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“You want to do what?”
Mac's voice rose an octave, bordering on apprehensive (an uncharacteristic sight), as though you were suggesting strapping him to a table and slicing him right down the middle.
You watch him from the comfort of his bed, one leg tucked under the other, an impish glint in your eyes.
He huffed. It was one thing to drop by his shack whenever the compulsion struck you. It was another to play it off so naturally, to thrive in his space as though it were your own. You were a natural at invading, far too inquisitive and intrusive for your own good; each step taken was equally careful as it was earnest. That earned you your position at the Outpost, after all. It certainly made your assimilation into the group (into his space) all the easier. Much to the pilot's chagrin, he liked your presence. Craved it.
And there you were, curled around his bedsheets like some overgrown bedbug, your request thrashing around his head like a bat out of hell. A perfect nuisance.
"I want to braid your hair." You repeat, your gaze never leaving his.
A beat of silence. Mac feels a faint flush spreading across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks—he'd blame it on a cold draft coming through. “And the others? Couldn't you ask them?”
"Your hair’s the longest out of everyone else—in case you hadn't noticed." You say, smiling. It's a surface level answer, common information. Anyone with eyes could have arrived at that conclusion. You hadn't asked the others because you didn't want to ask the others. You wanted to ask him, and you wanted all that it entailed.
You hum to yourself. "I could go down to the kennel and start braiding the dogs’ tails together," in your mind's eye, you envision a hydra composed of tail and tuft, joined at the base, and three snarling malamutes plotting your demise. "But I don't think they'd take kindly to that. Neither would Clark."
That earns you a laugh—a crack in the armor—softly rumbling at the back of his throat. You wished you'd hear it more often. An inquisitive eyebrow arches up. "So you thought that I would?"
You shrug your shoulders and offer him a sheepish smile. "I didn't see the harm in asking. What have you got to lose, anyway?"
"My pride," Mac deadpans, idly scratching at his beard. "My dignity."
You snort and wave a hand in the air. "You already have that in spades. I think you'll be fine." But he doesn’t seem convinced in the slightest.
You shift your position to rest on your knees, clasp your hands together, and muster up the saddest, doe-eyed, dewy look you could possibly manage. His eyes threaten to roll into the back of his head the moment he picks up on what you're doing.
"Oh c'mon, please? It'll only be the one time and that's it, I promise." You’re near-begging at this point, hoping to put on a performance that would put Broadway to shame.
A hand comes up to rub at the center of his forehead, eyes flitting shut. He pauses and sighs through his nose; quiet resignation. His eyes open again—the startling blue always seems to catch you off guard—and you can just barely spot the ghost of a smile that his lips have curled into.
"Fine," he answers, "but only because it's you, Specs."
Your heart skips a beat at the name. It brings you back to when you had first arrived at the Outpost, carrying handfuls of luggage, each fit to burst, the zippers just barely closing in around the bags. His first thought was that you had overstocked on clothing. But when the bags opened, what came trickling out was book after book. Hardcovers, paperbacks, big and small, stuffed into every smidgen of space that you could spare.
"Bookworm" didn't roll off the tongue as easily, so he settled for "Specs". It sounded nicer, anyway (according to you, but you were biased to begin with).
Your mouth splits into a grin so hard it makes your cheeks ache; but it's a gratifying sort of pain, like rubbing at sore muscles after a hard day's work, or the familiar sting on your skin from being out in the sun for too long. With the thrill that rushes through your veins, you might as well have won the damn lottery.
"Alright, where do you want me?” Mac relents, arms splayed open.
You scoot forward, planting yourself right at the edge of his bed, and lightly pat the side of the mattress. "Riiight here. Oh! Could you get me a brush?" You ask; it was all you needed. You already had the hair ties supplied, dangling from one of your wrists like multicolored bracelets.
He hums in acknowledgement and enters the bathroom, coming back out with a simple wooden brush. He hands it to you and you offer him a thanks in reply. Mac takes a seat on the floor right in front of you, legs crossed together, back facing you.
"Now go easy on me. I don't want to come out of here looking more primped than the Queen of England." He warns, tongue-in-cheek.
“Don’t tempt me.” You counter, moving forward and letting your legs hang at his sides. He watches them swing and curiously fingers at the elastic of your striped fuzzy socks.
“Like the socks. Who’d you nab ‘em from, Pippi Longstocking?” He asks in a teasing lilt.
You feel your cheeks flaring up. “Shuddup, Mac.”
