Anton needs a wash, Ester loves to help.
oc/canon | captive/captor
Lukewarm water streamed down his figure, as soon as the droplets hit his thigh the warmth dissipated. He was propped on top of a plastic seat, his side legs bent to the side as he balanced his weight onto his hip. He squeezed the coral sponge; small bubbles foamed and gathered onto his lame thigh. The porous holes scratched against his skin, leaving flushed patches behind—yet Anton felt nothing.
"You need help?" Ester questioned. Her voice was as soft as a whisper only meant for his ears. Although she was sat behind him, he could hardly make out her words.
"No, I'm doing fine on my own," responded Anton, digging his nails into the sponge. His mind was wandering and he felt weak; but he had to stay alert.
Ester watched with care as he washed, roughly scrubbing up and down his arm, lathering soap over his hip and rinsing it off. She was enraptured by his routine, and even thrilled to be intertwined with it—she had to know everything. If Ester could, she would wear his skin like a jacket, seeing the world through his eyes; even then she would look at herself. She would ask every question she would know the answer to, and Ester would finally bear his name. Not in wedlock, rather embodying Anton Chigurh himself.
She ran her bony finger down his thigh, halting her nail at a gnarly scar. It's still a bit flushed, but healing well. She rubbed the bumps of the scar, feeling around the edges of the impact.
"It looks good," she spoke, tracing circles.
"Yes, yes it does," Anton returned with a soft sigh. He was fully undressed, yet Ester found new ways to bare him further.
"I'll wash your back."
He handed her the pink sponge over his shoulder, his eyes still watching the fading scar. He anchored his sight onto it while Ester methodically scrubbed his broad back. Ester's a secretive character in every sense of the way, but even Anton has come to know her. She's married to her art, and her art is her work; she's a maladaptive perfectionist.
"I'm cold," Anton blankly announced.
Warm water poured down his back. Another moment of reprieve.
"Just yer noggin left."
Thick, white cream squeezed onto his dark brown roots—she massaged the shampoo into his scalp, kneading rhythmic circles from hairline to neck. Harsh, but not harsh enough to pinch. She rubbed circled on his sides, massaged his jaw and scratched the nape of his neck. Anton leaned into the feeling. This, too, was his reprieve. The warm water rinsed through his hair. Ester scratched his scalp, careful not to leave a speck behind; she had started using a dandruff shampoo ever since Anton joined her family, not out necessity, but as prevention. She wasn't always present to tend to an itch.
She hosed the shower head onto the hold, water pouring onto Anton like rain. Two lithe arms wrapped around his abdomen, following Ester squeezing her face towards his lower back. His mind wandered somewhere else—Louisiana, off hiking or wherever home once was.
"Anton…"
His eyes tore from the stained tiles of the wall, and back to his fading scar.
"…You smell like cherries now."
