Planning Ahead

She's there, but she's not–her thoughts are far away, jumping from topic to topic, from codes to room layouts to weapons, while her hands are skimming over her hair at the back of her head, pulling strand over strand, working and creating without much conscious thought.

"How do you do that?"

His voice startles her; a lock slips from between her fingers, falling to her shoulder. Lost in her own world, she's completely forgotten for a moment that he's in the room as well.

Skye turns slightly back to face him, letting her hair fall and the braid unravel. "Do what?" she asks when she composes herself, looking at him with a slight smile.

"This," Grant answers, sitting down next to her on the edge of the bed and tucking a stray lock behind her ear, sweeping it towards the direction of the remnants of her never finished braid. "With your hair."

"Oh, it's just a French braid," she shrugs, then combs through her hair with her fingers, smoothing it down. "No big deal. It just helps me think, keeping my hands busy."

He smiles, and it's genuine, but almost melancholic, as he wraps a long curl around his finger.

"Can you show me how to do it?"

She doesn't say yes right away–not because she opposes the idea, simply because she doesn't get why. Braiding hair is not something he'd ever need. But then she simply shrugs and gives him a little nod, then turns around so her back is to him. She hooks her thumbs under hair, just above her ears, then pulls it up, creating a little ponytail almost at the top of her head. She divides it into three strands, and starts braiding. Left over the middle, right over the middle, a small strand added, left over the middle, a small strand added, right over the middle… Going until she runs out of hair to add, and the braid reaches the end of her curls. Then she turns back towards him and says "That's it. It's not rocket science."

He nods solemnly, exactly in the way he always does when listening to the details of upcoming missions.

"Can I try it?"

Her smile widens involuntarily. "Of course."

She undoes the braid and sits with her back to him again, showing him a second time how to start.

His hands are gentle but awkward on her scalp; he has the natural talent for it (his hands were made for small, intricate tasks, not for combat, and in another life he might have wielded a paintbrush or played the piano), but none of the experience. A small, shorter strand escapes from her fingers and falls in front of her eyes.

"I've wanted to try it for a while," he says after a few seconds of silence. "There's something mesmerizing about the way you do your hair."

"Then why now?" she asks, whishing she was sitting in front of a mirror so she could see his face.

"It's… a kind of silly, I think," he replies. She doesn't need a mirror now to know he looks bashful. "I mean I've been thinking, and…" he pauses for a moment. "We might have a girl." Her hand involuntarily slips to her belly, to rest on the curve that doesn't exist yet. "And I'd like to be able to do it for her."

There's something in her eye, so she raises her hand to brush it away.

"You still have like… years until that," she chuckles. "If we have a girl."

"We will, sooner or later." She chuckles again. "But in either case, there's no reason why I shouldn't learn how to do it now." He finishes the braid and hands its end to her to secure it; it's sloppy and uneven, one strand ending sooner than the other two. She raises a hand to her head, and feels stray hairs sticking out, whole locks left out, and an uneven pattern.

"Well," she laughs, letting go of her hair and letting it unravel, "you'll need some time to practice, that's for sure."

He laughs until her lips collide with his.