Dec 15, 2025
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"You know, it's customary to look at the person addressing you. In polite circles," Harmony, to whom Helena would like to offer the polite circle of her hands around her neck, tells her archly.
Helena's arms straighten, pushing her upright until she's nearly at Harmony's eye level across the drawer, though she looks at her raised eyebrows or the slope of her nose. Anywhere but her eyes.
"What do you recognize, Dr. Cobel?"
"Hand soap."
"Excuse me?"
Harmony leans in, lifting a strand of coiled copper and bringing it to her nose to inhale. "Mhm. Your hair smells like hand soap."
