by Laila Blake
“Okay,” he said, relatively gamely, tipping his head back so she could dump water over his hair.
Aaron barricaded the doors once he was back inside, and kept his handgun on him as he followed the sound of their voices up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway, the bathroom too narrow for him to enter, and chuckled at the set-up—candles always made things look weirdly romantic.
Emily looked up at him, but then went back to concentrating on Song’s hair. The muck she was scrubbing out of it, and off his skin, was coloring the water grey. When he emerged though, and she wrapped him in a moderately fresh smelling towel, he was pink and soft and she hugged him tightly.
“There’s my handsome Song,” she whispered.
“You always say I’m handsome,” he replied, not catching any significance in the moment and wiggling out of her embrace. “Where are my clothes?”
“Downstairs with our stuff,” Aaron said; where else would they be?
“Take the jammies—I’ll try to wash your things later,” she told him, kissed his forehead and then let him run off, holding the towel around him like cape, fluttering.
“He’s growing up...” Emily said quietly, a stuffy feeling in her nose before she made herself chuckle. “We might need to heat fresh water... I’m not sure this soup would clean anyone.”
Shifting his body from the doorway, Aaron reached over to touch her shoulder, leaving his hand there as he moved to look down into the bathtub.
“That does lend a little to the ‘what little boys are made of’ rhyme, don’t it?” he asked, snorting.
She smiled up at him, staying there on the ground while his hand was on her shoulder.
“We have time... and enough water for once, it won’t be much trouble. I’ll get him to bed and we'll have a clean bath by the time he’s sleeping.”
“We?” he asked, cocking his eyebrows, but still smiling in an utterly friendly way, finally offering his hands to her so she could get to her feet. Emily opened her mouth once and then found herself grateful Aaron just continued on.
“He’s run around plenty, I think he’ll conk right out,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been awhile since I’ve played with a kid like that.”
“They wear you out,” she told him even if her big, proud smile seemed to proclaim the opposite.
“I got two little sisters and a little brother, I remember.” He stepped back so she could head out the door first and ensure that Song had, indeed, put on his pajamas downstairs.
When she found him, he was holding up a book and Emily chuckled, tucking him into the blankets they had spread for him on the sofa.
“Again?” she asked, kissing his damp and fragrant hair.
“I like when you read,” he said, and this time, it was without any note of buttering up, or effort to distract her. She took their old and dog-eared copy of A Wrinkle in Time and started to read again. From the beginning, even though the both knew almost all the words by heart.
Chapter Twelve
The furnace didn’t work, of course; Aaron had checked the fuse when they arrived at the house, almost out of habit. Not one house he’d found had a functioning heating system, but there was something like dogged optimism—or stupidity, he couldn’t decide which—that kept him checking.
The water was tepid at best when it came out of the tap. While Emily read to Song, he heated up a few more buckets of water by the dwindling fire and carried it upstairs, carefully, quietly, and added it to the tub to even out the temperature a little.
He peeked into the living room, holding the empty bucket. “He asleep?” he asked, nodding at the heap leaning heavily against her.
Emily nodded but didn’t dare speak just yet. Carefully, she disengaged herself from her son’s hold.
“Is there another to carry?” she asked under her breath, nodding at the bucket.
He shook his head. “The fire’s starting to peter out,” he added. “I can put on another if you need it.”
She shook her head. “I’m small,” she shrugged and then followed him up the stairs again. The air was still fragrant with melted wax. She breathed it in deeply but then looked embarrassed and crossed her arms over her chest, before she moved to light a candle again.
“I would argue that the cleaner one of us should be allowed first...” she grinned and then tilted her head, “on the other hand you do most of the work so you deserve clean water more. We could do rock-paper-scissors for it.”
Naturally, he shook his head.
“Ladies first,” he said, winking, stepping back into the doorway to free up the bathroom for her.
“That’s sexist,” she called after him in a loud, grinning whisper, but she didn’t exactly fight the decision either.
She peeled off her shirt first, wondering if they might be able to spare some time the next day looking for more clothes. Theirs were few and very worn. She hadn’t had a fitting bra in ages and so undressing was quick and uncomplicated and she spent the longest on fiddling with her bandages. By the gentle, flattering light of the few candles, it looked better. She touched it gingerly, tried to move her wrist this way and that, and the pain didn't drive tears to her eyes anymore.
The bath was nothing like her memory of those perfect Saturday afternoons in the tub. The water barely reached over her thighs and it was only lukewarm, but she grabbed the soap and a sponge and started to scrub—hard and thorough until she was pink and raw all over, and the friction almost made up for the lack of heat. Her hair was more difficult and she contorted herself like an eel in the tub, with a cup to pour water over her head over and over until she was reasonably sure that most shampoo was washed out.
She was shivering, teeth chattering hard when she reached for a threadbare old towel. How she hated, hated winter. She had found a clean bed sheet earlier and wrapped it around her body, her hair in wet tangles around her face as she opened the door again.
“You’re up, soldier,” she teased when she saw him.
