his fingers in a dangerous Russian assassin's hair. The same dangerous Russian assassin who's repeatedly assured Tony that liberties are not a thing she will allow, and Natasha is letting him. Rough archer's fingers twist gently in silky red strands, and Tony suddenly wishes he had a camera. Natasha's chin is tipped up, a blissful expression like a cat's settled on her features, and it's strangely peaceful. Till Natasha opens her eyes to glare at Tony as he takes a step towards them. 'Not one word, Stark.'
Tony takes a seat opposite the couple, still staring. Despite (multiple) evidences to the contrary, he does have an ounce (or two) of self-preservation, so he bites back several smart remarks that spring to mind. Clint's just methodically continuing, a tiny smirk curling the corner of his mouth despite the fact he seems focused on his work.
Tony wonders how hard that is, anyhow. And if Pepper might let him try it sometime.
Clint finishes, ties off the braid neatly and tosses it over his partner's shoulder. 'Good to go, Tash.'
Natasha rises in one fluid moment, stretches like a cat, both arms over her head, then brings one hand down to run her fingers over the smooth braid curving around her head. 'Much cooler. Thanks.'
She drops a kiss on Clint's forehead and is gone hummingbird-quick, before Tony can even open his mouth.
