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Febuwhump day 14: Blood-stained Tiles
Master list here.
Day 14: blood-stained tiles
EvS w/some Fritz, Buries a Hatchet missing scene immediately post-Sakhalin, 900 wds
The bathroom in the American barracks was shockingly white to Erich's eyes, which had grown used to the dull grey palette of Sakhalin. White and clean, and -- for the moment -- private, though the door did not lock.
He had a pair of clean fatigues that had been given to him to wear, along with clean towels and a first-aid kit. Unimaginable luxury not too long ago.
Wincing, he peeled off the filthy rags of the convict uniform. Filth-stiff fabric tugged on half-healed scar tissue, and fresh blood stained his hands as he tore it off and dropped it, shuddering, on the too-clean floor. He felt like the dirtiest thing here, and tried not to look at his emaciated body. His leg kept trying to buckle under him, and he slipped, skidded, caught himself on the edge of the sink. The sores on his ankles dripped blood on the floor, and his elbow caught a sharp rap on the sink.
He drew a few slow breaths and got himself upright again, then into the shower. He flinched when the water cascaded on him, clenched his teeth against the hot water burning his cuts and sores and old whip marks. Even turned down to lukewarm, it still hurt.
But he was also slowly starting to wake to the unfamiliar, almost luxurious feeling of clean skin after months of filth. The soap was cheap and harsh, but it felt good anyway. He scrubbed his body and his filthy hair, then closed his eyes and leaned into the water cascading down. When he stepped out, some of his cuts had opened and were bleeding freely. He counted that as a benefit, ridding them of Sakhalin's filth. He dried himself and dropped the blood-stained towels on the floor. Sitting on the edge of the closed toilet, he tended to those cuts and sores he could reach, dabbing at them with antiseptic.
There was a careful tap on the door. Erich guessed who it was from the tentative nature of the knock (no one at the military base would be less than authorative, even Bigglesworth would have a certain authority to him) - even before Fritz's voice said quietly, "Uncle Erich?"
An unexpected prickling came behind his eyelids. Erich cleared his throat. "Just a moment, please," he called. "I'll be right out."
He rose and dressed quickly in the clothes he had been given, simple and plain and yet shockingly soft against his skin after what he had worn before. He scraped back his damp hair, and then, with a sudden furious intensity of feeling, found a pair of small scissors in the first-aid kit. He hacked at it. Grey mats fell on the edge of the sink. He didn't look at himself in the mirror, knowing he was doing a terrible hack job of a haircut. But when he was done, his head felt light and familiar, more comfortable than it had felt in months. He ran his fingers through the ragged stubble and supposed it would do until he could find a barber.
There was no razor to finish the job, but he cut off as much of the scruffy beard as he could manage with the small scissors. When he was done, he did not yet dare to look in the mirror, but at least he felt a little more himself. He swept the shavings into the trash bin and cleaned up as best he could. The filthy rags of his convict uniform were almost unbearable to touch, but he shoved them into the trash bin too. He scrubbed at the blood on the floor with the towels, then folded them up, gathered the first-aid supplies back into the kit, and opened the door.
He found Fritz outside, with an unsmiling American guard a few steps beyond. The only surprise, he supposed, was that he did not find Bigglesworth there too.
But Fritz smiled warmly at him. He was wearing clean clothes, also loose military fatigues borrowed from their hosts, and his dark blond hair was curled with damp, making it clear that he'd showered as well. "Hello, Uncle," he said, "Do you want to go eat? There is also a bedroom for us, it's nearly private and quite nice, in case you'd like to sleep, whichever you want."
"Either of those is fine," Erich said. He cleared his throat and straightened, not quite sure how to deal with the way Fritz was looking at him, a warm and delighted expression. "We might eat first, perhaps?" He was not feeling particularly hungry, but he was lightheaded after the shower, and Fritz surely needed food; boys of that age were bottomless. "But first you can show me where we are to sleep."
It was only after he had said it that it occurred to him that he had no reason to go there, no things to leave in his quarters. He had the borrowed clothes he stood in, and nothing else.
But Fritz smiled brilliantly, and said, "Yes, of course, Uncle, please come this way."
And Erich followed him. He had little. But what he did have -- clean clothes, a comfortable and private place to sleep, food that would not be taken away or spoiled for punishment, and that boy's smile -- was a lot more than nothing.
Day 14: blood-stained tiles
EvS w/some Fritz, Buries a Hatchet missing scene immediately post-Sakhalin, 900 wds
The bathroom in the American barracks was shockingly white to Erich's eyes, which had grown used to the dull grey palette of Sakhalin. White and clean, and -- for the moment -- private, though the door did not lock.
