A/N I love the movie Hairspray. It makes me happy, as do Link and Tracy from said film. This litte vignette just hijacked me as writer. Quite rudely, actually. But that's vignettes for you. Even the plot bunnies love Link and Tracy.

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The broadcast was finished for the day, Velma von Tussle was in a great deal of trouble, the police had been convinced to leave. The Corny Collins show was integrated, Li'l Inez was Miss Hairspray, and Penny was probably banished from her house for all eternity. The combined exertion, exitement, and adrenaline had left everyone shaking slightly and speaking both rather shrill and rather fast. (except Seaweed, who was just too cool, and Motormouth Maybelle, who proved where he got it from, and Corny Collins, because he was too busy.)

In the middle of this furor, like a pair of statues in a flock of birds, stood Link and Tracy. She was looking rather dreamily up into his eyes and waiting for him to say something, and he was looking rather dreamily down into hers and thinking that, boy, was kissing that shiny joyful smile nice and maybe he could do it again.

The moment dragged on and seemed to evoke a background music of chirping crickets, except of course that it was actually very noisy.

But then Link spoke up; and because he was still a teenage boy, despite his showbiz experience and cool-as-a-cucumber persona, what came out was neither sensible nor romantic, but rather totally inane in the situation at hand.

"What did you do with your hair?"

Tracy was a girl in love, but still a girl, and so came out of her dream state enough to furrow her brow a little with worry. (Link thought it was adorable and wondered if he was allowed to kiss the tip of her nose.) "Well, since I've been kind of a revolutionary lately it seemed a little silly to spend so much effort to make myself such a slave to fashion." She frowned even more charmingly. "You don't like it?"

He kissed her instead of replying at first, but her big brown eyes had taken on a puppyish look and really, there is only so much a man can take when he's got an adorable roly-poly girl in his arms looking up at him appealingly. To his credit he recovered after a moment and answered. (because hair is important to girls, even if he couldn't really care less if she was bald as an egg.) "I like it, actually," he said, and then was dragged back to reality slightly to wonder why. "It's soft." He realized out loud, and she blinked up at him. "I mean...when I'm near a girl--dancing," he hurridly specified lest she take offence for some nebulous female reason, "I've never liked how scratchy any fashionable 'do feels."

She might have been distressed at that, but his slender boyish hand was carding through her hair and really, could she be blamed if higher brain functions deserted her? "Honestly?" she squeaked. (Link found the squeak to be cute beyond belief.)

Then he cupped her face in his hands and leaned down to gently kiss the top of her silky dark head.

"Really," he said with utter sincerity.

Tracy decided for once in her life that fashion could go hang.