#anywsys.

On their last job, Eliot had dislocated his shoulder, an ill-advised shove landing him harder than he’d calculated. He’s been in his line of work long enough now that he can’t bounce back from an injury the way he used to, and he still doesn’t have full range of motion on his left side. It hasn’t been enough to keep him out of commission, but it’s been irritating. And now, he can’t get his hair back out of his face. With Parker in front of him, he tries not to show his frustration. But with Parker in front of him, he doesn’t have to. She’s picked up people-reading skills from Sophie, sure, but for better or for worse, Parker knows his specific tells better than almost anyone. She makes a disapproving noise as she slides over next to him, pulling a stool out from under the bar.

“You’re making it worse,” she tells him.

“My shoulder?”

She huffs a laugh. “Your hair!”

“Don’t see how it could get worse’n it is,” he grumbles.

“How about if you dislocate your shoulder again and have to sit the next job out?”

Eliot growls low in his throat, and trusts that Parker will know its not really directed at her. She easily disregards him, pushing at his shoulder until he relents and drops onto the barstool.

“Just let me fix it, ‘kay?”

Eliot gives an affirmative grunt. Parker comes up behind him on the barstool and starts finger-combing his hair. She isn’t particularly gentle, not the way one might expect. But in a way particular to Parker, she is gentle. When Eliot hisses a breath through his teeth, Parker’s hands still and adjust until they’re no longer pulling at a tangle. Eliot gives a contented sigh as Parker’s nails scratch over his scalp, and she repeats the movement, sending sparks down his spine. Neither of them speak for long moments as her hands untangle his hair, attempting to fix the mess Eliot had made earlier. But they’re talking all the same. It’s been years since Eliot and Parker had to speak to communicate. Not since they recognized their shared alien nature—the thing that makes them different from everyone else, but the same as each other. Their shared secret language that means Eliot understands Parker’s movements as if she were his shadow. As she starts tugging his hair into strands, pulling them over and under each other, Eliot hears, take better care of yourself. He hopes that as the line of his shoulders relaxes, she hears him reply, thanks for having my back.

From Parker’s methodical weaving of his hair Eliot discerns she’s giving him a French braid. He lets himself lean further into her hands. He almost never opts to braid his own hair, but he appreciates the practicality of it. Likes that Parker knows he won’t be fixing his hair himself for a bit, and is giving him a hairstyle that stands a chance of lasting a few days, if he’s careful. There’s a soothing, soporific effect to having his partner’s hands in his hair, and Eliot’s eyes have drifted shut by the time Parker ties off the braid.

“Don’t mess that up,” she tells him, breaking the long quiet.

“The braid?”

“Your shoulder,” she corrects. Her quick thief’s hands slide lightly over the injury.

“‘S long as you’ll fix my hair when this unravels, I promise I’ll take it easy.”