I melt like wax around you

You had been precious about your hair for the last several years. Very few people were allowed to touch your hair, you were well known for having a tongue sharp as a blade if someone tried to without your explicit verbal consent. Your reflexes were fast to get away. The only people allowed near your hair were those who knew how to handle long hair, who knew how you liked your hair to be handled, and those who didn't mind that the jokes about needing to be 'trained' before they so much as touched your hair weren't jokes, per se, but anxiety softened with humour. Your hair was the crown you would never take off, your comfort blanket, and you fiercely guarded such self-investment.

Though you were a regular visitor at the Dandridge household; you spent hours there with Billy helping him unpack the house where you could around your own lifestyle, and you spent hours there at night spending time with Jerry and helping him and Billy to sort out the house after six in the evening, you had never gotten comfortable there.

Sure, you ate and drank the foods and drinks offered, you used the bathroom when required, you watched TV and had conversations and stargazed from the balcony which looked over into the neighbours' gardens, you sat out on the porch when the weather was warmer, but you had never taken your hair down. When you took your hair down, it was like a signal to everyone around you that you were comfortable, you were safe, you felt at home. It told you that you could relax, that the day could be put away and you could simply be without expectation.

This most often happened in your home, nowhere else did you feel safe enough to let your hair down. You had a lot of anxiety surrounding your hair, not just because it was one of the few parts of your body you cherished, not just because of previous experiences which had left you jumpy and over-protective of your hair, not just because Jerry and Billy had never seen your hair down before (you always kept it in one plait; a black silk scrunchie at the nape of your neck and one black silk scrunchie at the ends of your hair to tie the plait off), but because your hair was yours and you were terrified of it being taken away from you by some means other than you deciding to cut it yourself (not that you ever would, you intended to keep your hair as long and as healthy as it was for as long as you could).

Though neither Jerry nor Billy had ever commented on any of this to you, they had noticed. Murmured conversations as they watched you walk home late at night from the living room window, where they tried to figure out a way to help you feel so comfortable that not only did you take your hair down, but for you to do it without thought. To be so comfortable that you existed with no fear, no anxiety. Jerry was content to give you as much space as you needed, to come to the conclusion in your own time, but Billy's preferred tactics were a little different. More persuasive, but gentle enough that you wouldn't notice you were being lured into the trap set until you were already in it. There was no malice to his plan, no ill will, just a want to see if he couldn't nudge you further into the direction you were already travelling in.

It took several months to find the perfect opportunity, and it happened late one evening when you came around to visit. You had had a rough day, one of the worst you'd had to endure for a while, and your usually neat plait was all in array. Some of the pieces were roughed up, shorter strands of hair were sticking out, the new hairs on your scalp were stood up on end rather than smoothed down like they had been at the start of the day, there were knots tugging on your scalp; so tender-headed were you that you couldn't help but pick up on every little piece of tension. You looked as bad as you felt, and Jerry, remembering the plan hatched months before, knew the instant he opened the door to greet you that he didn't like seeing your hair like that. It spoke truths about your day for you, it spoke truths about your mood; you never let your hair get so messy!

Or, when you did, you were feeling so badly that you couldn't help yourself.

But Jerry and Billy could.

"Y/N!" Jerry sounded genuinely happy to see you, the tone slightly warmer than when he usually greeted people at his door.

"Mornin' - uh," You glanced at your watch, "Evening, I should say. Sorry, long day."

Billy snorted, "you think?"

You flinched a little, you hadn't seen or heard Billy approaching, taking up his usual spot behind Jerry's right shoulder.

Jerry frowned when you flinched, but you recovered well. "Just a little," you tried to smile, but it was weak... watery. "How are we?"

You were trying so hard to hold yourself together. All you wanted to do was sort your hair out. It was the one thing in your mind, the one thing you were daydreaming about, the one thing you needed. You wouldn't feel even a little okay until your hair was okay!

When your hair 'fell apart', so did you.

"We're okay," Billy shrugged, "you know how it is."

Jerry was too focused on you, too focused on figuring out how to help you, that he didn't answer. He only ushered you inside with a wave of his hand and a gentle smile. Billy stepped back to allow you clear entry into their home.

It was your home too, they hoped, in time.

The moment your hair came down in their home, it would become your home, too.

The longer your hair was in the state that it was in, the more anxious and distressed you were becoming. You were fighting it, hard, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold yourself together. The bad day, you could handle. The knotty hair? That was your undoing.