“A little trouble in there?” he replied, getting to his feet; he’d stationed himself at the top of the stairs to listen for Song, and his knees popped a little as he stretched to his full height.
“Heard you splashin’ like a fish.”
“The water level disagreed with the height of my head,” she explained, wrinkling her nose and holding the sheet up securely around her. “You should hurry, though, because I’ll be back to wash and cut your hair.”
His eyebrows went up.
“Is that so?” He knew they’d made a deal, and, crossing his eyes, he could confirm that the need for a haircut had entered the arena of critical, but hadn’t quite been prepared for her to wash his hair, too.
“Deal’s a deal. You said.”
“Deal’s a deal,” he agreed, focusing on her in the dim light of the hallway for a moment, wrapped in her sheet and dripping a little. Her arms were covered in goose bumps, and where there would have been guilt for making her stand there in that state, the thought that invaded his brain then followed a different path.
“So,” he went on, snapping to, rubbing that long hair with his hand. “Come back in a minute?”
“I’ll give you a tiny bit more scrubbing time,” she teased again and then flounced down the stairs.
Aaron shook his head and went into the bathroom. He had no compunctions about reusing the water, even as it was a bit grey and soapy after her bath. He stripped and sat his ass in the water, knees bent at almost a grotesque angle with the lack of room. It was a state he was used to, though, and he scrubbed under his arms, and over his back and chest, which had grown sticky and uncomfortable with sweat over the afternoon.
He was just rinsing off, standing naked in the dirty water when she knocked again, and he stepped out of the bath, sopping, into the middle of the room.
“Come in,” he called, wrapping, somewhat ineffectually, a towel around his hips; as with anything, it was a bit too short, but there wasn’t much to be done.
Emily stuck her head thro
ugh the door and grinned. He was wet and almost naked, and it stirred places that had been left unstirred for a long time. When she came in, she had a woolen blanket trailing on the ground around her feet, like a parody of a girl playing princess dress-up. Her hair had wet her shirt around the neckline.
“So now you’re gonna cut my hair?” He spoke in a much more teasing manner, aided by bare skin and the strangeness of the situation, thumbs hooked at the fold of the towel at his waist.
“That’s the plan,” she agreed, looking for something he could sit on. In the end, she dragged a chair in from another room and leaned it against the sink. She waved him onto it with a rather exaggerated gesture.
“You know I actually worked in a hair salon for like... 3 weeks or so? Just as a washer though, hence why this has to be part of it. It’s the only thing I know how to do well.”
“Then I should be worried about the part when you cut it?” He grinned at her as he sat; he’d had his head shaved just about to the scalp by the barbers at boot camp, so he was hardly afraid, but she looked cute and authoritative with scissors and her strange blanket contraption around her.
“Possibly,” she admitted in a deadpan, and then started to scoop up water from the tub. “You've never seen my sculptures... I like to experiment with my materials.”
Her grin was obvious by then; his face was handsome in the candlelight and she made him lean back over the sink before she poured the first cup of water. She was careful and gentle and avoided his face, just wetting his hair.
“You’re excellent at making it wet,” he told her, in an excess amount of polite tone with wide eyes, biting back his smile.
“I have many talents,” she shot back, just sleepy enough and worked up enough to let herself be lulled in by the candlelight and the smell and the closeness of his naked body, when she brushed against his shoulders. Finally, she reached for the shampoo, spread it over her hand and then started to soap him up, fingers rubbing his scalp.
“I don’t think I’ve had a shampoo in... years,” he said, after a long silence, where her fingers worked against the roots of his hair. “You know, in a salon. Might have been for my sister’s wedding.”
“It was my favorite thing about getting my hair cut,” she admitted, fingers still gliding, massaging. She found the task satisfying and warming and even though she knew that long exposure to the soap wouldn’t be good for his hair, she loathed finishing.
“Crewcuts don’t really involve a wash beforehand,” he drawled, cracking his eyes open so that she was in murky view above him. “I haven’t had my hair this long since high school.”
“I can’t imagine you with a crew cut at all...” she admitted, then bit her lip, unsure if that was somehow offensive.
“I was going to go for something a little longer—but I could try one of those if you want.”
He chuckled. “Surprise me?”
“I’ll do my best,” she promised, looking down at him, pouring cups of water over his hair and ridding it of soap. It was tactile and nice, and when she was done, she made him get up so that she could move the chair and stand behind him.
His hair hung down nearly to his nose when wet, and he smiled sheepishly at her as she circled behind him. “I must look like a drowned animal.”
“Very much drowned man,” she informed him and then made a face at herself behind his back. She combed his hair and leaned over him, always close.
The first sound of the scissors closing over his hair was a bit startling, and he jumped, laughing at himself almost immediately.
“There are sounds you forget about,” he said, after another moment, lifting a hand to rub at his chin. “Like, that were there before. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” she admitted easily. “The first day in your car was like that.” She didn’t say that just his voice had been like something from an earlier time.
