samson || drabble
for @stacygwendolyne
I cut his hair myself one night A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light And he told me that I'd done all right And kissed me 'til the morning light
Snow falls softly against the window, creating a hushed barrier around the Kelley house, already set apart from the rest of Waverly, the whole town sleeping under the weight of the winter silence. A fire crackles in the den, throwing shadows into the hall, warm orange light keeping the darkness from slithering up the stairs.
The Kelley house yawns around its empty rooms, stretching out its arms and searching for the people who live there. Francis and Kristin have been gone for two days, packed and away to Cork for a business meeting, a week of work turned into an impromptu couple's vacation—blissfully unaware that their seventeen year old daughter has been snowed into the house with her boyfriend. Will is gone for the night, clothes and sheet music strewn across his floor, down the street making a terrible mess of someone else's basement as part of a school chemistry project.
Laughter breaks the silence.
Bubbling up from the kitchen, Rosie Kelley's laugh makes the house stop holding its breath. She claps her hands, giggling, and a snort escapes her; wrinkling her nose and blushing she rocks back in an attempt to escape her boyfriend's reaching hands.
Alfie Connell grins up at her, sitting above him on the kitchen island, and drags his hands up and down her sides once more. She lets out another shriek of laughter, reflexively kicking out to defend herself. He jumps back to avoid her feet, socks sliding on the tiles of the kitchen floor. Alfie pitches forward, barely avoiding cracking his head on the island before he puts out his hands to catch himself.
Rosie chokes on her giggle and holds her breath, brow furrowed, as Alfie rights himself shakily, leaning a little on the island. He smiles at her.
She puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls him over to her, wrapping her legs around his waist and laying her arms around his neck. Alfie's hands come to rest on her hips and Rosie rests her forehead against his.
"Are you all right, love?" Her whisper brushes across his face and he leans in closer.
"'M fine," he mumbles. "Just tripped is all. Didn't even fall. No blood, no mess, no fuss—don't worry about it at all." He tips his head up and presses a gentle kiss to her lips.
Rosie's smile blooms again. "I worry anyway," she says, tracing patterns on the back of his neck. "With the snow the way it is, I don't think I could get you to the hospital. Don't go hurting yourself, all right?"
"Whatever you say, love."
Rosie kisses him again, fingers tangling in his hair; she laughs when he pulls away. "Your hair's getting long," she says, pushing his hair back from his forehead.
"Do you want to cut it?"
She chews her lip, nods. Within fifteen minutes—five for gathering supplies, ten for distractions of various enjoyable sorts—Alfie is sitting in a chair in the middle of the kitchen with a sheet around his shoulders; Rosie pulls her hair up into a messy bun, bright purple ends fanned out around her head. She stands between his legs with the scissors grasped carefully in her right hand and a silver comb in her left. Alfie laughs as a lock of his hair brushes the tip of his nose.
"Be still, you." Alfie laughs again and reaches for Rosie's hips; she swats his hand with the comb. "Keep your hands to yourself, or I'll fuck this up just to spite you."
He pouts, but puts his hands back in his lap.
"Rosie?"
"Yes, love?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Alfie."
///
We couldn't break the columns down No, we couldn't destroy a single one The history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us Not even once
"Alice, darling, I promise you that the applesauce goes in your mouth and not in your shoes. I am your father and I would not ever lie to you about something like this."
Allie Connell, age two, looks contemplatively at her father for several long moments. She blinks her wide blue eyes and nods solemnly. She smiles, showing off her tiny baby teeth, and lets out a gurgling peal of laughter that has her father grinning like a loon.
And then she picks up a handful of her applesauce and slaps it down onto her sock-clad feet.
Alfie sighs, resting his head in slightly sticky hands. "Rosie!" he yells, voice muffled by his palms.
"What is it, love?" Rosie's voice floats, crackling, through the baby monitor beside him, accompanied by a few worrying thumps and crashes.
"Our daughter is joining the punk movement."
"Is that so?"
