In the dead of night, when no one was around or awake to accuse him of being soft, Schuldig lay in bed and stroked Brad's hair, and fingered out the strands of silver that peppered the jet black. He hadn't cared. He nuzzled and put an arm around Brad and fell asleep.
There was a fight, domestic and petty, and Schuldig had took to the streets in a blaze of anger. It had taken him two full days to come back, irresponsible and he had been punished accordingly. But when he had come back, Brad's hair was black again. It baffled Schuldig. Brad had impeccable taste in suits and kept himself tidy, but it hadn't ever been true vanity that brushed down his jackets every night, or polished his shoes. It had been his cool, clean, American professionalism, with a good helping of anal retentiveness. In short, it had been the job. But Schuldig doubted very much that the job had convinced Brad to dye his hair. And he would never ask.
It was when his hair grew determinedly grey that Brad seemed to stop caring. Schuldig pretended he didn't either. Nothing changed - kisses were just as hungry, hands just as predatory and legs opened wide and willing. But when Brad was asleep and no one was around or awake, Schuldig didn't pet his hair. It scared him too badly. Instead, he settled on stroking the backs of his fingers down the slope of Brad's jaw, nuzzling, putting an arm around him and falling asleep.
No matter how much he loved Brad, he could not stop feeling scared about what was to come, early deaths and shortened life. He didn't want his lover to be an old man.
And it was one day, when Schuldig was strapping on his boots for a mission, that Brad paused and glanced at him, silver hair tied back neatly. He ran a hand through Schuldig's long, orange tresses... and tugged sharply. With a satisfied smirk, he dangled the single pure white hair in front of Schuldig's eyes, letting it fall before he walked away.
Frowning, Schuldig picked it up from where it had fluttered on to his thigh, and studied it. A long, death-white strand that arched from where it was pinched between his fingers to flow down, almost to his elbow. A moment, and the German smiled a little and shook his head. "Fucker," he murmured, and let it fall, standing to follow Brad out of the bedroom.
That night, when no one was around or awake, he combed his fingers through Brad's silver locks. It wasn't so creepy. Kind of distinguished, if you asked Schuldig. With a content smile, he settled down, nuzzled, put an arm around Brad and feel asleep.
end