Work Text:
The day she finally gets a promotion, Sally stands in front of the mirror in her bathroom and cuts off all her hair.
It’s messy.
In the films it’s supposed to be cathartic, part of the life-changing montage of the heroine as she becomes a strong woman ready to face the challenges presented to her. Her hair will look artfully tousled as she fights zombies, or kills terrorists, or hunts down a corrupt policeman. Boyish and attractive.
In reality she ends up with hair all down the back of her neck and all over the sink, and just everywhere, and the end result…well. The end result looks like someone took a garden strimmer to her head. She puts a hat on and books an emergency appointment with the posh hairdressers across the road, where she is squawked and cooed over until she looks like a normal person again.
-
In the bathroom, loops and whorls of dark hair are in the sink, the bath, on the floor. She hoovers it up and showers. She can’t stop touching the nape of her neck.
-
It doesn’t really change anything. Well. Perhaps one thing.
-
“I like your hair.”
“Hm?” She glances up from the report. Dr Hooper is hovering awkwardly, a half smile quivering on her lips.
“Oh. Thanks. Is this our copy?”
Dr Hooper rubs her hands over the front of her lab coat. “Oh. Um. Yes. I think I’ve…I’m sure I’ve. Yes, yes.”
“Okay. Cheers. See you.”
“Bye!”
-
“Did you do it yourself? I…sorry, never mind. Sorry.”
Sally pauses in her circling of the body on the table.
“What?”
“Your hair. It’s none of my business, I’ll just-”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you-”
“I did it myself.”
“Oh.” Dr Hooper bites her lip. Her fingers flex where they’re clutching her long plait. Sally raises her eyebrows, and Dr Hooper goes very pink and scuttles away to fiddle with some equipment at the other side of the room. Sally watches the movement of her shoulders as she works.
-
“Dr Hooper, do-”
“Molly.”
“Mm?”
“It’s…it’s Molly. If you want.”
“Alright.”
-
It’s late. Very late. Early, really. Sally rubs at her eyes, scrubs a hand through her hair.
“Thanks for staying,” she says, as she sorts through the last few pieces of paperwork. The words swim in front of her eyes, and she has to stare at them for twice as long as usual to make sure everything is present and correct.
“It’s fine.”
Molly has been unusually quiet. It’s possibly the fact that it’s past four in the morning and she looks about ready to sleep on top of the autopsy table, but Sally finds the silence and stillness unnerving, used to awkward chatting and nervous hovering. It makes her glance up more than usual, and every time she does, Molly quickly looks away.
As she’s getting up and stuffing the last bits of paper into her folder, Molly stands suddenly, comes around to her side of the bench. Sally is too tired to do much more than blink at her.
“I just…I wanted,” murmurs Molly, reaching out, and then her hand is drifting up the nape of Sally’s neck, through the fuzz of short hairs there. Her fingers make slow, tentative circles, and the palm of her hand rests warm and slightly damp against Sally’s skin.
They must stand like that for a long time. If Sally was more awake she might have protested. Might have shuffled away in surprise. Instead she tilts her head and lets Molly gently stroke her hair with trembling fingers. She drifts, listening to Molly’s quick breathing, the low hum of the fluorescent lights.
Sally straightens, eventually, and Molly pulls back, reluctant, thumb sliding under Sally’s ear. She wrings her hands together, tooth pressing into her lower lip, and when it looks like she might be about to say something, Sally leans forward and kisses her, soft and quick. Pulls back. She doesn’t look like she’s going to speak any more, but Sally kisses her again anyway. Her mouth is small and pink and open in surprise.
The whirr of a generator starting up somewhere in the building has them both stepping back. Molly laughs a quick little laugh and then covers her mouth, and Sally reaches down to gather her work.
“See you,” she says. Allows with it a smile.
“Alright,” says Molly.