[Witches' Horses] Swallow's Tail
Title: bathtime
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Sascha
Prompt: 74A "scars"
Word Count: 940
Notes: slightly after necessities.
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Reluctantly dragging himself towards the banya, Sverre tried to remember how it worked. Both Aleksandr and the Captain had showed him--the Captain more because he was in the area while Sa--Aleksandr showed him and the Captain wasn't quite able to leave things as glossed as Aleksandr was--but the memory was kind of gummy and lurked under the more recent knowledge of how the dishes got clean and why you didn't stick your head into a gun turret without saying you were doing so first. At least if you didn't want growl-induced heart palpitations.
But he was going anyway, figuring he could work it out again if he saw the panel, because he really, really didn't want to wash everything in his bed because he'd touched it. He had no idea how and when he'd got so filthy, but he was reasonably sure he'd started the day clean-ish. Right now he felt very strongly like he'd been dipped in a grease bath and then rolled in the scraped gunk you got out of gears. And that his hair was standing straight up, but touching it would just make things worse.
He almost slipped coming down the ladder, and went more slowly on the remaining rungs, mentally apologising and promising to scrub the grease off just as soon as he was clean, and was so fixated on not slipping again that he completely failed to register the other man's presence until he turned around at the bottom and found himself filthy nose to naked chest with one of the Swallow's permanent crew.
He blinked, tried to back up a pace, ran into the ladder instead. He started to curl his shoulders in reflexively, then found himself surreally too tired for terror, and squinted upwards, looking for face among the loose dreadlocks. Blinked again.
Sascha had scars--he'd known that already, had seen the solder marks on the man's fingers and a triangular burn on his forearm Sverre'd assumed was an engine part's impression, but he had no idea what to make of the thin white lines splashed liberally around the man's shoulders and disappearing onto his back, or the puckered mark he'd have diagnosed as a patched puncture on a hull. On a human, he had no idea what to think of it.
And he was staring. Um. "Um, Sascha? You're . . steaming," he trailed off lamely. The Siberian's head and hair were limned with a pale halo of water vapour rising from him and disappearing into the vent outside the banya's closed door, but that hadn't been what he was looking at, and maybe he should apologise?
"And you're filthy," Sascha shot back goodnaturedly. "Wanted the banya?"
"I should clean the ladder so you don't get dirty coming back out--" he replied automatically, stopped talking when Sascha waved a couple of fingers in front of his face.
"Kid, you're pretty much swaying where you stand. I'll get the ladder. I've got dirty clothes anyway, a bit more won't hurt anything."
"Um." He thought about that, or tried to, and then shrugged, automatically limiting the gesture to his available space. "Okay. Would you turn the timer on for me?"
Sascha chuckled, turned away and did something to the panel next to the banya's door that Sverre couldn't see, then stepped out of the way, improbably tucking himself into the alcove between ladder and door. His back was as scarred as his shoulders implied, Sverre noted.
"It's at half power. There's space in the transitional space for you to take off your clothes. Rinse-room is the next one, remember, and steam after that. You should steam before you rinse, try to get some of that gunk off you. Try not to fall asleep in there, but the timer's set for a half hour at a go, so you shouldn't be able to steam yourself sick."
Sverre processed what was probably less than a third of the Russian words, hearing 'clothes, rinse, steam' and inched past Sascha, who was still kind of half naked, into the banya's vestibule.
He used a wet towel as a layer between his clothes and the bench, smearing yet more gunk across his skin and into his hair as he pulled the coveralls off. The shirt and pants he'd been wearing beneath the coveralls were less filthy but still nowhere near clean, but he left them on the bench next to the coveralls and and stepped his way through the half-dark of the rest of the banya to curl up on one of the benches with his head towards the steam vent.
The heat was oppressive, like another layer of gunk between his skin and clean open air, coating his eyes and his throat and the insides of his ears as he lay there. When he couldn't stand it anymore he crept back out to the rinse-room, sluiced himself head to toe with cool water--which ran black the first time, to his disgust--and then scrubbed experimentally at his hair, his hands. Went back for more steam when he just moved the mess in his hair around instead of out, and fell asleep on the third pass.
He jerked awake when the timer chirped at him, just enough like a proximity alarm to get through.
When he came back out to the vestibule, looking for the timer reset, he found his clothes missing, with a dry towel and clean clothes waiting instead. He frowned at them, wondering if it was Sascha's work again or someone else's, and then found the reset, hit it with his cleanest finger, and went back to scrubbing.
