Work Text:
Billy’s legs were stretched out on your bed, one arm slung lazily behind his head, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, though you’d already given him The Look for lighting it inside.
“Seriously, ash on my comforter and I’m throwing you out the window,” you’d muttered.
He just grinned, half-lidded and smug, watching you reorganise your bookshelf for the third time that week. It wasn’t even really about books anymore. You just liked when he was there, watching you like you were something worth staring at.
“Y’know,” Billy drawled, “You could come lie down and entertain me instead of alphabetising Stephen King.”
You rolled your eyes but were already about to respond when the door creaked open and a small voice cut through.
“Y/N?” Max poked her head in, her expression a little sheepish.
Billy groaned instinctively. “Jesus, what now—”
“Billy,” you warned quietly, and then turned to Max, your voice warm and open. “What’s up, Max?”
Max stepped in holding a brush and a few scrunchies in mismatched colours. “Can you braid my hair?” she asked, cheeks a little pink like maybe she thought she was interrupting something.
Your face lit up. “Of course I can, come here.”
Billy scoffed, but not as harshly this time. He sat up a little straighter, leaning back on his elbows as Max climbed onto the bed beside you. You gently pulled her hair over her shoulder and started brushing through the red strands, careful, slow.
Max closed her eyes and relaxed into the motions, the room going quiet except for the soft tug of the brush and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.
Billy watched.
He meant to look away—meant to keep up the whole too-cool-for-this act—but something about the way you handled Max made his chest feel too full.
You were so damn patient. Fingertips gentle. Voice soft. You talked to Max the whole time, asking about her day, what book she was reading, if she wanted one braid or two. She laughed once, and it was the kind of sound Billy rarely got to hear from her.
And just like that, the annoyance ebbed.
He stubbed out the cigarette, not wanting the smell to ruin the moment.
Max caught his eye and blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothin’. Just... didn’t know you liked being babied.”
Max opened her mouth to snap back, but you pinched Billy’s leg without even looking.
“Don’t be mean. She’s allowed to want a braid and some peace.”
Billy glanced down at you, your fingers now moving through Max’s hair in practiced rhythm, and something warm curled under his ribs.
“…Looks good,” he muttered finally.
You smiled.
“She’s a good canvas.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re good at that.”
“At braids?” you teased.
He shook his head, eyes soft now, unguarded in the way only you ever got to see. “Nah. At takin’ care of people.”
-
Max had gone home not long after, walking away with her braid swinging over her shoulder and a handful of your leftover gummy worms in her hoodie pocket. She’d muttered a half-hearted “Thanks” to Billy on her way out, which—for her—was practically a warm hug.
Now, the room was quiet again. The kind of calm that settled thick in the summer air after a small storm of laughter and kid sister energy.
You were back on your bed, curled near Billy, a book propped open but forgotten in your lap. He’d been silent for a while. Not in a moody way—more like he was turning something over in his head, and you knew better than to poke at it too soon.
“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low.
You looked over. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the now-empty space where Max had been. “So, uh… could you show me how to do that?”
You blinked. “Do what?”
“The braid thing.” He shifted, suddenly way too interested in a rip on your blanket. “Not sayin’ I wanna do it all the time or anything. Just… maybe she’d let me do it for her. One day. If she wanted.”
The corners of your mouth tugged up, but you didn’t smile just yet—not because you weren’t delighted, but because you knew if you gushed, he’d retreat into a defensive shrug and a grumble about how it was “no big deal.”
So you nodded slowly, gently. “Yeah. I can show you.”
Billy looked relieved. “Cool. Like… now?”
“Sure.” You shifted to sit in front of him, grabbing the brush and a long strand of ribbon you’d left nearby. “You’re practicing on me, though. I’m not giving you a mannequin.”
He gave you a look that was half-scoff, half-smile. “Guess I can deal with that.”
You sat between his legs, your back to his chest, and handed him the brush.
“Start by brushing through a section. No yanking, or I’ll kick you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his touch was gentler than you expected.
As he worked, you felt the shift happen—the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame, replaced by quiet focus. You guided him step by step: dividing the hair into three parts, showing him how to cross them, how to keep the tension even. His fingers were clumsy at first, rough from years of fights and fixing up his car, but he was trying. Really trying.
“Like that?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Almost. Hold this piece tighter—yeah, just like that. You’re a natural.”
He snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”
You laughed and leaned back into his chest just a little, letting yourself relax fully into the moment. “You’re sweet, Billy.”
He paused, hands still tangled gently in your hair.
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
Silence settled again. Then, in a rare, unguarded whisper:
“I just… want her to know I care. Even if I suck at saying it.”
You closed your eyes, fingers curling around his where they rested near your shoulder.
“She’ll know. Especially if you do her hair. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about showing up. That’s what you’re doing.”
Billy pressed a quiet kiss to the crown of your head, just once.
“…Thanks,” he said.
And you smiled, eyes still closed, braid a little uneven but perfect in every way that counted.
-
You were in the kitchen when it happened—rooting around in the fridge for something snack-worthy and debating whether string cheese counted as a real meal—when you heard it.
A very familiar voice from the living room.
“Okay, hold still. Jesus, your head’s like… slippery.”
You peeked around the corner.
Max was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a comic book resting in her lap, expression unreadable. Billy stood behind her, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on twisting sections of her red hair into something vaguely resembling a braid.
It was lumpy. Uneven. Too loose at the top and way too tight by the bottom. But it was unmistakably a braid.
You leaned quietly against the doorframe, arms crossed, heart about ready to melt right through your ribs.
Max finally spoke, dry as ever. “You’re bad at this.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t act like you didn’t ask me.”
“I did not,” she shot back.
“You walked in here and dropped a hair tie in my lap.”
“That was not asking.”
“Felt like it.”
Max was silent for a beat. Then:
“…It’s not the worst braid ever.”
Billy blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”
You stifled a laugh, watching as he tied off the end of her braid with the bright blue scrunchie Max had tossed at him earlier. He stepped back, surveying his handiwork like a mechanic judging his own engine fix.
Max craned her neck to get a look in the mirror across the room. “It’s a little jacked.”
Billy threw a cushion at her. She dodged it easily, grinning.
But she didn’t undo the braid.
She didn’t even touch it.
You stepped in then, casual. “Looks cute,” you said, brushing a bit of hair off Max’s shoulder as you passed.
Billy gave you a look—half sheepish, half smug, like see, told you I could do it.
You raised an eyebrow. “Not bad for a first time.”
“I had a good teacher,” he muttered, bumping your hip as you passed.
Max looked between you two, clearly suspicious of whatever thing was happening but too cool to comment on it.
Instead, she said, “Next time, you’re learning fishtail braids.”
Billy groaned dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for a salon.”
You just laughed, grabbing a bag of chips and flopping down next to Max. She leaned her head on your shoulder, still wearing that uneven braid like it was a crown.
And Billy?
He sat down beside you both, close but casual, arm thrown across the back of the couch—watching his sister with something new in his eyes.
Something soft.
Something real.
And for once, everything felt easy.