#in my little head canon Marcille helped her cut her hair.

[jirachuuu]

Pixie cut Falin save me!! Save me pixie cut Falin!

[featherfalin]

dungeon meshi spoilers, very obliquely

(set sometime towards the end of canon, based on my vague understanding of the conclusion; please be kind if i've made mistakes since i have not finished reading yet!)

He wakes up, one morning, bleary-eyed and sore, and stumbles out quietly into the world, and she catches sight of him in the hall, looking around as if in a daze. "Oh!" she says warmly, turning towards him. "You've gotten up!"

He blinks at her slowly, then nods, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with one hand. "I couldn't..." he says, very slowly. "Sleep any longer."

"The others will be glad to see you're out and about," she tells him, and sees a flicker of emotion cross his face -- perhaps something like trepidation.

"I don't want to see them," he says after a moment, and then, "I don't want to see anyone."

She frowns, angling her head slightly as she regards him. He won't look back at her, his eyes fixed somewhere on the ground behind her; he looks small and almost delicate, as if a touch might be enough to break him.

She reaches out to touch him anyways, and is rewarded: his head snaps up when her hand falls on his shoulder, his mouth dropping open silently, his brows drawing together as he meets her gaze.

"Your hair," she says gently, and brushes it back from his face. It's tangled and untidy, all a mess from the days on end he's spent in bed, unable or unwilling to leave his room. "Do you want some help?"

He looks away again, frowning deeply and reaching up with one hand to tug on a curl. "I don't... need..." he mumbles, but it doesn't sound especially convincing.

She smiles, touching his cheek briefly. "Let me find Marcille," she says. "I'm sure she won't mind if I borrow a few of her things."

--

They find a private alcove where they won't be disturbed, and she settles in behind him, gathering his hair in her hands. He doesn't speak, merely sits in silence as she takes the brush she borrowed from Marcille, dips it in a bowl of warm water, and begins working it slowly through his hair.

He really has let it become a mess in the past week, and she worries at first that they may need to cut it if she can't work out the knots herself. Still, she combs through it with great care and patience, starting at the ends and meticulously undoing each snarl and tangle. He doesn't so much as utter a complaint, only sucks in his breath a little when she pulls too hard.

Section by section, she brushes out the birds-nest of his curls, working her way up his back towards his shoulder-blades, and then his shoulders. She hums to herself as she works, an old tune she knows from childhood -- something Mother used to sing to her when she was very young, though she's forgotten the words now. After a time, she realizes that another voice has joined hers: he's picked up the tune, and is humming a soft harmony under his breath, rocking slowly back and forth in time.

It takes the better part of an hour, but she unknots every inch.