You just wanted to fix your hair, that was all you wanted to do, but you couldn't until you went home, and you couldn't go home until you helped Jerry and Billy for a few hours with unpacking and cleaning, but you just wanted to fix your hair. The longer the knots got to sit in your hair, the more anxious you were. Knots meant the risk for breakage, breakage meant losing your length over time, your hair was getting more and more damaged every second, you needed to comb your hair and then brush it but you couldn't because you were meant to be helping Jerry and Billy unpack for a few hours but you needed to get the knots out first and - and you couldn't - and -

You took a deep shuddering breath. You hadn't realised how much your chest was aching. The full weight of your day, and your hair anxiety, started to settle over you like a dark veil. Normally when you felt like this, you would take your hair down. Your comfort blanket always made you feel so much better. But your hair was the root of your anxiety, and how could you feel better when what usually made you feel better was now what was wrong? So... you were on a spiral, this you knew, from now until your hair was combed, bruised, and plaited.

Jerry and Billy watched you attempt to shake yourself off, heading into where they had decided to put the kitchen to make all of you a hot drink. Jerry did not operate on ceremony with those he cared for; you were free to use his home as your own.

You did, really. In all ways except the way he wanted you to.

You made yourself a cup of coffee, the men having seconds previously declined the offered cup of tea, finding some measure of comfort in the routine of it all. Your favourite mug, your favourite brand of coffee, your preferred way of taking your coffee... but you couldn't stop thinking about your hair. Your hands were shaking badly enough that it was a challenge to not spill boiling hot water all over the counter, which was clean towards the edge and dustier towards the wall; Jerry and Billy were in the throes of moving in, and you could only do so much. You set the kettle down with a thud, your body beginning to not feel like your own.

You heard the quiet click of Jerry's shoes behind you, and you turned. You didn't fully register that your eyes had glazed over with tears until you saw the look on Jerry's face. So soft, so tender, so gentle, that your tears involuntarily spilled over, leaving a constellation of tears on your lashes.

Jerry tilted his head, his eyes not leaving your face as he decided what he was going to do. All the planning in the world, all the thinking, all the conversations with Billy about how to encourage you to let your hair down within their home... and yet, when the moment was right there, Jerry found himself not wanting to be in it. You were so pretty in your pain, you were, but Jerry hated to see you hurting. He wanted to understand what it was about your hair that had you so distressed; educated guesses were all he had until such a time as you were calmer and could hold a conversation.

Finally, Jerry seemed to come to a decision as he stepped forward once more and held his hand out, his long fingers seeming uncanny, yet familiar all the same.

You looked at Jerry's hand, and then back up at his face, not fully computing his non-verbal body language in your terror and exhaustion. Billy snickered behind Jerry, his teeth glinting in the low artificial light of the kitchen. You reached for Jerry's hand, and he smiled but shook his head. His dark eyes flickered down to the comb on the kitchen counter - you had been working your way up to facing the inevitable, but it seemed that Jerry was taking that terrifying step for you.

When had you brought your comb and brush into the kitchen?

You were sure you hadn't, which meant Jerry had fetched them for you. When had he done that? Were you so anxious that it had made you that unaware of yourself?

"But - "

Jerry shook his head again, his dark brows furrowed with concern. If he had known the emotional toll it would have to take on you in order for him to be allowed to see you with your hair down, to assist you with it, then he may not have been quite so eager to work it all out with Billy.

He'd go so far to say he would have preferred to never see your hair down at all.

You picked up the comb, the sight of those teeth you knew and loved so well making you well up with more tears. "Are you - are you sure? I was gonna - "

Billy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. It looked meaner than you knew it to be intended; Billy's mean streak was all play as long as you didn't get on his bad side. He looked really annoyed, but secretly he admired the way Jerry had just cracked the case without a single word.

His Master was so very clever.

Jerry took the comb from you gently, his fingers brushing against yours, and he slowly turned you around so that you had your back to him. Billy moved so that he was facing you and Jerry, his arms still folded across his chest. There was a moment of eye contact between the two men; it was a conversation you were not privy to even as a witness, but you thought you understood. Billy was to watch your reactions and gestures would clue Jerry in as to how you were doing.

It was a flawless system (other than the fact that you had noticed; that introduced potential bias to the system).

Your breath caught horrifically in your throat and you coughed, eyes widening, and you forced yourself to take a few deep breaths.

Billy's eyes zeroed in on you. "You good, kid?"

You nodded, lips clamped together, trying so hard to keep yourself together. You busied yourself by keeping your eyes on Billy, your gaze tracing over the squares in his checkered shirt.

