Summary: Duncan has some trouble redoing some of his braids. Someone, though, is more than willing to help.

This is a little piece for Amazionion's version of Duncan —who is African American, like Margaret—, and we both thought it was really cute :3


Duncan cusses again and grabs another hairband.

It's the fourth one he has broken, and he is not closer to finishing his braid than he was thirty minutes ago. He tries again, this time re-adjusting his arms so he can better reach the back of his head, and when he tries to maneuver the little elastic band, it snaps.

Again.

Duncan flings it away, trying to keep his anger in check and not end up burning the hairbands, the comb, the bed and his clothes. Usually, when he knows it's his father's weekend, he makes sure to do his hair extra tight and secure so he doesn't have to worry about it the whole weekend. It's easier to clean, to manage, and harder to get as dirty as when it's loose.

Mom is usually the one to do his braids for him. As a teenager, it is one of the few times they can spend together doing something they both enjoy, so she makes a big deal about it. They prepare a movie marathon, get a whole basket of snacks, get on comfy clothes and he will sit on the floor, in front of the coach, with mom behind him with a comb ready to start working.

He, also, really likes to do mom's hair. Margaret likes elaborate designs, intricate patterns, and just about anything that will make people turn around to look at her. Duncan is an expert at that, and he loves experimenting new designs that he can later teach her to do on him.

Now, can he do his own hair? Normally, he would. He has years of practice under his belt, both on himself and his mom, and the process is usually very calming and cathartic; in his mind, hair day means chilling at home with mom and watching TV.

Sometimes, though, his anger, inherited from both of his parents, comes afloat.

He had just done his hair the night before, a pretty simple but sturdy pattern to hold on for the active weekend that awaited him, and in the middle of playing with Tarangas, some of the braids had come loose.

Now, sitting in his room, he's trying to fix the mess before it's time for dinner and Belloc comes to pick him up. It's been a few weeks since it became an unspoken rule for him to have all of his meals in the main den, with his father, Shaba, Tarangas, and Vencoatl and Terlus when they chose to join.

His hair, though, it's not cooperating.

He doesn't have a proper mirror to see what he is doing, nor gel to help make his job easier, and his arms are already starting to resent themselves from the awkward position he has them in, trying to reach the back of his hair.

He is just about to give up and burn his comb when the sound of thundering steps echoes in the distance. He curses again, because he's run out of time, when Belloc's face appears through the pitch black darkness of the tunnel. His father approaches him on all fours, a deep rumble in his chest, and sits on his haunches in front of the rock shelf where he is sitting.

"Language." Belloc says, a glimpse of amusement in his eyes. Duncan grunts, and gives the kaiju a stink eye before starting to put away his things. He shoves the hairbands into his duffle bag's pocket, and is about to do the same with the comb when Belloc nudges him with his muzzle.

He is sniffing around him, probably trying to see just what he is holding. Sometimes, Duncan forget's Belloc's eyesight is not necessarily made for tiny human objects.

"What are you doing, child?" Duncan pushes his snout away and blows smoke through his nose. Being reminded of his failure is pissing him off.

"I was trying to fix my braids," he grabs two of the six ones that remain undone, and then holds up the comb so it's easier for his father to see what he is holding. "But I don't have a mirror and it's hard to reach the back of my head. I'll have to re-do them with mom when I go back."

Belloc looks at him with his signature intense I-don't-know-what-personal-space-is stare and, just when he is about to put away his things and get up to go have dinner, something that was not on his bingo card for the year happens.

Belloc rests a hand on the edge of the shelf, and pushes him back to sit on his bed with a finger, before starting to change. His gargantuan self diminishes in size in a mere few seconds, and his human form stands in front of him. Belloc cracks his shoulders and approaches him.

"Nonsense. It will take merely a minute. Give me the comb." Belloc sits on the bed, the piece of furniture miraculously holding strong under his weight, and pats the mattress. "Come here."

"Wait, wait-" Duncan is pulled by his arm and dragged until he is sitting between Belloc's knees, facing the front, and the kaiju takes the rat comb from his hands. "You can do hair?" He tries to turn around to look at his father, but Belloc holds his head down so he can start undoing the braids in the worst shape.

The kaiju grumbles.

"Your mother was very vocal about her own hair when we were together. One of her first conditions for having you was for me to learn to do her hair, because she was sure you would be born with it." Belloc finishes undoing the first one, and then takes the comb and starts parting hair. "I made a comb like this one out of wood, it may even still be here, somewhere."

Duncan is pretty sure he can hear the smile on his father's face. He suppresses a shudder, because anything that has any relation to his conception makes him want to throw up, but even he has to admit that this is wild. Only his mother would be able to force the King of the Kaiju to learn to do black hair in exchange for a baby.

He feels Belloc finish the first braid and jump to a new one. Honestly, he is pretty proud of controlling himself. He doesn't really know how to react to this discovery. His father has just shared a crucial piece of lore from his marriage to his mother, and of all the things he could have expected, braiding hair wasn't one of them.

Knowing Belloc had learned to do this just for the off chance that he would be born with mom's hair —a rich dark brown, almost black, with thick healthy curls— kind of makes him see him in a different light.

Maybe not by much. Belloc had proven in the past few months that he was actually a pretty decent father. By Ken's own words "much better than my own, so that makes him, like, top ten or something", so it's not like it came as a surprise that he cared about him, about mom.

But from caring to actually spending who knows how many hours, with limited resources, learning to treat black hair… it made something in his chest feel warm. It was nice. Very nice.

They continue for the next twenty or so minutes, just enough for Belloc to finish redoing every cornrow that sits crooked or half undone, and Duncan doesn't really notice the moment he starts closing his eyes and half purring. He can almost see himself at home, back resting on the coach as mom combs through his hair, the TV as background noise, and feeling so relax, so at peace, that he doesn't feel Belloc finish with his job and card his fingers through his hair, claws scratching his scalp, to try and wake him.

He doesn't really remember when he falls asleep, but he does wake up later, —he doesn't know when later is, though— snuggled next to his fathers gigantic head, who is also asleep, and a luch leg laying a few feet from them, waiting for him to feel hunger.