[Fic] On hair (specifically, Cain’s)
In our The Knights and their Bees ‘verse \o/ Because apparently starting to seriously work on my acespnbang means I’ll be working on other things too (well, apart from real life stuff, clearly)...
(CainxColette, 4 275 words)
- - -
Colette was with Louise when Maurice brought the boy home.
(They'd just lost one of their grandchildren for good, after losing their only daughter, of course Colette was with them.
But how curious, that even now, even after all these years, when she thinks about that first meeting he always comes off as so much younger than she felt, even though there was only one year difference between them.)
She'd never met him, had hardly ever heard of him. Maurice and Louise were much more eager to talk about Abel, the younger brother, who was so kind and helpful, who understood the earth and the plants and would undoubtedly take over the farm one day.
(Only he wouldn't, would he?)
She'd been curious, though. Part of her wanted to know how someone would be holding up after such a long, heart-wrenching tragedy; another dreamt about the city, how different it was, how different it made people; and another wondered about the boy himself, a boy almost her age, a boy she didn’t know.
The first impression, when it came, was one of confusion. She hadn't expected the boy who stepped off Maurice's truck to be so… odd.
He was quite tall, yet scrawny, much scrawnier than the boys with whom she'd grown up. His clothes didn't help. They were strange clothes, clothes she'd only ever seen in the movies, clothes that real people didn't wear and that, without the veneer of the screen, revealed their utter unpracticality and ridiculousness: skinny black jeans, a thin white t-shirt, a black leather jacket covered in silver zippers and studs, all two sizes too small, or so it seemed. The face that came with it completed the picture: angry eyebrows, hair that was long and lush—and not even tied, already the dusty Kansas wind was starting to play with them—, black as the moustache crossing his upper-lip.
It wasn't a boy Colette saw that morning. It was an alien, unexpectedly thrown down to earth.
- - -
When you came closer you could see that it wasn't simply a moustache, actually. His whole face was unshaven. And somehow it was obvious that it wasn't simple neglect, that is was intended. That for some reason—an absurd fashion that still hadn't reached the remotest corners of the Midwest?—the boy was trying to let his facial hair grow.
His beard wasn't getting with the program, though.
(Contrary to his shoulder-length hair, of which more than one girl might've been jealous.)
Still he tried, and refused to shave the hairs peppering his jaw, his chin, even though they weren’t growing densely enough at all.
It was ridiculous. It was vain. It made him look unkempt, like an idiot—or, combined with the uppity angle of his eyebrows, like a jerk.
Which matched his personality perfectly, Colette soon found out. So she didn't bother trying to advise him to shave.
After all, that way, people were warned from the get go.
- - -
(No matter what snobs and cretins from the city might think, the people around here weren't dumb, and quickly realized what they were dealing with.
From City Boy, the newcomer was rapidly demoted to City Dweeb.)
- - -
The first to go was the hair.
It wasn't surprising: for some reason (more vanity?) the boy refused to tie it, no matter how busy Louise and Maurice kept him during the day on the farm, at the house. It was always getting in his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead, catching in the branches of the orchard, gathering leaves and sticks and dust. More than once Colette caught him trying to flick them back without touching them with his fingers—dirty from digging the earth, sticky from pressing fruit, soapy from cleaning products—, which always led to the strangest contorsions.
(She didn't try as hard as she could have to hide her amused smiles. He caught them, more than once.)
It was a nightmare to untangle at the end of the day, Louise said. It led to such scenes, too, the boy complaining and hissing and cursing for nearly an hour every night as he fought with his comb.
Until one day she had enough.
That story Maurice told her—he had a talent for relating events, even the most mundane, in a way that turned them into the most epic, most amusing stories. Louise had simply stood up and caught the boy by his mane, had snatched the kitchen scissors and dragged him to the bathroom, had stuck his head under the faucet and started to cut, paying no heed to his squeals. And squealed he had, Maurice said, like a pig to the slaughter. Or a piglet, he'd added musingly.
