Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything in this cabin has a history. The cabin itself has a history. It's written in the tiles of the bathroom, the oaken eyes of hardwood walls, the way the floors creak and whistle.

The bathroom, however, tells a very specific story: that whoever built it had never seen a human before. It's the tub that really does it in; maybe it isn’t actually a tub, maybe it‘s a jacuzzi- or whatever passed for a jacuzzi when this cabin was built.

You stare at Jake.

The tub makes him look tiny. Or maybe it’s because the tub is massive, maybe he’s just normal sized in comparison, but he- really looks so small. Fragile, is that the word? You can’t really remember it now. All you can seem to focus on is Jake, sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at the floor. Dried blood’s gone and crusted the tiles, and he’s tracing the lines of red in the cracks. Blood from him. His arm, his clothes, his, everything.

“Jake,” you begin with only a little weak voice, “Can I hug you again?”

He looks up at you vaguely and nods, and you’re slow and careful as you approach him, wrapping your arms around him gently and trying not to squeeze. Or tremble. You’re shaking with two parts rage and one part hurt, and he leans right into the touch like he hasn’t been hugged in years. Maybe it has been years. Maybe he’s shaking too. There’s blood and dirt rubbing off on you, but your shirt is already well beyond ruined, so you hold him a little while longer.

The water in the tub has filled up by the time you let go. The air is all warm, but a little fan pushes out some of the steam, letting you inhale without it sounding like a little rasping breath because you’re trying really hard not to cry actually, it’s fine, it’s fine.

“Right,” you keep your hand on Jake’s shoulder, give it a little protective nudge, “Can you get undressed? If you can?”

You’re not going to say he even has to. If he honestly wants to bathe in his clothes, well, he’s deserved that right after what’s happened. But it would be pretty gross. So you hope he won’t.

Jake looks at his gloved hand for a moment, and while normally you’d make a joke about it, you can only barely stop yourself from making a sad little noise. It still kind of comes out, but it sounds more like indigestion than pain, so that’s fine. Jake makes an equally sad indigestion noise.

“Yeah,” he manages. And then he’s slowly, slowly working his way out of his gloves. One inch at a time. The gloves are sticking to his skin in some places, cuts that had blood dry and now he’s ripping them open again and- okay no, this is painful to even watch. You focus instead on rummaging around the sink for some soap. Or shampoo. You’ve got a shampoo that smells like Arctic Flannel Blast and a conditioner that smells like Winter Frosted Peach, and you have no idea what either of those smell like, actually, despite the names, so you take out both anyway with something like a shrug. In that time, Jake’s managed to get off both his gloves, and now he’s working his way out of his jacket with the dirt of grim expression of a man about to get his arm sawed off in a war.

“Let me help,” you say before realizing, and he shoots you an exhausted yet spiteful expression, which works, you think, until he gets his hand stuck in his sleeve and can’t find the energy to get it out. So you’re both staring then.

“Fine,” he whispers. He sounds so tired. Bone-broken, beaten, tired. He’s always been stubborn when it comes to what he can and can’t do, and you understand it, really, but he’s also about to collapse and drown in a bathtub, so.

“Sorry,” you shrug in a way that says exactly how not sorry you are. You’re careful as you extract his arms from his jacket, and then you set that jacket on a hanger with a mental note to literally wash the evil from it. Jake’s got a long-sleeved shirt on underneath that, which might have been blue at some point but now looks more like it’s been through the war. All of them. This one takes a little bit more time, and you don’t even think you can clean this thing but you’re gonna give it a try anyway.

“Hold on,” you warn, as you both wiggle his legs out from his pants. He’s got gauze wrapped tight right below his left knee, and when you get the pants off fully, you realize, oh. Oh, that doesn’t look good at all. Actually, you decide as you glance him over, none of this looks good. There’s gonna be a lot of scars. You drop the cargo pants into a quarantine hamper and turn around, motioning for him to get rid of his boxer briefs. Jake is your best friend, and you’re going to help him bathe so he doesn’t kill himself, but you also don’t want to see your best friends dick. At least not under these circumstances. Soon, there’s the muffled thump of underwear being dropped into the basket with the pants, and you realize, hm, you’re going to have to turn around to get him into the tub.