Jerry's deft fingers met the end of your messy plait and you almost jumped out of your skin. Jerry didn't react at all, he only began systematically and gently unlooping the silk scrunchie in your hair. He didn't pull it, he didn't yank it, he only shifted his weight behind you so you could feel him getting settled. Jerry was quiet for some time, but you registered after a few moments that he was breathing slowly and deeply; an unspoken cue to begin to relax yourself so that he could do his work. You adopted the pattern as best as you could, trying to settle your fears while the root cause of your distress continued to be unravelled.

"How - " you swallowed thickly, fighting more tears, your eyes fixed on Billy. "How bad is it?"

"It's perfectly all right, Y/N," Jerry's tone was so warm, so gentle, so tender. You knew in that instant that Jerry was the perfect one to assist you with sorting your hair out. Your pride and joy, your comfort blanket, was safe with Jerry. And Billy, by extension, for nowhere could Jerry go where Billy would not follow. It was what he had been made for, all those centuries ago.

"Is it bad?"

Billy stifled a scoff; you sounded so childlike, not just in tone but in how you repeated yourself, but you looked terrified. He tilted his head, curious how Jerry would handle this.

"No," Jerry said absently, his fingers combing through your hair, "I can easily remedy this."

Jerry's work began; you braced for pain, for tugging, for the sharp click of hairs snapping from too much tension being placed on the scalp from rough combing, but nothing ever came.

In truth, you had some gnarly knots in your hair, but with your back to Jerry, you never saw his furrowed brows, the look of concentration on his face, the eye rolls when he encountered a particularly stubborn knot, the way he'd pause to examine a knot, trying to find the centre so that he could untangle it more efficiently, the way he sometimes forwent your beloved comb and instead allowed his true nails to unsheathe so that he could use the pointed end to flick hair free from a tangle. You never saw Jerry look up at Billy, or the very subtle head shakes or nods from Billy that told Jerry you were doing fine. More by the second, you were looking better.

The more you felt the knots unravel, the more the tension alleviated on your scalp, the more Jerry worked, his nails sliding into your knots and pulling them free, the comb moving up the strands as each knot was gently untangled, the better and less anxious you felt. As more and more of your hair was tended to, you were beginning to feel calmer, more centred in your body.

By the time Jerry was brushing the hair at the middle of your back, you were beginning to smile. As Jerry brought the comb up higher and higher through your hair, you were coming back into yourself, talking with Billy about his day, what he wanted to do with the house, and he was sharing human-friendly stories about his life. These were pre-agreed tales between Billy and Jerry, so that they could socialise and play the kind and eccentric next door neighbours, without revealing their true vampiric 'lifestyle'.

You knew their reality, but still did Billy stick to human-friendly stories; you didn't always have the stomach for the unwashed truth of what he and Jerry got up to, through the centuries. If you did not ask for accuracy, then Billy would sanitise the memories he told.

Billy and Jerry weren't the only two in the house with systems in place, flawed though they were in some ways. This one, in particular, worked just fine.

As Jerry reached the thicker hair at the nape of your neck, you tipped your head back into his hands, and Billy smirked. You were alone in an old house, currently under intense renovations, with a vampire and a ghoul (not that you knew either of those things), and you had your eyes closed, neck exposed... so vulnerable, no one would hear you scream, no one would think to look for you until morning, you were in so much danger...

"All done."

You snapped into yourself.

"What?"

"Your hair," Jerry put your comb down, and picked up your boar bristle brush and the leave-in conditioner you cherished as the core of your hair care routine, "is all combed. I just need to smooth it out." As he spoke, Jerry ran one hand down the full length of your hair, all the way down to the base of your butt, and you shivered, a lukewarm wave started at the base of your spine and travelled up to your scalp.

Jerry ran the ends of your hair through his fingers, cherishing the experience. You were trusting him, and it was not a gesture viewed lightly. Sure, Jerry had done the work of taming your hair, but you had stood there with your back turned to a creature as dangerous as he, and trusted that he would be able to 'fix' the problem while you battled your own mind, fought your own body, to keep still, to not turn around, for as long as you had.

Billy was a wonderful source of distraction while Jerry worked, it was true, and Billy had often been at the heart of all thoughts Jerry chose to act on.

"Now," Jerry held out the bottle of leave-in conditioner in front of him so that you could see it, "How much of this do you use, and where is it applied?"

"Uh," Your mind was struggling to accept that your hair was done, all it needed was for the boar bristle brush and leave-in conditioner to be applied and then for you to plait it.

There had been no pain.

You explained that a quarter of your palm was a good amount for the leave-in conditioner, which should be applied from the nape of the neck down, and for the 'leftovers' to then be wiped off on the hair on your scalp, then for the boar brush to go from your scalp, straight down to the ends of your hair in one stroke.

Billy frowned, "you do this every day, kid?"

