Work Text:
James seemed to be a different person when his hair was pink.
While bright, attention-catching, and striking as his usual, iconic red color, he became — what can only be described as — a shell of himself when it was pink. He loathed the pink, even if it would only last for a week or two at most.
(What he loathed more was how you thought it fit him in an odd sort of way. You'd made the mistake of telling him you wouldn't mind seeing it more often and he'd given you the meanest glare he could manage in his sour state.)
Because there wasn't much he could do while the engine part of his body was being repainted and he didn't want to spend the better part of a month cooped up in the shops, he'd called you as he usually did and demanded you pick him up without any other context. It'd happened enough times already that you knew better than to question it.
His normal fiery red always began to dull during the car ride. During the latter half of the drive, it’d start fading into black, beginning at the roots until it eventually reached the ends. James practically snatches the keys out of your hands as soon as you park in the driveway and sprints inside your house with that miserable look on his face.
He was least self-conscious during the black.
As soon as the pink began creeping in, he was hysterical.
Three days of hiding away in your home, all-black hair, and obsessively checking in any mirror he can access quickly enough, he wailed and watched as the hair began to lighten in the same way the black appeared. Any time he'd seen your face anywhere in his general direction, he'd manually make you turn away and begged for you to find something to distract you both from the "assault happening on his scalp."
For the nearly two weeks the pink lasted. During them, the days were filled with reality TV, food he shouldn't be consuming, and you pretending he didn't look ridiculous with the lengths he went through to hide his hair, even if you were the only one to see it.
It also involved him burying his head in your stomach, much like he was doing now.
Why he liked to pretend he was an ostrich whenever you were sitting was beyond you. He did tend to calm down (only slightly) when you carded your fingers through the strands and "talked to him like his livery was still red."
The level of vulnerability he both showed and tried to hide was astounding, honestly. The way he let you observe him like this — as much as he tried to limit it — made your heart a little soft.
With his arms wrapped behind your back, his cheek pressing against more than half of your abdomen, your fingers scratching along his scalp, and you pretending that you weren't staring down at his head because now was around the time the red should start to appear, your living room was quiet. He'd gone quiet once he manhandled your legs onto the couch and lay himself between them without care that his knees hung over the edge.
You're confident he had started dozing off at some point after the move — even more so that he snaps awake when you tug at a strand or three of his hair.
"I think I see some red."
James is nice enough to pull back enough so his head doesn't bump into your chin when he raises it. "Really? Honestly? You're not joking?"
"Mhm," you hum, watching as more red shows up inch-by-inch. Normally, it'd take more than a week for it to reach its usual, lively red, but this was a start. "You'll be cleared for your grand public appearance soon."
Lifting himself and running to the full-body mirror placed near the front door. The cheer he lets out reverberates through the walls long enough that it lasts until he makes his way back to you, replaced by his squeal when he lifts you into his arms and spins you around.
"I won't be hideous!"
"You never were."
"Disgusting!"
"You're a lot cleaner than my college roommate."
"The pink was an eyesore! An embarrassment!"
"The pink was cute."
He suddenly stops. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not," you scoff. "I really like it. All colors look good on you."
James rolls his eyes and lets out a loud, offending scoff. Pulling you close, he stares deeply in your eyes before planting a kiss on each lid. "I hate how flattery gets you everywhere with me."
"It's because you know I'm right." You return the favor by pressing a few to the apples of his cheeks.