The instant you turn back around, though, your awkward reservations get sidelined by just... sadness. Jake really looks awful. He looks so so tiny, and hurt, and he’s hunching over like the weight of the world has crushed him. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable. It actually hurts. You’re sure your face is a mess of grief too, and you step over to him, pretending this is fine, that you see this all the time and in fact this is basically just a normal thing.

“I’ve got it,” Jake grunts and tries to push your helping arm away, except he just leans against it instead, letting you help him slide into the jacuzzi tub thing. He plops down like a pierogi into a pot of water, and then he’s motionless, also like a pierogi in a pot of water. If he looked small before, he definitely does now. You make a strangled noise. The water turns a murky, hazy color, which isn’t really a color but if it was it would be a relative to the Blue (?) shirt.

“Okay,” you begin, “Okay. Let’s- soap. We got soap, hold on,” and you grab the soap bar. Milk soap? You don’t remember where you even bought this, but it says it’s good for the skin. It’s a lily-white bar that immediately turns mottled and dark as you test it over Jake’s arm, and you look to him for a moment, “Alright?”

Jake’s eyes aren’t quite closed but they’re a near thing, and he’s leaning on wall of the tub, resting his head down and watching the waters swirl. You poke his neck with the soap bar, and he grunts vaguely.

“Yeah,” he finally says, and that’s all on that. He doesn’t even have the energy to take the soap, or do anything. If it was anyone else you might’ve said some joke and then avoided this situation all together, but this was Jake, and Jake was hurt- had been hurt, was still hurting, whatever thing had happened- and you aren’t going to just leave him. It’s Jake; your best friend.

“Okay,” you suck in a breath and decide, “Okay. I can- ‘s okay, we can do this. Hold on.”

Your hair has gotten long enough that you can tie it back with a bandana, and the bangs only drift out a little. It’s one of those things you keep putting off and putting off and- and, there’s always a better time, and this time is no different. You shuck off your shirt and then you’re leaning fully over the tub, grabbing at the empty water cup on the other lip. Jake watches you, barely.

“‘M gonna do your hair first,” you mumble around a mouthful of comb, “Here.”

The cup and soap are set down. You take the comb from your mouth and then begin to card it through Jake’s hair. It’s greasy in some places, crusty with blood in others, wounds that healed wrong and cuts that went too deep. The knots are hard to work out, but you use a gentle hand, careful. Holding parts of the hair in your hand so you don’t tug too hard. You don’t remember how hair care is supposed to go but you think it goes like this. Then, you’re setting the comb down and going for the water cup. Filling it up, bringing it to his head.

“Ok, ‘m gonna tilt your head back a little,” you say. You remember this. Remember being tiny, your mother saying the same words, doing the same thing you do now. You let the water wash over Jake’s hair and then you’re scrubbing at it, working the water in, watching layers of grime and blood go with it. The shampoo- was it flannel or peaches? You don’t remember. You grab it anyway, popping it open and smearing it over your palm and then between your fingers. Like the smell of Frozen Flannel Blast could soothe years of hurt and missed apologies. You work it into Jake’s scalp, scrunching your hands up and down, and you can imagine that the careful way you lather his hair says things like, I’m sorry I snapped at you before you disappeared, I’m sorry I didn’t really apologize before, I’m sorry that I’m not sorry enough.

Bitterness tastes like steam and mint toothpaste, it seems. And Arctic Flannel Breeze.