You nodded fiercely. "Non-negotiable."

"How long does it take you?"

"On a good day... an hour. A bad day, like today, would have taken me about three hours."

Billy's eyes widened. "Three hours?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I just watch horror movies as I comb my hair. Don't care how tired I am, I don't do anything until my hair is fixed."

"You have a lot of love for some dead protein hanging out your scalp."

"Billy."

Jerry's warning cracked through the air like lightning, and Billy smirked.

Jerry reached for the boar bristle brush, and you tilted your head up to allow him more ease with brushing.

You were so happy, your whole body relaxed, your bad day had slipped away from you. Except -

"Is she okay?"

Jerry and Billy met eyes over your shoulder. They had so many questions. She?

"Exceptionally."

You accepted Jerry's answer immediately; he had given you ample reasons to trust him with your hair.

You felt fingers move through your hair, stroking, enjoying, examining with furrowed brows and a deep look of concentration, plaiting your tresses carefully. Not too tight, not too loose.

Perfect first time, the 'strength' of the plait extrapolated from all available current evidence. Secure, but no pulling. Jerry could see immediately that you could not tolerate any kind of tension on your scalp, it distressed you greatly.

There were so many questions.

You tracked everything about your hair obsessively. If your hair was okay, you knew you'd be okay. If your hair was showing 'warning signs' such as greater hair fall, you knew you weren't okay and you had to take better care of yourself.

"No breakage, no damage, no loss of length, less than ten shed hairs, she's perfectly alright." Black satin curled around the ends of your hair, and a plait was playfully tossed over your left shoulder; you preferred your hair where you could see her. You marveled over how he had answered a question you hadn't yet asked; how was my hair fall?

So impressed were you that you almost missed the quick nip that Jerry gave your neck just before he stepped away from you, walking around to face you.

Almost.

So gentle was Jerry's violence that it felt like a kiss.

Potential rested in the air, mingling with your alleviated anxiety.

You grabbed your plait and ran your hands down from the nape of your neck, all the way down, feeling, reassuring yourself that every centimetre was there, every inch was cared for, every piece of the plait was in place, testing your scalp for any tension by turning your plait this way and that... it truly was fixed, done, no pain, no... no anything. To begin with, your movements were frantically checking, making sure, but then... but then you softened into enjoyment of your length, and you spun around to face Jerry, still holding your plait.

"You did it! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!" You almost threw yourself at Jerry, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing.

Instantly, vampire instinct kicked in, and Jerry felt his claws unsheathe. He grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and forced his body to relax. Half a heartbeat later, so intense was his self control, Jerry wrapped his arms around you and melted into your embrace. His claws had retracted, but he wouldn't tell you that he had used them earlier to help him untangle your hair. The very point of his nail going into a knot and flicking the hair free painlessly would have been appreciated, but he was not about to tell you about a deviation from your guidance. You were too highly strung for the moment and he wanted to help you feel more at peace this night.

Billy tried to sneak past you. He was never one for affection, not really... his affectionate gesture this evening had been teasing you, but your arm shot out and grabbed him too.

"Thank you, Billy," you mumbled into Jerry's chest. He smelled of old books, of jumpers that had been sat in the wardrobe for too long (though it was not an unpleasant must, it was quite cozy) and a hint of tangy warmth.

There was a pause, no doubt Billy wrestling with a sarcastic comment, and then a hesitant "you're welcome, kid". There was an uplift at the end of his sentence; Billy did not understand why you had grabbed him as well, or what you were doing to do. When you turned from Jerry and hugged Billy, you did not see the 'uhhhh... what do I do?' look that Billy shot at Jerry, or the one shouldered shrug that Jerry offered in response. There was an awkward pat on your shoulder and a quiet, "any time". Billy smelled of something incredibly artificially sweet, almost like... fruit that had begun to go off, or something that had become damp and had then dried out again.

You knew not what you were smelling, but in time you would come to understand what the acrid sweetness was that clung to both Jerry and Billy - the subtle decay of the undead.

Jerry had so many questions about why you were so precious with your hair, he had so much curiosity and a lot of respect for how long, well kept and healthy your hair was. It was not an easy feat.

But today was not the day to satisfy his curiosity.

Today, you required greater care. Your crown had been straightened, your bad day had ended, and all there was left to do was simply rest.

Unpacking could wait. Your own housework could wait.

But the fire upstairs that Jerry wordlessly sent Billy to get roaring, and the blankets he ordered Billy with a gesture to lay down and to set a cosy scene for some dinner (Jerry did not doubt that you had not eaten all day. He was dead, not stupid), and the way you clearly needed to sit and listen to some music or watch some TV?