"Oh, just you wait, Rosalind. Today it's applesauce crushed beneath her adorably tiny heels—tomorrow it will be the capitalist system."
"Perhaps we should master speech first, hmm?"
"Of course—so her first words can be sticking it to the man."
"You're ridiculous, Alfred."
"I can't believe you're saying that to me, when your daughter is trying to reenact Jackson Pollack's greatest hits with her lunch."
Rosie laughs, the sound catching at the back of her throat as giggles bubble up from her chest. Several crashes and the faint sound of breaking glass follow her laughter, cut off by the slightest exclamation of surprise.
Alfie throws a worried look up to the ceiling; he paces a few steps toward the kitchen door, then back to Allie. His hands hover over his daughter anxiously, ready to grab her and run down the hallway at any second. "Rosie, are you all right?"
Her reply comes immediately, easing the tightness in his chest. "I'm fine, love, just a bit of a disagreement with my elbow about how much we really needed that glass on the shelf. Could you maybe come lend a hand, though?"
"Be right there, Rosie." He lifts Allie into the air and twirls her high before depositing her in the bouncy chair suspended in the kitchen doorway. She squeals with delight and pushes her feet against the floor experimentally as Alfie calls the dog over. "Look after her, will you?" Bucky woofs gently and noses Allie's chin, making her gurgle and clap her hands.
Sure that Allie will be safe and content in the company of her favorite canine companion, Alfie makes his way through the house to the master bathroom; he doesn't run, but if he takes the stairs three at a time, well, surely no one could blame him.
The bathroom isn't nearly the nightmare he imagined. Large shards of glass have been carefully collected and places in the intact base of the glass that, until recently, had only been used to hold mouthwash. The first aid kit sits patiently on the sink beside a silver comb and a pair of slim, black-handled scissors while Rosie tries unsuccessfully to place an adhesive bandage on one of her fingers while it persists in bleeding freely.
Succeeding for the moment in quashing the panic in his chest at the sight of his fiancee bleeding, Alfie steps forward and grabs her wrist gently, guiding her to sit down in the chair beside their his-and-hers sinks. She smiles bashfully, chewing her bottom lip as he carefully cleans the cut—only hissing in pain when he drags an alcohol pad over it to disinfect. Placing the plaster is far easier for someone with two working hands at their disposal, and he pulls it securely before sticking the edges down.
Alfie gently kisses her fingers and then her forehead. "You know you're allowed to ask me for help, right, love?"
Rosie doesn't quite know how to respond, sifting through old fear, loneliness, sadness, and sheer stubborn pride before settling on the simple, "I was only trying to trim my hair. And you had the baby."
He laughs a little at her small, frustrated pout and presses a quick kiss to her lips. "How about you go change, I'll clean up in here, and then you meet me in the kitchen and I'll help you?" They both nod and go about their tasks; after a few minutes, he can hear the baby's laughter from downstairs and Rosie's excited giggles of "Peek-a-boo!"
Alfie tucks the comb and scissors into his back pocket and grabs an extra sheet from the linen closet on his way to the stairs. He finds Rosie on the floor in front of Allie, making up a wild tale suspiciously similar to Star Wars for their rapt daughter; when she catches sight of him and grins up at him, blue eyes shining and cheeks pink with joy, Alfie feels the last of a tightness in his chest he was barely aware of let go. Allie burbles gleefully at the sight of both her parents, and as Rosie pulls away to stand up, Bucky comes over to lay in her vacated spot, contentedly licking the baby's toes.
Rosie perches herself on a barstool, sheet draped around her, the purple ends of her hair trailing over her shoulders; Alfie stands between her legs, scissors in his right hand and comb in his left. Rosie fidgets, making faces at Allie cooing across the room, and Alfie swats her nose gently with the comb.
"Keep still, please—there's been more than enough bloodshed today, I think."
Rosie puts her hands in her lap and stills as he combs her hair, gazing into his face and smiling at the look of intense concentration she finds there.
"Alfie?"
"Yes, love?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Rosie."
You are my sweetest downfall I loved you first I loved you first
