Chapter Text
“Thank you…”
Arthur was a sorry excuse for a man.
“It's nothing.”
And going soft.
He sat side by side with the girl in some cheap hotel bath room, her arm cradled in his
hands, tending to every scrape and scrap.
“It ain’t nothing .” Fariha adjusted her arm as her eyes roamed over the bandaged
skin, “You don't gotta do this.” She reiterated for the millionth time to no avail. She sank further into the warm soapy water to feel something other than the sting of antiseptic. Arthur was surprised how quickly she went from the mysterious kid stealing his shit in an alley to open and bubbly. Then again, he did save her life.
“Yeah, but I am — do not put that back in the damn water…” Arthur sighed, releasing her arm. It was painfully obvious she wasn't used to the whole ‘actual well-dressed bandages’ thing.
He had learned a few things about the girl, well, a lot since she never shut up. Fariha Abdallah was her name, born in Yemen but she barely remembered it. Her most fond memories were of her family goat herding. Wherever she came from, the women did the herding. Clad in dark colors with their skin completely covered they'd walk the goats miles across deserts western men called ‘dangerous’. Fariha merely smiled when he said that. It explained the odd funeral in red getup and the pointed straw hat (A madhalla, he learned, was used to keep their heads cool. He needed one if those) he found her in. It explained her infatuation with herding as well.
But…her parents died. From something or other, as she put it, and her uncles offered to take her in, take her to america. She didn't want to really, knew she would be one of the few girls, but the sadness hit hard and a promise of a farm with goats enticed her. She only got to go herding with her mom once…it sucked, no doubt. But her young venture to the American countryside did explain her heavy twang. She didn't look like her voice really, it scared him a little when he heard it, he could barely understand it. Course she was no longer in the pits of the south. Her family's house was burnt, a shitty man's hate crime, and being an Arab girl with an attitude never got her in any orphanages. So here she was, on the run.
What she talked the most about was the mountain goats. Nubian Ibex was their fancy scientific name. With bright eyes and a brighter smile she would explain the goats as if they were the holy lamb in the flesh. He'd never seen a kid know so much about…well… kids in his life, speak with such bold hand gestures over mundane stories of sketching them on lunch breaks. It broke his walls down little by little and by the time they were able to go back into town without a pestering sheriff…he found himself buying her clothes, necessities and food he guarded so closely from her.
There was one thing he wanted to ask.
“You know…once when me and my brother were younger we camped out in one place for awhile. You know, cuz’ of the gang?” he waited until she nodded as if he hadn't already spilled that can of beans, he was screwed if she was some undercover pinkerton, “And there was this small shop owned by two ladies. Mother and daughter. It smelled like spice heaven in there, sweet and salty all at once…I miss it everyday. But the woman wore a headscarf like yours, a— what's it called?”
“A hijab.” Fariha filled in the blanks for him, “I'm not wearing that— well I kinda am—but not fully. Hijabs are for modesty, to cover your hair.”
She reached up to touch her bangs, curling a strand around her finger, “I stole the look from my ma. Women only need to cover their hair after marriage and it usually didn't look like this because she stole the look from the muslim ladies around town and how we dressed for herding…”
Fariha paused her rant as she took in his confused face. Was she talking too fast? Did she need to tone down the accent? Then it hit her,
“Im Jewish, not muslim.”
“ Oh.”
She snorted, “Is that why you told me to keep my scarf on in the water while you babbled on about getting some bandages wet?”
Arthur raised his hands up in defense, “The girls at that shop said men can't see their hair, wasn't trying to overstep anything.”
“I'm in the bath. You are cleaning my wounds.”
“Yeah well when you put it that way I sound like a dumbass huh?”
The girl smiled with a small gap in her front teeth, like a bunny. Apparently one that could bite given she killed a man.
“No it's actually…really nice.”
The silence hung more comfortably now as he finished up another scratch. It made his stomach churn looking at the black and blue and red marks, thinking about how she would have been shot dead over what? Wanting to eat?
“You're all patched up. You ready to go?” Arthur broke the silence, sitting back on the floor.
Fariha hesitated, picking at the slightly damp hem of her scarf, “Can you…help with my hair?”
There was an undeniable fear that hung on her every word. If not fear, guilt. She didn't want to want . She didn't want help, but now that she had it she knew she should seize the moment, that's what her mama always said.
Arthur would have softened up if he wasn't already completely melted butter. Maybe he was broiling now.
“Sure kid…”
His hands gently pried off her scarf. He didn't know what he expected from a homeless dirt infused kid who hid their hair, but whatever it was, what she had was worse. She had long black hair, thick and curly, but it was hard to tell with the sheer amount of matting. He could barely deal with his own hair, let alone some girls crypt keeper levels of hair that went down to her lower back.
“ Jesus Fariha…” he sighed, already gauging how the hell he would deal with this damn mess.
“hell I know it's bad,” she rubbed her eyes, not because she wanted to cry…well she did out of sheer embarrassment but that was beside the point, “You ain't gotta do it if you don't wanna-”
“I'm doing it kid. You're fine.” Arthur snapped.
He didn't fully understand why he was doing this for some stranger — no. This wasn't a stranger.
This was Fariha. Fariha just turned 12. Her favorite color was red. And most of all, she loved goats.
Aurthrs nails scratched at her scalp slowly, scrubbing away the dirt little by little. The soothing motion caused her to slowly unwind her shoulders and sunk into his hold. Eventually she broke the comfortable silence, starting in small whispers in thanks that devolved to yapping about whatever she was thinking about…now it was sheering goat hair back at home, which he found fitting.