You’ve worked Jake’s hair into a lather that’s all grey and muddy, and you wash it off with another cup full of water, the ruddy streams going down his shoulders and back. He’s got new scars there, criss-crossing lines and burn marks and bruises that haven’t quite healed. One is shaped like a hand print, right on his neck, and you can’t stop the way you squeeze the cup too hard and the plastic makes a sharp pop. How much of the blood is his own? Jake doesn’t seem to notice your expression, and that’s good, that’s fine. There’s gonna be time to talk later. Not now. You occupy yourself with putting more of Flannel Blizzard Blast into his hair and definitely not choking back angry tears.

You think his hair is reasonably clean after the second wash. The water in the tub has taken a turn for the worse, and you turn the tap back on, letting some of the gross out through the drain. The next part- conditioner. It smells like eating lunch in the middle of winter, peaches split between two people. You can’t remember the last time you even had a peach. Your grandmother had always complained about American peaches anyway, so maybe that was one of those ‘better off’ situations.

“I’ve gotta work this in before the soap,” you tell Jake, just to do something with your voice. Your arms are covered with water, rivets going down your chest where you forget. Steam’s gone and plastered short hairs to your neck, and the conditioner feels almost slimy in your hands. Oily, is that the word? You work it carefully into Jake’s hair, and now he smells just kind of strange, with the blood and the flannel (?) and the peaches. It’s not it’s a bad small, though. Minus the blood. You take handfuls of his hair and gently scrunch your fingers around, working the conditioner to the roots, pulling the pieces away from his face where they fall. Jake leans his head back a little too far, though, and then he’s leaned against your chest, almost asleep.

This is nice, a part of you thinks. You smile and then set your chin on top of his head, wrapping your arms lightly around him, relaxing for the moment. You drift side to side and he buoys slightly in the water. It is nice. A part of you still can’t stand being touched by anyone else, but this is nice. It makes you feel useful. Less bitter.

A lot less bitter.

You do pull back, though, after a few minutes. You’ll fall asleep like that if you aren’t careful, and now you’ve got conditioner on your chest and neck. Kind of not great. Slimy. You crinkle your face and then grab the bar of soap, turning the facet off now that the tub is mostly clear-ish again. The milk soap smells like nothing, but you sniff it anyway out of curiosity.

“Jake, I’m gonna need to use the soap now,” you warn. Or say. It feels like something you needed to announce, and he looks at you blearily.

“Ok.”

You nod again. Your hands are cautionary as you lift up his arm, and then you’re rubbing the soap, up and down, working layers of grime away with the strokes. Revealing more blood, dried blood, scabs and scars, painful things. The blood comes off. The scars never will. He’s got scars on the edges of his elbows, the backs of his arms, places you’d crawl across the ground. Or where you’d raise your arm up to protect yourself from someone.

“Quit it,” Jake mumbles. You splash some water at him, but stop staring, mostly. You lather up a handful of suds and then take his right hand carefully in your own; working your fingers between his, dipping the hand back into the water after and letting it all swirl away. You repeat it with the left hand, and the arm, and there’s a bruise like a hand on his wrist that makes him hiss when you ghost over it.

“I’m sorry,” you say. And nothing more.

His shoulders are easier. Not really, but the shampoo‘s gone and loosened up the mud and blood, and it’s not as bad as the places where his skin was exposed. You‘re mindful of the neck bruise, and there’s a faded line of purple trailing down his throat, and you don’t ask, just letting the milk that is soap do the talking. He’s still got those little spots along his upper back, but they’re joined by ugly slashes that haven’t healed. You sniff again. It’s just the steam, and it’s fine.

Under his arms now. The soap bubbles burst and tickle enough that Jake fidgets, rotating in the water a little like a hot dog in brine. You bring the soap bar down more. To his chest, upper chest, where you can see his ribs protruding. Skinny. Too skinny. His shoulders, his sides. You don’t really have words. You could rage and say whatever happened to him did this. But you don’t think that’s how it works. You think this happened before, when he’d been gone, when he’d left for the forest and you’d yelled and hollered and said he was a coward. Oh. How bitter. The soap rubs at his stomach, looks so hollow, and you sigh.