He had a pair of clean fatigues that had been given to him to wear, along with clean towels and a first-aid kit. Unimaginable luxury not too long ago.
Wincing, he peeled off the filthy rags of the convict uniform. Filth-stiff fabric tugged on half-healed scar tissue, and fresh blood stained his hands as he tore it off and dropped it, shuddering, on the too-clean floor. He felt like the dirtiest thing here, and tried not to look at his emaciated body. His leg kept trying to buckle under him, and he slipped, skidded, caught himself on the edge of the sink. The sores on his ankles dripped blood on the floor, and his elbow caught a sharp rap on the sink.
He drew a few slow breaths and got himself upright again, then into the shower. He flinched when the water cascaded on him, clenched his teeth against the hot water burning his cuts and sores and old whip marks. Even turned down to lukewarm, it still hurt.
But he was also slowly starting to wake to the unfamiliar, almost luxurious feeling of clean skin after months of filth. The soap was cheap and harsh, but it felt good anyway. He scrubbed his body and his filthy hair, then closed his eyes and leaned into the water cascading down. When he stepped out, some of his cuts had opened and were bleeding freely. He counted that as a benefit, ridding them of Sakhalin's filth. He dried himself and dropped the blood-stained towels on the floor. Sitting on the edge of the closed toilet, he tended to those cuts and sores he could reach, dabbing at them with antiseptic.
There was a careful tap on the door. Erich guessed who it was from the tentative nature of the knock (no one at the military base would be less than authorative, even Bigglesworth would have a certain authority to him) - even before Fritz's voice said quietly, "Uncle Erich?"
An unexpected prickling came behind his eyelids. Erich cleared his throat. "Just a moment, please," he called. "I'll be right out."
He rose and dressed quickly in the clothes he had been given, simple and plain and yet shockingly soft against his skin after what he had worn before. He scraped back his damp hair, and then, with a sudden furious intensity of feeling, found a pair of small scissors in the first-aid kit. He hacked at it. Grey mats fell on the edge of the sink. He didn't look at himself in the mirror, knowing he was doing a terrible hack job of a haircut. But when he was done, his head felt light and familiar, more comfortable than it had felt in months. He ran his fingers through the ragged stubble and supposed it would do until he could find a barber.
There was no razor to finish the job, but he cut off as much of the scruffy beard as he could manage with the small scissors. When he was done, he did not yet dare to look in the mirror, but at least he felt a little more himself. He swept the shavings into the trash bin and cleaned up as best he could. The filthy rags of his convict uniform were almost unbearable to touch, but he shoved them into the trash bin too. He scrubbed at the blood on the floor with the towels, then folded them up, gathered the first-aid supplies back into the kit, and opened the door.
He found Fritz outside, with an unsmiling American guard a few steps beyond. The only surprise, he supposed, was that he did not find Bigglesworth there too.
But Fritz smiled warmly at him. He was wearing clean clothes, also loose military fatigues borrowed from their hosts, and his dark blond hair was curled with damp, making it clear that he'd showered as well. "Hello, Uncle," he said, "Do you want to go eat? There is also a bedroom for us, it's nearly private and quite nice, in case you'd like to sleep, whichever you want."
"Either of those is fine," Erich said. He cleared his throat and straightened, not quite sure how to deal with the way Fritz was looking at him, a warm and delighted expression. "We might eat first, perhaps?" He was not feeling particularly hungry, but he was lightheaded after the shower, and Fritz surely needed food; boys of that age were bottomless. "But first you can show me where we are to sleep."
It was only after he had said it that it occurred to him that he had no reason to go there, no things to leave in his quarters. He had the borrowed clothes he stood in, and nothing else.
But Fritz smiled brilliantly, and said, "Yes, of course, Uncle, please come this way."
And Erich followed him. He had little. But what he did have -- clean clothes, a comfortable and private place to sleep, food that would not be taken away or spoiled for punishment, and that boy's smile -- was a lot more than nothing.
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This is such a great snapshot of post-Sakhalin EvS. Echoing Philomytha, I love how he's not exactly being careful with himself in his determination to get the filth of the place off him, and even though he's barely hanging together you can see he's already taking steps back towards the man he was (/the man Biggles believes he is).
And that last paragraph is so heart-wrenching and perfect <3
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I love that Fritz's love and affection are almost painful to him, so different from what he's used to that he's just not sure how to deal with them anymore. And yet healing, too.
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