Work Text:
Eddie had been complaining, no, whining to you for the past few weeks, that his hair was falling out. His hair was thinning. He sheds like a cat.
This was the result; you sitting criss-crossed behind him as you worked at his thick head of hair. Combing through it with your fingers — because Eddie didn't have any combs, they all 'mysteriously disappear, according to him, though you knew his forgetful ass just misplaced them — and trying to divide it into equal sections, and failing for what felt like an hour to you.
This was your third try now, he wouldn't stop squeaming while being seated on the mattress, and if it weren't for the comforting glow of the warm lights in his room, or the familiar feeling you get whenever you're in his room that sets you at ease, or the fact you liked him so much, you would have attempted to attack him with his pillows until he fell off his bed.
By the time you actually manage to start working, his stubborn hair finally cooperating with you, Eddie, impatient with sitting still too long — although not as much as you, part of your arms were starting to go slightly numb — had decided (hopefully subconsciously, otherwise you were ready to just throw it all out and tell him shaving his head again would be less troublesome) that provoking the person dealing with his hair would be his only source of entertainment.
"Do you really need to-"
"Yes. This is the one solution I can offer," you reply flatly.
"But-" he tries to protest again. Indignant. Skeptical. You sigh.
"The braid won't tug at your hair much and would... reduce hair loss," you say slowly as you try to keep your mind on the braiding. Left, add more hair, tuck in the middle, right...
"Where did you hear that?" he questions and you could hear the smile forming when he asks.
You didn't really know. You just heard it one time and thought at least you could try. You were totally not doing this just because you wanted to see if he would be pretty in a braid and completely not in a hell of your own making. You clear your throat and answer a little too quickly, "... people."
"Great. Legitimate source, that," was his immediate reply, and you just knew he was rolling his eyes as he let out a huff.
"Are you going to let me help or do you really want citations?"
Silence. Good. You needed to focus. His hair was long but you didn't want it to fall apart when he rolled around in his sleep-
"When I said I was worried I'm losing a lot of hair, I didn't mean..."
You glare at the back of his head, impatience growing like an itching mosquito bite.
"Oh ho ho ho. Shut up. You were complaining. Every. Day. Like a cry for help. I answered."
"Ow- can you tug a bit more gently- ow!"
"Every few days, asking me, 'Am I going bald? Am I going bald? Do I have a bald spot,' no, you don't!"
You tug at his hair with a huff, pulling a little too hard, almost yanking the section of hair to place.
"Ow! Easy with the merchandise!"
"But why does it have to be a braid?" He slouches with a sigh that was borne from equal parts theatrics and restlessness.
"It's either a french braid or pigtails," you say, your voice level, dreadfully calm, as if you hadn't already imagining that and full on cackled in your mind five minutes ago. Even with his back turned to you, you knew his eyes were growing wide.
"And if it's pigtails, you just know, one day, you'll oversleep, and Wayne's going to snap a photo and put it into his photo book of his-"
"Not the photo book," Eddie groans, hand rubbing against half his face in sheer agony.
You grin triumphantly, your victory unseen to him. "Right. You know it."
You pause. All the talking had pulled you out of focus. Was it left over right or right over-
Now fully aggravated, you smack his shoulder with a groan. "Stay still, munchkin! I'm getting it all messed up."
Eddie babbles at the new name, producing a consecutive series of offended noises. "I am not a munchkin! I'm tall enough to be a-" He turns around to argue with you.
You cut him off by tilting his head back around. "Munchkin, gremlin, goblin, it's all the same to me. You're a triple hybrid, probably. A menace is what you are."
"Your menace," he snickers, which gains him another playful whack on his head. You give him one more soft smack, like you were drumming a hand drum.
"Argh!" A dramatic groan. Predictable, this idiot. Yet never fails to make you smile. "Injuries, left and right. On the scalp, on the shoulders, on the head-"
"Shut up or I'll actually make you bald."
"Yes, ma'am."
Silence, at long last. Maybe you can finally focus now, and hopefully he remembers the steps enough to replicate them later — you would find out a week later that he did not, but he did stop whining about it later onward, either too guilty or perhaps even terrified of your reaction, and well, a win is a win (though you wouldn't have minded having to help him with his hair every night if you had to).
