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Stede draws his attention back to the head massage, alternating pressure from the kind of bruising that’s enough to knead a migraine away, to gentle, delicate strokes through his hair. He grows almost meditative with it, forcing his eyes away from Ed’s face and simply enjoying the feeling of body heat and cool, damp-silk hair against his palms. Truthfully, he could do this for hours, rather than the usual three-to-five minutes that’s usually afforded to customers when they…
When…
It’s been longer than three-to-five minutes.
A quick glance at the clock reveals it’s been far, far longer than three-to-five minutes.
Stede doesn’t mind, obviously. And Ed doesn’t seem to be about to question it. But the snide little Lucius-like voice in the back of his mind points out that almost twenty fucking minutes is maybe a bit of an overkill.
Stede yanks his hands away from Ed’s hair like it’s covered in bleach.
“Okey-doke!” Stede manages, voice shrill and a little strangled.
From across the salon, the real Lucius snorts.
(OR: Stede's a hair stylist. Ed shows up for an appointment. And shows up. And shows up. And shows up...)
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