Learning to Dance 20: Water Music
Title: Learning to Dance 20: Water Music
Author: purplerhino
Disclaimer: Not mine. I am thankful Scifi didn’t turn it into one of those really horrible Saturday Night movies.
Spoilers: Everything.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: All, DG/Cain
Summary: He’d killed men tonight
Thanks to my beta readers - erinm_4600, thebigfatman and khadence
A/N: Thank you reviewers. The muse is happy and riding the plot bunny around my room.
Part One / Part Two / Interlude / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen / Part Seventeen / Part Eighteen / Part Nineteen
He’d killed men tonight. Several. Their blood may have hit dirt and rock, but it washed over his hands. He didn’t regret a single one of those deaths; he did, however, regret what that said about him.
He was supposed to be an instrument of justice, an upholder of the rule of law; once a Tin Man, always a Tin Man, whether you wore the badge or not. He had killed before, in the line of duty. This was ‘in the line of duty,’ as well, but this was also out of anger, fury…
He’d planned every detail of Zero’s death for eight years; but, in the end, chose not to kill him, because it would have been in cold blood; because it wouldn’t bring Adora back, or give Jeb his innocence once more. He was not the distributor of justice; he was an instrument of it. Yet, he had passed sentence. If only for a few days.
Tonight, he had killed because he had to. To save his charges; to save the woman he loved; to save his son. Because he wanted to. He wanted to punish and to kill, and perhaps the immediacy of the gunfight was an excuse to unleash that. But he wasn’t sorry. He didn’t regret it.
He dipped his hands into the water, bubbles floating on top. The water had been drained and changed twice already. Neither time, did it run red with blood. Dirt, yes; fear even. He cupped his hands and lifted them again, letting the water pour over the silk curtain of midnight hair before him.
His fingers dug into the strands, working up a lather, sweeping away the idea of filth from DG’s hair.
SHE had wanted a bath. Several, she insisted. She was not going to let them win. She could soak with pleasure, she even lit candles scented with something both flowery and musky. Atmosphere, she called it. Nothing frightening in here. She even had her own personal protector to watch, and wash, her back. At first she had sat still with knees drawn up before her, arms wrapped around. Defensive and small. She was small. She had so much life and energy it was hard to see. Curled into herself she looked positively tiny and fragile. By the end of the second tubful of water she had leaned back into him, her legs straightening and submerging.
She had seen him kill tonight. She had seen blood spilt and bodies broken. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him kill. The first time left her with fresh nightmares, not of witches and losing him in ice or iron, but of blood and death. That was his regret the last time he had killed.
He’d kill again to keep her safe. Not in some intangible promise type of way. He knew it was coming. Eventually, he would kill again. He wouldn’t feel remorse for it.
He rinsed away the lather from her hair with the same gentleness he had used in sponging away the dirt and remainder of garbage from her skin. It wasn’t about sex, although he couldn’t help but react to her wet skin, her soft form cradled between his thighs. This was about making her feel clean again. Making him feel clean again. Even though he didn’t feel dirty, or see blood. They had all deserved the death he dealt. He didn't regret it.
This was the first time they’d been intimate in her rooms. Somehow, it felt both wrong and right, at the same time.
The bubbles from the shampoo flowed into the tub. They were not tinged red, or even pink
There was still blood on his hands. He wouldn’t regret it, but those blood-stained hands would do everything they could to love her; make her feel protected, safe. They wouldn’t stain her. It didn’t discomfort him.
Once, his heart had been empty. Turned to tin that slowly rusted away to nothing but tiny flakes in the hollow where once it had beat. She had started a new one growing again. The rest of the healing came from others, as well as her, but she would be the one to finish what she had started.
Maybe he couldn’t regret killing tonight because, while she had returned to him his heart, he’d given it right back to her for safe-keeping.
He was not troubled by the satisfaction he felt at taking life.
*****
She’d hoped he hadn’t felt her shivering when they’d settled into the tub. She would not be defeated. She would not. Not by something as simple as water. Not by those who had half-drowned her. She might tremble, but she had a will of iron. She might bend, but she wouldn’t bow.
She hated seeing the murkiness of the water as he poured it over her with cupped palms. He was baptizing her with it; washing away more than the dirt, filth, fear and humiliation of this night. He was pouring it over her soul.
He’d killed men tonight. She didn’t care. She might have killed as well, if she had to. To save him, to save her sister; possibly even out of hatred and revenge. He’d killed tonight, and it didn’t bother her. He’d come, with his son, and he’d rescued them. He’d protected them. He’d held her while she shivered and proposed after a daring victory. His hands were clean when they held her.
They had drained the tub after that first rinse, then refilled it as they sat, letting the water rise and lap at them. He’d even added bubbles, even though they smelled of lavender. How many rough and ready Tin Men would sit in lavender scented bubbles and not care?
He’d sponged her skin using a light pressure. She wanted to scrub it with her nail brush, but he bathed each inch with gentle care. He pressed kisses to the back of her neck as he sponged her arms. But he was businesslike when it came to her breasts, even though he had lingered over the one that had been bruised by a harsh grip. He apologized without words as he soothed her still tender flesh.
This wasn’t about sex, even though she could feel his arousal at the small of her back. He was showing her that she was clean. Nothing was her fault, and he still loved and desired her.
With the third filling of the tub, he washed her hair. There was something so relaxing about it; handing over her trust to him. These hands in her hair were soothing, gentle. Alright, it was erotic as well. She wanted to feel those fingers work their magic everywhere, but they concentrated on her scalp, so careful of the bruise still on the back of her skull. His tender fingers in her hair erased the idea of other, harsher hands pulling at her scalp.
She felt a bit guilty that, so far, she had let him take care of her, and she gave nothing back but her trust.
She took the sponge from where he had set it to do her hair. She rose up and turned to kneel between his legs. He had killed today, to save her. To save her sister.
She looked directly into his stormy eyes. He killed tonight, and it was bothering him.
“Now, it’s your turn.” She lathered the sponge with soap.