It was one of those rare times, then, that her hair was completely loose. She was standing at the vanity, combing it free of tangles in that perfunctory way women had of doing the most seductive things in the most practical manner. Her hair was a never-ending source of delight to him. A little frisson of excitement shot its way up his spine. He could see the silver in it now, not that that bothered him, not in the least. He loved the feel of it in his hands, against his cheek, the lovely fresh smell of it. It's so beautiful when it's down and here is the long thick fall of it. He comes up behind her silently (another advantage of his trade) and gently puts his hand over the brush. She jumps, startled out of her reverie by his sudden appearance.
"May I?" He gestures toward the brush.
"You want to brush my hair?" For some reason, this strikes her as more intimate than anything they've yet done.
"You wouldn't mind?" He can't bring himself to admit just how much he's longed to comb it out. He doesn't know why; he knows it must seem strange to her and he doesn't want to frighten her off.
"No," she says, with just the slightest hesitation. She knows he will be gentle, tender, it's just that this feels like a service to her in some way, and she's uneasy with that.
He pulls the brush through her hair, gently, too gently at first, then he begins to tug when he meets resistance. It is soothing, this, to be taken care of. Reminds her of being a girl and her mam brushing the tangles out of the wild, streaming mass that always flew behind her. She relaxes into him, closes her eyes, hums a little lilt of a tune her auntie used to sing. Her mother never did much singing.
Carson is enchanted. He's never seen her so relaxed, so easy. She's even swaying a bit to this lovely little tune she's humming. This, then, is his moment. All those years of running, striving, then those years of serving, impatiently at first, then settling into his role until he became the role. Until she came along and woke him from a long, impossibly dull dream with her piercing eyes, her sharp tongue. Then came the pretense of colleagues, friends even, all the while denying the emotions stirring beneath that careful mask he put on each day. But now they are husband and wife. He is privy to a million little gestures, habits, expressions that he never knew existed. He wants to lay with her, but curiously he doesn't want to spoil the purity of this moment between them. He wants to do something for her, without expectation or physical desire. He smooths the last of her hair and lays the brush on the vanity. She sighs, opens her eyes and smiles at him in the looking glass. He lays a gentle kiss on the top of her head, squeezes her shoulder and glides away again, content.