Chapter Text
Tanner frowned as he stared into the mirror, the creases across his forehead and lining the corners of his mouth deepening. He plucked angrily at the thinning strands of hair atop his head, as if he believed messing with them would make more appear.
In the reflection of the mirror, just over his shoulder sloped close to the glass as he leaned in, his nose practically touching his own reflection, you appeared. Sleepy-eyed and pink-cheeked. You were always infuriatingly adorable when you first woke up, looking more cherub than human. It was what Tanner loved about you. It was also, in that moment, what made him indescribably angry.
To be perfectly clear, he wasn’t angry at you. He rarely ever got upset with you (that wasn’t to say he never did, because he did sometimes get rather cross, but that was a normal response to normal stimuli), it was the whole situation that he was angry at. And, deep down, he wasn’t so much angry as he was embarrassed.
Embarrassed and frustrated.
He wasn’t that old. Why was he already going bald? He had a stressful job, sure, and his coworkers didn’t make it any easier. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if his thinning locks and receding hairline were all the fault of one particular James Bond. He was sure that M (both of them) had nearly had heart attacks dealing with Bond and his nonsense. And his thinning hair truly didn’t bother him much when he was in the office, working missions that literally had life and death at play. But when he was standing in the bathroom, staring in the mirror, with an unforgiving light reflecting off his forehead, it just didn’t seem fair. Mostly because he didn’t want you to think he was old.
Behind him, you had sleepily shed your clothes and climbed into the shower, which was now pouring out swaths of hot steam that clouded the mirror and Tanner’s view of himself. He was now wallowing in self-pity at the fact that you hadn’t asked him to join you. Maybe you didn’t find him attractive anymore. How could you, with his ancient, balding head?
Either your showers were much shorter than he remembered or he’d been staring into the fogged face of the mirror for too long, because you were now standing beside him, wrapped in a towel. You looked at the side of his face, which was creased in a not-quite scowl.
“Something wrong?”
He snapped out of his self-loathing and looked at you, his cheeks burning hot in deeper embarrassment.
“No. Why?”
“You didn’t join me.” You used your open palm to swipe away the condensation from the glass, revealing a blurry image of both of you. “Even though I asked. Twice. I thought maybe you were mad at me about something.”
“No,” he said again, this time hiding his surprise. Had he really been so devoted to his self-pity that he hadn’t even heard you speaking to him? That made him feel worse than he already did. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” You unwrapped the towel around your head and let your hair cascade over your shoulders and down your back. Dutifully, you handed your large detangling wet brush to him. He gloomily stood behind you and began brushing through your hair, one hand holding your hair, the other gently raking the brush through your wet strands.
Embarrassed or not, he never lied to you. The only things he did keep from you were the things involving his job that, legally, he was not allowed to tell you.
“Hair.”
“Hair? Like, mine?”
He shook his head, his eyes looking over your shoulder to himself in the mirror. “Mine. Or what’s left of it.”
You looked at him in the mirror, watching his expression change between half-hidden disgust and dejection. His eyes then met yours and he turned red from the tips of his ears down to his throat.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. I’m going bald, love.”
You shrugged. “My hair’s thinning, too.”
“It’s not thinning,” he said, meaning both yours and his. “It’s balding.” This time he solely meant his.
“It too is thinning,” you said, meaning yours. You reached around to grab the brush as he finished running it through your hair. You pulled out a large clump of tangled hair, still wet. “See? I lose loads of hair all the time. It’s a part of getting older, I guess. Besides, I heard that we lose about a hundred hairs a day, on average.”
“If that’s true, I’ll be completely bald by Easter. I’m just thankful I’m taller than you so you don’t have to see it.”
“Oh, Bill,” you sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way about it. I actually like it.”
“No, you don’t. Nobody likes a balding man.”
“I do. I think it’s attractive.”
He scrunched up his face. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not lying!” You turned, pressed between the counter and his body. You reached up and tried to run your fingers over the top of his head. He flinched away. “Bill, honest. I really do like it. I think you’ll be a thousand times hotter when you’ve gone full bald.”
He rolled his eyes, cheeks stained permanently red. “That’s your opinion.”
“And my opinion doesn’t matter now? I know you feel how you feel about it, and that’s alright, but you should know that it’s not the way everyone feels about it. We went through this when I gained weight, didn’t we? You made me throw the scale in the bin.”
“That’s because it was starting to tear you up inside. Besides, you’re gorgeous at any weight. I kind of wish you’d gain a little more. I like holding onto you.”
You grinned at him and then placed your hands on top of his head, flattening the short dark hairs under your fingers. “It’s the same thing, silly. You’re handsome with any amount of hair, and I can’t wait until you’re fully bald. I think you’re going to look extraordinary. And in the meantime, I will toss out all the mirrors in the house.”
“Don’t do that,” he said, throwing one more look at himself in the mirror. He grabbed your toweled waist and held you close. “I’ll stop nitpicking.”
“You better. Or, stop nitpicking and just start plucking all your hair out. The sooner you go completely bald, the better,” you teased. You moved your hands to cup the sides of his face, bringing it down to a better angle. You kissed his mouth, his forehead, and then the top of his head.
He squeezed your sides hard enough to tickle. You let him go, laughing and trying to shrink away from his strong hands.
“Is that why you didn’t join me? You were too busy staring at yourself in the mirror?” You clicked your tongue at him in mock disappointment through your giggles. “That’s awfully vain, and it hurts my feelings. I am of less importance than your hair?”
“I didn’t hear you is all.” He wrapped an arm around your middle when you twisted away from him, pulling your back to his chest. You were facing the mirror again, but his eyes were only on you. “But I hear you now. Do I get a second chance?”
“I’ve already bathed,” you pretended to whine. “I guess I can shower again, but on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“You let me shampoo your hair. Honest. I’m not making fun. I genuinely want to give you head … massages.” You grinned teasingly at his reflection.
There was a moment when he was weighing the pros and cons: your gentle but firm fingers working over his head, and eventually his neck and shoulders and back … and his still deep-rooted insecurity about his looks.
He released you and stepped away, stooping down to pull off his socks, tossing them into the laundry pile you’d started with your pajamas. His clothes fell on top of yours, followed by your soaked towel.
“Alright,” he said, turning the water on high. Steam began forming its misty curlicues in the air again. “I accede to your one condition. Now get in the shower already, or I’m going to be late for work.”
“You mean later than usual?” You stepped into the shower, turned, and kissed Tanner warmly. He followed your lead, stepping in after you, yanking the shower curtain shut. Hot water splashed over your bodies and you giggled as he handed you the bottle of shampoo, obediently waiting for you to follow through.