Tangled between your arms
More backstory! For those keeping track of it, this belongs to the tdr!verse and the cuss!verse, but not to the trauma!verse.
Usually he'd sit on her lap, where she could form a little nest for him with her arms around him. But when she did this, he'd stand behind her. Watching her work.
He had seen her do it so many times, he knew what she was going to do before she had even started. First she'd get rid of all the tangles, brush her hair until it was soft and shinny. Some of the kids in his school said that yellow hair was the prettiest, but Eddie has always thought that that was because they hadn't seen her with her hair like this.
Then she'd pick a hair tie. She always had a few on the handle of the bathroom door, all in bright colors, even if that she was wearing her grown-up suit to go meet grown-up people. She'd stop to pick the one with the right color, because there was a secret meaning to it, he bet, only he hadn't discovered it, yet. She'd separate her hair in three strands, and only after she'd start.
It's was kind of magic. Her hands would move, quick and skillful, following a partner that always got lost in the graceful blur of her fingers working. She'd tie it up and those two bangs would be framing her face, the tip of her french braid reaching the center of her back. She never had to redo her braid. She would ask him to hold her pocket mirror for her anyway, so she could check that she looked pretty. It seemed silly to him.
She was always pretty.
But that time, she stopped, brush in hand, and looked back at him. She seemed to consider something for a moment. It was saturday, so she had a bit more time today before she had to go to do her Important Job. Maybe that was why she handed him the brush. He took it as if it was some antique relic. It was beautiful, for him. Black plastic with a red flower on the back, curly vines all around it in emerald green. He looked up at her questioningly.
"Do you want to do it for me?"
And he smiled and nodded and started to work, the way he had seen her do a thousand times (pulling her hair, he'd realize years later, and she hadn't complained, hadn't pushed him away). He picked the apple green hair tie, parted her hair in three strands and stopped, suddenly insecure.
"Mom. Mom, maybe you should do this."
"It's okay, honey," she said. "I'll teach you how to do it."
So she did, her laugh like bell when he got it wrong, so happy he had to laugh with her. It took them eight times but when he held the mirror in the end (He messed it up, some bits were pulled painfully tight, some where so loose they were barely braided.) she patted his head, a proud smile in her face. "Good job," she said. "Same place next week?" She asked, and he couldn't have said yes quicker.
(She didn't undo his poor excuse of a braid until she went to bed.
She wore it like a badge of honor.)
Usually he'd sit on her lap, where she could form a little nest for him with her arms around him. But when she did this, he'd stand behind her. Watching her work.
He had seen her do it so many times, he knew what she was going to do before she had even started. First she'd get rid of all the tangles, brush her hair until it was soft and shinny. Some of the kids in his school said that yellow hair was the prettiest, but Eddie has always thought that that was because they hadn't seen her with her hair like this.
Then she'd pick a hair tie. She always had a few on the handle of the bathroom door, all in bright colors, even if that she was wearing her grown-up suit to go meet grown-up people. She'd stop to pick the one with the right color, because there was a secret meaning to it, he bet, only he hadn't discovered it, yet. She'd separate her hair in three strands, and only after she'd start.
It's was kind of magic. Her hands would move, quick and skillful, following a partner that always got lost in the graceful blur of her fingers working. She'd tie it up and those two bangs would be framing her face, the tip of her french braid reaching the center of her back. She never had to redo her braid. She would ask him to hold her pocket mirror for her anyway, so she could check that she looked pretty. It seemed silly to him.
She was always pretty.
But that time, she stopped, brush in hand, and looked back at him. She seemed to consider something for a moment. It was saturday, so she had a bit more time today before she had to go to do her Important Job. Maybe that was why she handed him the brush. He took it as if it was some antique relic. It was beautiful, for him. Black plastic with a red flower on the back, curly vines all around it in emerald green. He looked up at her questioningly.
"Do you want to do it for me?"
And he smiled and nodded and started to work, the way he had seen her do a thousand times (pulling her hair, he'd realize years later, and she hadn't complained, hadn't pushed him away). He picked the apple green hair tie, parted her hair in three strands and stopped, suddenly insecure.
"Mom. Mom, maybe you should do this."
"It's okay, honey," she said. "I'll teach you how to do it."
So she did, her laugh like bell when he got it wrong, so happy he had to laugh with her. It took them eight times but when he held the mirror in the end (He messed it up, some bits were pulled painfully tight, some where so loose they were barely braided.) she patted his head, a proud smile in her face. "Good job," she said. "Same place next week?" She asked, and he couldn't have said yes quicker.
(She didn't undo his poor excuse of a braid until she went to bed.
She wore it like a badge of honor.)