Colette was still laughing when the boy stepped into the room. And even if she'd known, it was quite shocking, actually, to see him with his hair so short, shorn to the sides. It changed his face in an almost eerie way, made it look stern, square, angry. His ears, now entirely visible, appeared naked and strangely vulnerable. Most of all, it enhanced the downward curve of his lips, the reddish hue around his eyes, the lines already carved on his forehead—marks that had no place on a face so young.
Suddenly Colette remembered, or maybe realized for the first time, how much this boy had lost: not only his family—his mother and father in one fell swoop, his brother along with his last hopes—but also his home, the place he'd grown up in, the only world he'd ever known.
Her laughter broke off.
Cain, of course, had guessed what they'd been talking about. He threw her a venomous glare, and left the room.
For once, it was entirely warranted, she felt.
- - -
The moustache, though. The moustache stayed.
Unfortunately.
- - -
Unfortunately, or so she thought, until she saw Cain clean-shaven for the first time.
It was almost two years later. It was for Louise's funeral.
And Colette would've preferred her eyes to be forever offended by his moustache, by his beard that was slowly but not so surely catching up, instead of this, anything but this, coming so quickly, so soon.
(So soon, but not unexpectedly. Louise, she knew, everyone knew, had never recovered from the loss of her daughter.)
Colette barely recognized him. It might've been the expression on his face, blank, frozen, everything in him faded like Louise had taken half of it with her. But there was something else too. Something foreign. Without the moustache there was nothing to detract from the thin line of his lips, the harsh bridge of his nose—from hard features that weren't Louise's, that weren't Maurice's, that maybe harked back to that father Colette had never heard much about.
And here he stood, a stranger all over again, remote, unreachable.
Colette didn't know what to say to him.
- - -
Maurice followed his wife, less than a year later.
At the end of the funeral Cain stood alone beside the coffin, his cheeks and upper lip smooth, his haircut almost military.
Colette didn't know what to say to him then either.
- - -
She didn't see much of him after that. She didn't expect to.
No one did. Rather they were waiting for the news: that the farm had gone to one of its neighbors, that another stranger had arrived to take over—that he had left. That he'd returned to his city, his world, his own strange planet.
It didn't come.
Summer segued into fall, fall into winter. One morning Colette put on her wool stockings, her thickest skirt, her solid boots and trudged through snow and wind to the cemetery.
It was a quiet day. The skies were low and heavy, the wind cutting. The roads were mostly deserted, people preferring to stay indoors. It hadn't snowed in a few days. The cover on the ground had turned crisp, crinkled under her shoes.
There was already someone there when she arrived, a dark, slender silhouette standing in front of a grave, blending with the colorless landscape.
She was halfway to the grave before she recognized him, and then wondered at herself for being surprised. It was the one year anniversary of Louise's death. Of course he'd be there.
She hesitated for a second, not wanting to disturb him, fearing his reaction—then she plodded forwards. After all, she had been wondering how he was doing, for Louise and Maurice's sake if not for hers. But she hadn't had the time—or, if she was honest with herself, the will—to drive all the way to his farm to see for herself. And in town, where his presence had never been appreciated, had never been understood, there was no one who cared to know, no one she could've asked.
He threw her a brief glance when he heard her approach, but that was the extent of his reaction. She barely caught a glimpse of his face under the hood of his black parka—a mess of hair and beard that obviously hadn't been trimmed in months—before his attention went back to the grave in front of him.
She stopped at his side, not too close, followed his gaze. A small flower box had been placed in front of the headstone, overflowing with evergreens, tough enough to endure in the winter.
"She always loved violas," Colette commented, smiling down at the hardy little flowers blooming in stubborn yellows and purples.
Cain didn't answer.
A minute passed, then two, then more. More than once Colette glanced at the young man beside her, but he simply stood there, unmoving, as if she wasn't there. He didn't seem bothered by the chill in the air, the wind, the humid touch promising snow or slush later in the day.
Colette searched for a topic of conversation.
"Are you waiting for spring to sell?" she asked.
That made him look at her, eyebrows quirked.
"I'm talking about the farm," she clarified. "Are you waiting for spring—"
She trailed off at the expression that came over his face. It looked… confused.
He stared at her for a long time.
