Work Text:
When they climb to the roof of one of New York's nine-storey buildings after another tedious task, it's already light. The night activity had a bad effect on the sleeping pattern of both of them, but they didn't care much about it. The main thing is that they help the people of Brooklyn, Harlem, New York, the world and a little bit themselves, in contrast to the problems of their double life.
Szoboszlai hesitates a bit and decides to ask a somewhat strange question:
—Do you like my hairstyle?
An awkward pause hangs in the thick city morning air.
—What? What's your point?
Dominic tilts his head and gently takes Harvey's hand, hoping the younger man doesn't mind. He looks at the mask with the big triangular eyes, rolled up, held on his nose, so it's more comfortable to talk, looking somehow unusual, confusing with one look of brown eyes, facial expressions unusually expressive: frowning eyebrows, creases between them, lips in a thin strip. Elliott smiles awkwardly, swept away by what's happening.
—So,—Szobo slyly clarifies, pausing briefly, bringing the Harvey’s hand up to his head, politely inviting a touch,— do you like it?
Harvey is silent, immersed in the pleasurable sensation of running his fingers through the dark, soft hair. He lightly massages the scalp at the nape of his neck, moves upwards and plunges his palm into the dishevelled hair, ruining it for good. The fabric of the gloves electrifies the hair, making it stand up, glowing pinkish-red against the rising sun. Elliott chuckles, covering his mouth with the fist of his other hand. Sighing, he draws air into his lungs, preparing to say something.
—I like it…