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Sascha
Prompt: 74A "scars"
Word Count: 940
Notes: slightly after necessities.
---------
Reluctantly dragging himself towards the banya, Sverre tried to remember how it worked. Both Aleksandr and the Captain had showed him--the Captain more because he was in the area while Sa--Aleksandr showed him and the Captain wasn't quite able to leave things as glossed as Aleksandr was--but the memory was kind of gummy and lurked under the more recent knowledge of how the dishes got clean and why you didn't stick your head into a gun turret without saying you were doing so first. At least if you didn't want growl-induced heart palpitations.
But he was going anyway, figuring he could work it out again if he saw the panel, because he really, really didn't want to wash everything in his bed because he'd touched it. He had no idea how and when he'd got so filthy, but he was reasonably sure he'd started the day clean-ish. Right now he felt very strongly like he'd been dipped in a grease bath and then rolled in the scraped gunk you got out of gears. And that his hair was standing straight up, but touching it would just make things worse.
He almost slipped coming down the ladder, and went more slowly on the remaining rungs, mentally apologising and promising to scrub the grease off just as soon as he was clean, and was so fixated on not slipping again that he completely failed to register the other man's presence until he turned around at the bottom and found himself filthy nose to naked chest with one of the Swallow's permanent crew.
He blinked, tried to back up a pace, ran into the ladder instead. He started to curl his shoulders in reflexively, then found himself surreally too tired for terror, and squinted upwards, looking for face among the loose dreadlocks. Blinked again.
Sascha had scars--he'd known that already, had seen the solder marks on the man's fingers and a triangular burn on his forearm Sverre'd assumed was an engine part's impression, but he had no idea what to make of the thin white lines splashed liberally around the man's shoulders and disappearing onto his back, or the puckered mark he'd have diagnosed as a patched puncture on a hull. On a human, he had no idea what to think of it.
And he was staring. Um. "Um, Sascha? You're . . steaming," he trailed off lamely. The Siberian's head and hair were limned with a pale halo of water vapour rising from him and disappearing into the vent outside the banya's closed door, but that hadn't been what he was looking at, and maybe he should apologise?
"And you're filthy," Sascha shot back goodnaturedly. "Wanted the banya?"
"I should clean the ladder so you don't get dirty coming back out--" he replied automatically, stopped talking when Sascha waved a couple of fingers in front of his face.
"Kid, you're pretty much swaying where you stand. I'll get the ladder. I've got dirty clothes anyway, a bit more won't hurt anything."
"Um." He thought about that, or tried to, and then shrugged, automatically limiting the gesture to his available space. "Okay. Would you turn the timer on for me?"
Sascha chuckled, turned away and did something to the panel next to the banya's door that Sverre couldn't see, then stepped out of the way, improbably tucking himself into the alcove between ladder and door. His back was as scarred as his shoulders implied, Sverre noted.
"It's at half power. There's space in the transitional space for you to take off your clothes. Rinse-room is the next one, remember, and steam after that. You should steam before you rinse, try to get some of that gunk off you. Try not to fall asleep in there, but the timer's set for a half hour at a go, so you shouldn't be able to steam yourself sick."
Sverre processed what was probably less than a third of the Russian words, hearing 'clothes, rinse, steam' and inched past Sascha, who was still kind of half naked, into the banya's vestibule.
He used a wet towel as a layer between his clothes and the bench, smearing yet more gunk across his skin and into his hair as he pulled the coveralls off. The shirt and pants he'd been wearing beneath the coveralls were less filthy but still nowhere near clean, but he left them on the bench next to the coveralls and and stepped his way through the half-dark of the rest of the banya to curl up on one of the benches with his head towards the steam vent.
The heat was oppressive, like another layer of gunk between his skin and clean open air, coating his eyes and his throat and the insides of his ears as he lay there. When he couldn't stand it anymore he crept back out to the rinse-room, sluiced himself head to toe with cool water--which ran black the first time, to his disgust--and then scrubbed experimentally at his hair, his hands. Went back for more steam when he just moved the mess in his hair around instead of out, and fell asleep on the third pass.
He jerked awake when the timer chirped at him, just enough like a proximity alarm to get through.
When he came back out to the vestibule, looking for the timer reset, he found his clothes missing, with a dry towel and clean clothes waiting instead. He frowned at them, wondering if it was Sascha's work again or someone else's, and then found the reset, hit it with his cleanest finger, and went back to scrubbing.