His eyes, she realized, were very blue.
Finally, he opened his mouth to reply: "I'm not selling."
"Excuse me?"
She couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. He picked up on it and frowned.
"They worked for years to buy this farm, to make this land into what it is now. They always said it was for my—" He cut himself off. A second passed, two. His eyes narrowed. "That farm was their whole life, and they entrusted it to me, and you expect me to just get rid of it?"
He looked furious, the mess of hair and beard on his face making in looked even more menacing. Colette found herself unable to reply.
"You'll be disappointed, then," Cain said, taking a couple step back. His voice trembled slightly, out of anger and, Colette suddenly realized, hurt. "I'm not selling," he repeated.
With that he turned away and left, shoulders hunched against the wind. She watched him go.
Once he'd disappeared she turned back towards the grave, the headstone with Louise's familiar name on it, the box of plants and its violets standing proud, unbending and almost accusing.
- - -
Laura laughed when she told her.
"Seriously?" she said, before dissolving into laughter again.
Colette, who still felt a bit shamed over the short conversation she'd had with Cain, smiled uncomfortably.
"Hey, Jake, guess what!" Laura called unexpectedly. The young man, who was sitting at the other end of the diner, looked over. As did the numerous friends surrounding him at his table. "City Dweeb's planning to keep old Maur's farm!"
"You're kidding," Jake called back. His words were almost drowned by scoffs and jeers.
"Not even, Collie here heard it from the man himself," Laura confirmed, pointing at Colette over her shoulder. Colette's lips twitched when half the boys' eyes swung towards her, looking for confirmation.
"Well, that's gonna end well for sure," Jerry muttered—loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Fifty bucks he goes bankrupt within the year and has to sell anyways," Bob exclaimed, unleashing another bout of laughter. Laura joined.
"A hundred bucks he hacks a foot off trying to chop some wood before the end of summer," Marv' added.
"And goes crying to his dad." They all laughed again.
Colette felt painfully ill-at-ease.
She would've liked to point out that Cain had been helping Maurice and Louise on the farm for three years before they'd passed away, and therefore probably knew at least the basics of keeping one.
(He works hard, Maurice had said once, maybe trying to redeem his grandson a bit in her eyes. He complains a lot, but he does as he's told, and he does it well.
And he never needs to be told twice, Louise had concurred, probably sensing Colette's skepticism.)
She would've also liked to remind them that Cain's father was dead.
(And, from what little she'd heard, he hadn't been the kind of father you ran to when upset, or ever.)
But it wasn't like her to attract attention to herself that way, especially not to start a conflict. She remained quiet.
Laura noticed, and took her hand.
"Don't look like that, Collie," she said, voice reassuring. "The farm'll be okay. The boys are right, he won't last long out there. Someone else will take over soon, and they'll know what they're doing, and Maur and Lou's memory'll be honored properly, you'll see."
Colette forced a smile. Laura had it completely wrong—but Colette couldn't tell her that.
She wouldn't have understood.
- - -
He came to town from time to time, for necessities, groceries and tools. And now that people were aware of his intention to stay, they took note.
It became a sort of game. He was a curiosity, a running joke. People gawked and gossiped, everyone always knew when he'd been sighted, at the hardware store or at the market, at the nursery two towns over or at the edges of his property closest to the road. They commented on what he bought, on the car he drove, on the state of his clothes, eagerly looking for signs that he was fraying at the edges, that soon the day would dawn where he would stop coming.
He didn't.
He ignored the stares, did his business in town then drove back the way he'd come, went back to his life, to work.
Or so Colette heard. Somehow she was never there at the right time to catch him.
And then one day, it was fall, she was at the market, she stopped in front of Joshua's stall, arrested by the sheer abundance of apples on display. She barely hesitated before buying several pounds, already drawing plans for jelly and compote and pie.
"You're having a good harvest this year," she complimented as he helped her bag her purchase.
"I'd thank you, but most of it isn't mine," he smiled, his dark skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
"It isn't?"
He shook his head. "It comes from the Knight farm. The boy did a great job pruning his trees year before last, and it shows now."