“We had a percolator when I was a kid. My mom did, up through me movin’ out and all. It’s like... background noise, and I can't remember it now. I know how it sounded, but I can’t get the sound in my head.” He paused. “Sorry, just ramblin’. Scissors did the same thing. Sound I didn’t know I remembered.”
“You... you don’t have to apologize,” Emily said quietly, stopping the motion of the scissors for a long moment. “I like it. You know, random things. Talk.”
He glanced over at her, slightly behind him, to his right. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“I...” she stopped and then tried to concentrate on his hair again until she went on, “I must seem terribly volatile, I'm sorry I keep putting that on you.”
“You don’t,” he said, quickly, but then continued: “I think it’s more... I don’t want to add anything where you don’t need it. So...” He shrugged, careful not to nudge her hand with the blades. “I just try to be nice. It’s silly.”
“No it’s not... you are nice.” She took a deep breath and then cut at some more strands. She didn’t feel like teasing anymore, but it was still just as hard not to let her fingers stray.
“I try,” he confirmed, shifting in the chair to find a more comfortable position.
“Thanks for cutting my hair,” he added, after another silence where the only sound was the drizzling drain of water down old pipes and the snip of the scissors. It was falling off his head like wet feathers, caressing his back and shoulders as it drifted down towards the floor. Emily kept brushing it away, and he remembered now that there was a reason people wore capes for this. He found, though, that he liked the brushing.
“It’s not a big thing,” she offered, “It’s nice. You know, something normal in all this craziness.”
He wasn’t sure if this was normal, but it was better than most things, and the brush of her fingertips over his shoulders, in contrast with the tickle-itch of the hair, gave him goose bumps down over his arms and a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“How’mi lookin’?” he asked, raising his eyebrows towards the fringe of hair that had been freed up over his forehead.
“Very handsome,” Emily answered, not without a hint of mirth. She reached for a comb that was missing half its teeth and combed his hair around, and again and then chopped off a bit more here and there.
He watched her, that look of concentration that came over her features, as though she was doing something terribly important rather than just cutting his hair, and, when she stepped back, he caught her wrist, gently, fingers completely encircling the skinny bone.
“Hey.” His voice was soft and non-threatening, and he looked at her in the waning candlelight.
“Hey,” she echoed arm slack in his grasp, her body leaning closer.
She was still holding the scissors in her good hand, and he carefully removed them, and the comb. He didn’t know, really, if she was done with his hair, but he was, and, once she was divested of the instruments, he pulled her down into his lap, absolutely without mind that he was only, in the barest sense, dressed at all, the towel a flimsy divide between them.
“You cut my hair,” he remarked, curling a damp lock of her own hair over his own fingers.
“I did,” she smiled, touching his cheek. “You still have hair everywhere.” Leaning over him she pursed her lips to blow the feather fluff off his neck and shoulders.
The remaining strands stirred and mostly scattered, but his fingers in her hair caught her chin and realigned her mouth onto his. It was a simple, easy gesture, even with her somewhat precarious perch on his lap. The dim candles provided only a hint of light, throwing soft shadows over their features and their visions darkened so close together. There was little urgency now: they were relatively warm and safe, and their tongues met to explore each other’s mouth with a slower intensity than before, when the act itself had seemed so daring it had pushed all other concerns away.
The blanket around Emily’s hips dislodged more with each motion; her palms rested, one on his face and one on his chest.
“Do I cut your hair next?” he asked, voi
ce barely audible with their mouths almost refusing to leave one another’s, his hand holding her secure against his legs.
“Hmmm.” She looked sheepish and warm and raised her brows, “Maybe. If you prove yourself trustworthy with a pair of scissors?”
Aaron snorted, his fingers curled behind her ear, a motion so delicate, it raised all the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and down her arms. “How ‘bout just brush it, then? You can trust me with that, can’t ya?”
She nodded but he couldn’t find a brush just then, Emily had taken it downstairs with her. Instead, he let his fingers play with it in the back of her neck, raked them through her still wet hair. She had her eyes closed and he could watch her face, the congregation of freckles around her button nose, the moment of abandon when a wisp of a sigh floated up against the ceiling.
“That’s all you want to do to me?” she whispered, bearing down on his thigh, eyes open and on his.
“Not really,” he said, lips brushing hers, almost obscenely.
“Do you...” she started, eyes widening, lips snapping at his chin, a soft, toothless bite as much as a kiss, “do you want to touch me?”
Aaron breathed out. “Aren’t I already?” he asked, a faint uplift of the corners of his lips forming something like a smile despite still being against hers.
She raised her brows at him, sweet and knowing, terrifyingly precocious, as though they were in a game and he made her raise the stakes.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
The question made his breath catch for just a moment, and then he lifted his mouth from hers. His expression was difficult to read and she saw something like confusion inside it, and something like fear, on top of that heat that had her own stomach smoldering like the fire they’d built outside.
“What do you think?” he asked, finally, eyes dark from the faded light of the room, but unwaveringly on hers.
“I think you do,” she whispered, then raised her fingers to his mouth and finally smiled more intimately, softly. She stroked his bottom lip. “I want you to.”
