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“Umm… Are you sure you don’t want your hair out of the way for this?”
Daniel is trying his best not to hover like an overbearing mother hen and failing miserably. This is Armand’s workshop, after all, and his boyfriend has survived so much worse than a sparking extension cord. Still, the idea of Armand’s fluffy curls catching fire (again!) as he tinkers with his latest half-lawn-mower, half-vacuum-cleaner monstrosity (“Our dear gardener Lucille works so hard, beloved, she will find this machine tremendously useful, I’m sure!”) has Daniel shuddering.
Reluctantly, Armand lets go of the fire hazard and lifts his hands for Daniel to see - he’s covered in axle grease, claws to elbows, and wearing his best I could not prevent it-face.
“Fine, let me do it, then.” Daniel motions for Armand to sit on the stool by the work bench and Armand is so quick to comply Daniel isn’t sure which one of them is being lovingly manipulated right now. Not like it matters. Daniel loves playing with Armand’s hair, Armand loves having his hair played with. Win-win. Plus, Daniel might have a slight agenda tonight.
It’s been a week since Armand told him to stop in bed. For the first time - apparently not just with Daniel, but ever. Daniel still can’t really wrap his head around it. It makes him grateful and sad and ecstatic and like he needs to travel back in time and bash in more than a few centuries-old heads.
And yeah, he promised Armand not to make a whole thing of it. So he hasn’t. But he also can’t stop thinking about that moment, about the mad thrill of pride in their bond as soon as the initial panic wore off, about how Armand has been looking extra glowy and about an inch taller ever since… It’s become a bit of an obsession for Daniel. And - because he’s still the same old asshole, just immortal now - he couldn’t help but compile a whole list of obnoxious little things that might just push Armand’s newfound boundaries enough to make him do it again.
“Half-up, if it’s not too much to ask,” Armand says sweetly, leaning back into the touch like a spoiled pet while Daniel untangles his hair. Luckily, Daniel always keeps a few elastic ties on him these days - earns him extra special fledgling points if he can whip one out whenever Armand needs it. But instead of separating Armand’s hair into a top and bottom half, he starts parting it down the middle.
“Remember Lestat’s concert?” Daniel asks, apropos of nothing. Armand stiffens immediately at the name. “Y’know, the one where he shone the big light on you and sang that offensive fucking song?”
“I do remember, despite my very best efforts to forget,” Armand replies, already halfway to snippy. “How is that-”
“Well, I was just thinking. He had those cute pigtails…” Daniel goes for pure innocence as he pulls half of Armand’s hair to the side and starts separating it into three strands. And sure, he never did get nominated for father of the year. But circa 1994, during one of his short-lived attempts to provide his daughters with the bare minimum, he did actually teach himself to braid. He’s almost done with the first plait when Armand jumps out of his seat and turns around, his eyes like opal and amber death-rays and Daniel’s hand frozen in mid-air, hair tie and all.
“Do not defile my body with the Brat Prince’s frippery, Daniel!”
“Whoa, alright, I won’t!” Daniel is allowed to move his hands again and he shakes them out, stifling a laugh before doing Armand’s hair the way he actually requested.
“That was so scary, babe!” Daniel says when he’s done, because it was, and he just has to kiss Armand next to the spot of soot on his cheek.
“Thank you, my love,” Armand says, smiling serenely, and takes a screwdriver to his franken-gadget’s entrails again.