"It does," Colette murmured, watching the fruit. "Do you see him often?" she asked more hesitantly.
"We're almost neighbors," Joshua said with a shrug, by which he meant that, even though their properties didn't touch, the road leading into town passed in front of them both. "We get along. I guess I can sympathize with his situation."
She wondered what he meant, brow furrowing slightly as she asked herself if he too had lost his family—until she realized that he was talking about something else. That as the only black farmer around Joshua had had his fair share of being mocked, of being rejected, of being threatened, even. Now his presence was accepted, considered a given by some, but it hadn't always been that way.
"We've come to an agreement," Joshua went on. "He helps me when I need a pair of extra hands, I sell his produce when I come here."
"Why doesn't he sell it himself?" Colette asked with a puzzled frown.
Joshua gave her a look, his smile never leaving his lips. "Would you have bought those apples if he'd been the one selling them?" Colette wanted to protest at once that she would have, of course she would have—or at least she thought so. But before she could speak he added: "And would anyone else?"
And to that, at least, the answer was obvious.
- - -
The Knight farm looked like it always had when she stopped beside it a little over two weeks later. The grass had been recently mowed, the hedges trimmed. The window frames had been repainted since the last time she'd been here. Maurice's truck was here, parked in front of her car, stained with mud—the man had never seen the point in washing it from fall to spring, and it seemed his grandson had the same opinion on the matter.
Colette was exceedingly nervous.
She allowed herself a minute to take a breath, then picked up the small crate sitting on the passenger seat and climbed out.
No one answered when she knocked. Pressing her lips together, she knocked again, called: "Hello?"
She was getting ready to walk around the house and go see if Cain was in the garden, too far away to hear, when the door opened and here he was.
His hair and beard were even longer and more unkempt than the last time they'd spoken.
He stared at her.
"Hi," she said. "I bought some of your apples. Joshua told me. I mean—" She was babbling, she realized, and stopped. She closed her eyes, let out a breath. Tried again: "I made some jelly from your apples, and I thought you might like a couple of jars."
That was better. Until Cain replied:
"I know how to make jelly."
"Oh," she let out. "Right, of course. Sorry." It seemed she couldn't do or say anything in his presence without being insulting.
"No, I mean," he returned hastily. "I am sorry. I mean, thank you. You can— Please, come in."
The turnaround was unexpected, but she was all too happy to take the offer.
Cain took the crate from her to let her hang her coat. She did and looked around, curious.
Inside the house was familiar and not. Touches of Louise and Maurice's presence were still visible—old jackets and boots near the entrance, lace-curtains on the windows, an old quilt thrown over the back of the couch—but Cain had made the space his. The couch and armchairs had been moved to welcome a small TV set, a bookshelf had been added in a corner, the stove had been replaced. The place was cluttered in a way it had never been while Louise and Maurice were alive, a bit dusty, but overall clean.
"I don't get many visitors," Cain apologized as he tried to free a small space on the kitchen table. From the look of it he'd been repairing a lamp. "You can sit," he added, drawing out a chair.
She sat.
Silence settled. She had no idea what to say. And no idea why he'd invited her in, actually.
He was hovering near the table, tugging at the rolled up sleeve of his left arm—a tic she now remembered for having seen it often over the years. His henley, as well as his jeans, had seen better days and were in definite need of a wash.
"I could make some coffee," he suggested.
It had always been the first thing Louise offered when she'd come visit. Cain was trying to be welcoming, Colette realized. Like his grandparents would've been.
She nodded with a small smile. "That'd be lovely, thank you."
While he was busy with the machine she let her eyes rove over the kitchen, taking in the many cans and baskets, the pots and plates—washed but piled up on the drainer—, the few empty bottles of beer standing beside the trash can. Over it, through the window, she could see the garden.
She squinted.
"Are those beehives?"
Cain glanced over his shoulder, then followed her gaze.
"Yes," he said. "I put them up last spring. Could even harvest some honey this summer already."
Colette smiled up at him he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "I don't remember Maurice ever having any."
"No," Cain replied, leaning against the counter with his own mug as his gaze returned to the garden outside. "It was always Abel's dream."
