You and Me | Drabble
For Max and the prompt “Stay Still: I can’t brush your hair like this”
Clea rolled over to face her husband, propping her head up on one elbow. Her hair had still been styled when she'd retired to her quarters the previous night; each side pinned up formally against her head like ram's horns. Now, it felt like a knotted, frizzy mass beneath her hands.
She should have taken it down, but the bed had just seemed far too inviting.
"If you're going to cause this much of a mess, maybe I shouldn't bother keeping my hair up anymore."
"Hm?" Stephen hummed in response, eyes still half closed as he pulled his wife in closer.
Clea obliged, cuddling up closer to him beneath the covers. “Too much work..," She said, her hands absentmindedly running over the bare skin of his chest "Just for you to run your hands all over it."
Stephen smiled lazily and kissed the top of her head. “And here I thought you put it up because you held court yesterday. I feel special.”
“You should.”
“I do, every day.”
Clea laid there for some time before eventually sitting up, wrapping the sheets around herself like a cloak.
"Maybe you could help me brush all these pins out.”
Stephen looked startled by the request, as if she'd just asked him to go on some epic quest. His smile faded, and he suddenly looked deathly serious as he flexed his fingers absentmindedly along the top of the mattress; a nervous tick she'd learned to recognize early on in their relationship. "Clea..I’m really not the best person to ask for that-
She placed her hands on top of his, on top of the scars, and gave him a reassuring smile. "It's okay, my love, you'll do fine."
Stephen stared at her for a moment, unmoving, before his expression softened. "Alright." he relented, gifting her with a smile in return. "Where's the hairbrush?"
--
"You're actually quite good at this, Stephen, I'm surprised.
Clea said, watching her husband in the silver hand mirror in her right hand. He was sitting on the bed behind her, systematically undoing the frizzy white mass that currently was her hair. In her other hand sat a small container of pins, which Stephen occasionally added to with a satisfying clink.
"Definitely not as good as you or your hand maids."
He shrugged, his gaze locked intently on a particularly devious knot. His pace was methodical, and she could feel the tremor of his hands against her scalp as he worked. Though he pulled on her hair every time his uncooperative fingers missed a pin, which was often, his touch was familiar; relaxing. She closed her eyes, leaning further into him.
"Sit still, I can't brush your hair like this. You're as restless as a cat, I swear."
"I don't know if I should be offended or not Stephen," She sang, eyes still closed, "You seemed to think it was a good thing last night.
Clea smirked as Stephen started to laugh, his intense gaze suddenly broken as he tried to compose himself. She could feel his body relax, the joke calming him enough that he no longer looked terrified of the brush in his hands.
That was a good. She hated how unbearably tense he could get, especially when he didn't need to be. He had nothing to hide here, not from his wife.
"Be careful, I'm going to stab you with a pin if you keep this up."
"Try me" She snorted.
"...You know, I used to watch my mother braid my sister's hair, before church. I did it for her a few times too, when Victor was being fussy. I must have gotten more practice than I'd realized."
Stephen rarely, if ever, mentioned his family. It was almost surreal, on the rare occasions like these where he did bring them up in conversation. She didn't blame him, for not talking about them. It was a difficult subject, but that was what made moments like these so special. They were moments of complete and utter trust; of vulnerability.
"And? How did Donna feel about your skills?"
Her husband shrugged. "She complained that they were lopsided, but after that she always made me braid her doll's hair. So I suppose she did like them, in the long run."
He pulled out another pin and dropped it into the container.
"I think that's all of them. How does that feel?"
Clea placed the mirror and pins down on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. The strands were smooth, and there were no knots left as far as she could tell.
"You did a wonderful job, Stephen." Clea said, turning to wrap her arms loosely around his neck. "You should do this more often."
"Maybe I will," he smiled, leaning in to kiss his wife.













