Since the loss of his wife, he's never let anyone do this for him. Not even Herbert, who offered when he was in some of his darkest days, to draw him a bath or at least brush his hair out for him. He had refused it all. He was a monster, he didn't deserve such things.

And yet here is this magnificent boy, handling him with such care. As though he was fragile. As though he was worth caring for.

He sits still for Alfred, his fingers touching this mouth briefly in surprise before he folds his hands in his lap while Alfred starts picking out the worst of the tangles with his hands. So gently, so delicately. "I -- thank you. You're very kind. I never considered myself as beautiful. Just an old night bird, skulking through castles and graveyards. Lurking in the shadows. I don't -- sparkle, not like my son does. He favours his mother, as I'm sure you can tell."