He fell silent after that, sunk in thoughts.
"You said you were able to harvest some honey already?" Colette cautiously prompted after a while. "I didn't know it yielded results so quickly."
"It can," Cain said, and with her encouragements explained a little bit how it was done, how he'd found and moved the colonies, how he'd learned the basics of beekeeping in the first place—from a woman named Missouri, he said. Joshua had introduced them.
It led them through a conversation—a stilted one, but still the longest, most civil they'd ever had, so that by the time they'd finished their coffees and Colette got ready to leave, she felt confident enough to suggest:
"Maybe we could meet up in town one of these days—if you have an errand to run or come to have your hair cut."
She realized that might not have been the most delicate hint when Cain ran a self-conscious hand through his hair.
"Yes, I haven't had much time to—" he started.
"No, I understand, I'm so—" she cut in.
"I've been busy and—"
"I know."
They both stopped talking and stood awkwardly, before they said their goodbyes.
It hadn't been the most pleasant visit, far from it, but as she drove back to town, Colette felt like she had done right by Louise and Maurice, for the first time since they'd died.
- - -
About three weeks later came a rare sunny day, probably one of the last before winter took hold of the country. The temperatures were low, though, so Colette settled for enjoying the rays of the sun through the windows of the diner, over an early lunch with Sandra.
She heard the door jingle open but paid it no heed until someone stopped beside their table and Sandra stopped talking. Colette looked up.
Cain looked a lot less wild than when she'd visited. He had indeed gotten a haircut—even though his hair remained longer than Louise had kept them—and although the beard was still here, it was now neatly trimmed, curving close to his jaw. Underneath his coat his jeans and flannel shirt were clean.
"Hello," he said. "I wanted to give these back to you." He held up a the small crate she'd brought him, the couple jars in it now empty. A third one, which wasn’t, had been added. "There's a jar of honey too, as thanks," he explained once she'd taken the crate. "In case you wanted to try it. I'll… leave you to your lunch now." She barely had the time to thank him before he was back out the door.
"Who was that?" Sandra asked after a little while, voice strangely interested.
Colette frowned. "Cain Knight," she replied. "Maurice and Louise's grandson?"
Sandra blinked. "That," she said. "That was the City Dweeb?" She turned towards the window, as if to try and catch another glimpse of him. "Damn."
Colette gazed at the jar of honey resting on the table beside her. It was a rich, deep yellow color, clear and tempting. She couldn't wait to taste it.
Damn indeed.
- - -
(In all the years that followed, Cain kept his hair carefully cut, his beard trimmed—although he let if grow a bit longer with time.
Which is why she is surprised, one day, when he comes to visit and she realizes his hair has grown long enough for a curl to topple down his forehead, down to his cheekbone.
"I know, I know," he says when she reaches out and tucks some of it behind his ear. "I haven't found the time to have it cut. Things have been unexpectedly busy with Castiel's project, we had a lot more kids this year than the last."
Colette can feel herself smile. She keeps brushing her husband's locks, remembering a time when they were much longer than that, remembering the boy who wore them. Cain's hair and beard are salt-and-pepper now, but they are no less thick, no less lush.
"You don't have to," she says. "I quite like it."
Dean has been showing her the Lord of the Rings movies, one half-movie at a time—they are ridiculously long and Dean insists they take their time to savor them properly. She has seen Aragorn. She understands the appeal.
Cain has paused and is now looking at her. Her smile widens.
- - -
Somehow, Cain never gets around to booking an appointment at the hairdresser.
Meanwhile, his hair keeps growing.
- - -
There's a new nurse on the ward. When Cain comes to visit, Colette notices her noticing him.
"Was that your husband, Mrs. Knight?" she asks once he is gone.
"Yes, it was," Colette says with a smile.
Over the years she's gotten used to the reactions of the hospital's personal to him—and she's definitely noticed a new wave of appreciative remarks since he's let his hair grow long again.
"Damn," the nurse says.
Colette might preen a little every time it happens. Internally.
"I'm very lucky," she says, "I know."
She can't wait to show her her son, and her son-in-law.)
