Title: Captured Moments: Hairstyles

Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]

Genre: S/V Fluff

Rating: PG

Summary: Captured moments from daily life

Author's Note: These started as small drabbles to keep my fans happy while I finished my longer fic, Chronic Vertigo and grew into Fluff Pills to be read post-episode to cope with the triangle. It's a series, each one short and stand-alone. Timeline: Between Phase One and The Telling, just randomly in there, as we didn't see every moment of their short time together. When you have a crush on someone, you analyze everything about them, wondering what they did in those hours you were apart, what wonderful secrets they held on to that you wished you could know.

I have finally figured out Vaughn's.

She is an old French woman named Anastasie who has been cutting his hair since he moved to the states with his mother at the age of 12. It's not entirely uncommon for people of the same nationality to band together to form some kind of community that spans a city, and Anastasie seemed to be the mother for all the transplanted French in the area.

She owns a small beauty parlor north of the city. Any day of the week, aging French women can be found inside, some to get their hair done, others just there to talk and gossip. Anastasie takes care of them all, no matter how old they get or how far they move. A true mother.

I stumbled upon this secret one day, sitting on my couch, running my hand through his hair absentmindedly as I read a book. How did he get that perfect balance between bed head and presentable? The perfect length and cut just right to accent his dirty blond hair?

"You cut your hair," I said, closing the book. He looked up at me, a small smile on his lips.

"I do that, from time to time. I'm sure there's a rule somewhere that says a male agent isn't allowed to have his hair past four inches. Something like that," he replied, trailing off. I playfully hit him on the shoulder.

"I thought you knew all the rules!"

"Which is why I get my hair cut from time to time?" he asked rhetorically.

"I need to get mine cut," I sighed. I usually don't have the time to find a place and stylist I like, so I find myself constantly running to one of those Super Cuts places for a quick cut and style before running off on another mission.

"Yeah? Where do you go?"

"Down the street. 20 minute cut. Nothing special."

He looked horrified.

"That's it," he proclaimed, standing. I was lucky I moved my hand at the right time, only narrowly missing his body as he shot up, his mind focused on finding the phone. I followed him with my eyes, wondering what was going on. He quickly dialed a number and spoke in hushed French, asking if she (who?) had time today for a cut. He laughed at something she said and assured her that would be fine before hanging up the phone.

"What was that all about?" I asked. He moseyed to the couch and leaned over the back to give me a quick kiss.

"You're about to get the best haircut. Trust me, you'll love it."

I've grown to trust him over the years, and found myself outside a small parlor after a quick lunch at a favorite café down the street, completely unaware of such a place mere steps from where I'd often meet friends for lunch. A small bell rang as we walked in the door, and various calls of his name floated through the air, a few women coming to give him a hug. One frowned.

"You were just here yesterday and you are back already?" she asked. It was a bit harder to understand her, as her dialect was different than the Parisian French I'd learned in school, and for a moment I miss heard a few words and almost ran over to harm her in some way.

"Such a joy, but no," he replied promptly, and I realized his dialect was just like hers, a little off (something I'd never noticed before). Certainly not learned in a crowded high school classroom. "Actually, Anastasie, this is Sydney."

He presented me to the old woman who had been standing in the back of the parlor, wiping her hands off on a white towel. She eyed me with warm blue eyes the color of an inviting summer ocean and quickly pulled me into a hug.

"She is beautiful, Michel," she said over my shoulder, releasing me slowly and leading me to one of the three chairs in the room.

"More beautiful than any other," he said. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks. Anastasie eyed me, and smiled over my shoulder into the mirror.

"Then a special cut is needed."

"No, no, I don't need anything special, just practical," I said to her.

"Listen to that! The boy has finally found a woman who can speak properly!" a woman in the heater exclaimed, causing the others to laugh.

"A little funny. Michel, you must give her lessons."

I swear that woman winked. Winked. At him. Over lessons. Oh dear.

He sat behind me as Anastasie cut my hair, talking quietly with the women behind me, asking about them and their children, friends from childhood. A few had moved away after college, another had a mishap that their mother found humorous. Every so often I found his eyes looking just at me as if I were some priceless piece of art, entrusted to a master of restoration for the best care. That look in his eyes stays with me to this day. He brought me to someplace special of his, somewhere he had never taken anyone to before, and trusted me enough to share.

It was the best cut, and I've gone to Anastasie ever since.