He turns his head to get a peek at your face, offering up a knowing glance far too smug for his own good. You have half a mind to smack him upside the head, but self-control wins out in the end, and the man gets to live to see another day. Plus, you have more pressing matters to tend to: there is a brush brandished in your hand and he is right where you want him.
You're pulling his hair back when he finally says, "It's cute."
Two little words was all it took to disarm you entirely. Your body is a living space heater—there's a frigid wasteland swirling up snowstorms just outside and you're sweltering like you have the Bahamas at your doorstep. You take a moment to collect your thoughts and regain your sense of reason before you speak again.
“Tell me if it hurts.” You say, tongue finally unsticking itself from the roof of your mouth.
You start from the bottom, gingerly working out any knots that come across your path. Detangling is a breeze—his hair doesn’t give you a lot of trouble, which isn’t all that surprising to you. Slow, steady hands guide the brush all the way down, and then come back up to repeat the process until you’re satisfied with the results.
It gives easily under your touch. You glide your fingers through the dark locks and meet no resistance. Soft. You let yourself indulge, gently curling your hand near his scalp, losing yourself in the ministrations. Mac lets out a sigh, and you watch as the tension begins to leave his shoulders. Your chest swells with an overwhelming fondness at the sight and you think you could kiss him right then and there.
With your fingers, you comb through his hair and part them in three ways, and then start braiding the locks together. You chew on your bottom lip, trying to keep your focus on the task in front of you instead of the way his shoulders rise and fall with each breath he takes, or the way your knuckles brush against the nape of his neck. It's paler, you note, than the rest of his body. Hidden behind his hair, or his 10-gallon hat, or his jacket's collar, turned up against the wind, always. Concealed like a small bird; a whisper; a well-kept secret.
The braid's a little loose for your liking, but you’re more concerned about tugging his hair than the integrity of the hairstyle.
It’s silly, in hindsight. You look down at your hands and think of his own, calloused and worn. Hands gripped hard around the necks of brown whiskey bottles, hands that have flown shuddering helicopters through heavy storms and rains of gunfire, hands that handle the cool steel of shotguns and flamethrowers like an old friend. He’s not fragile; he won’t shatter in your hands.
A strand comes loose, and you tuck it back regardless. You’re not very good at coming up with excuses.
"Finished." You tell him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He moves away from the bed, molasses-slow, like he's coming out of a daze. "Did you fall asleep?" You ask, watching as his back arches with a stretch.
"Was just resting my eyes." He corrects, turning to face you.
You smile wryly. "Same difference."
The braid sways just slightly. He reaches out to get a feel for it, fingertips grazing against the interlaced strands. It's short, framing his face in an unusual manner. It's not bad, only different. A seafaring captain comes to mind, stranded in the throes of the arctic, his ship and crew nowhere to be seen.
His eyes look as though they could pierce through the snow and sleet and ice. Not blue like the briny sea, murky waves scuttling forward, but like a clear sky settling over the horizon. It comes to you in glimpses: ships propelling through the clouds, cities long-since hidden from the minds of mankind, unearthed treasures yet to be discovered. How did he get himself stranded? What is he searching for? How does he live when every move he takes is mulled over like a perpetual game of chess?
You realize that you've been staring. You turn your head suddenly, heat clawing up your neck.
"What's on your mind, Specs?" Mac sits himself in his chair, shuffling slightly to get himself comfortable.
You. “Stories.” You confess with a dry laugh. It wasn't necessarily a lie. "You, uh, reminded me of this book I brought, about the captain of a pirate ship."
Mac rests his elbow on the chair's arm, propping his chin up with his hand. He offers up a cheeky smile. "I'm sure that none of them have had the pleasure of walking out in this sorta weather and risk freezing their asses off."
You can’t help but break out into a grin. “Not really, no. It’s usually heatstrokes by the miles. All sunny days and stormy nights.”
“You’ll just have to read it to me sometime, it might just thaw me out. The heaters sure as hell haven’t.” He juts a thumb back at the poor heater, down to its last legs but still churning away with a low, guttural thrum.
"Is that an invitation?" You ask. Macready's image comes to focus in your mind; his countenance, once a fuzzy, far-off picture, begins to come through. A little clearer, its edges more pronounced. A little more man than myth now.
The expression he bears is strangely bashful, almost hesitant. "If you'll take it."
Your heart throbs; you think you love him. The shape of the word is too big to fit in your mouth, so you let it rest in your ribs; a caged, thrashing animal. You nod, grinning again. It aches like the sun. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll take it."