Have you said sorry enough today? You don’t feel like you have. You scrub at his sides and dislodge more blood, more soot, and then you’re bringing the soap back up his back, making big circles around his spine and avoiding the ugly burn that’s stretched across his skin. Did he whimper? Was that you? You squeeze the soap so hard that it rockets into the tub, and then you have to fish it out and murmur an apology. Another apology. What’s one more? The air is already thick with steam and things unsaid, and the rare breeze from the fan, rotating lazily, is welcome.

What you want to say is, I’m sorry for all those years ago. You didn’t deserve that. Or maybe you did, but not like that. But when you open your mouth, what comes out is, “Can you move your legs for a second?”

Jake complies wordlessly. It makes you kind of sick; he’d always fight everything, even without a reason. Can you move your seat? Can I copy your homework? Can you at least tell me what I did wrong? And now he doesn’t.

You lean over the tub, as much as you can now, stretching your torso and arms to reach out to his legs. The water’s still warm, and you let your hands dance around in it for a moment, pushing away bubbles. Jake’s relaxed, but his muscles are still tensed in a way that’s ready to run at any moment, even with his eyes closed. You hesitate before you touch the soap to his legs. Letting him tell you to stop. He doesn’t, and so you complete the motion, bringing the soap down and scrubbing carefully. It shouldn’t be as bad as his arms, but somehow it is. At the knees, where the grime is layered with fat strips of blood. Dirt and mud near the ankles, burns in electric patterns, like the ones you can see on his neck, stretching up to his scalp. You pretend that he’s ticklish, and that’s why he twitches when you wash the blood away. Not something else.

It’s a lie that almost works.

“That’s the last of it,” you say, tilting your head back. Loose hair falls over your eyes, ones that escaped the bandana, the others one plastered to your face and neck by sweat and steam. Jake drifts a little in the water- water that’s gone gray now, gray and brown and rusty, smells like campfires and peaches. He drifts, and you let yourself drift just a little too. Lay your head down on the lip of the tub, where your arms float in the water. The steam’s gone and made everything seem like a hazy, unreal dream. Like it’ll disappear if you blink too hard. There and gone, like Jake in his camper, the woods that swallowed him whole and spat him back out on your doorstep.

But the moment can’t last. The water gets colder, and your back starts to hurt from how you’re hunched over. So you push back, grabbing some of the towels from under the sink and bringing them to the tub. To anyone else, Jake might look like he’s sleeping. But there’s the way his shoulders are hunched just a little, how his eyes are squeezed shut too tight.

“It’s okay,” you hear yourself saying, “‘S okay.”

Somehow, his shoulders loosen. Just a little. Your hands reach out, and you hesitate, ask, “Hey. Can you stand up?”

His eyes open. He makes a rasping noise, but manages a reply, “I think so.” He’s moving with shaking arms and uncertain legs, and you still reach out to help him, even if he can, because he’s your friend, your best friend. Because it’s Jake; that’s all it has to be. You steady him with your hands, and if he leans maybe too heavily on you, well, no one will say anything. You lean on him a little. To remember he’s here, and he’s real. Jake stumbles out of the tub, and then you’re both standing there, on the bathmat, blanketed in steam and just holding each other.

Forgiveness smells like peaches and flannel.

You’ll have to both dry off. The towels are sitting there, waiting. But for now- but for now, you’ll just stand there. Supporting each other. Everything you should’ve said before, now you have time to. A cabin in the woods. A second chance. A history traced in scars and metal. So you stand in that bathroom with the too-large tub, and if Jake grips you like a lifeline, well, that’s okay; you hold him just as tight, too.

Chapter Text

Eggplants start off little buds of white, growing large and heavy as they drag onto the ground, purple like a bruise. And zucchini grows like a weed; no matter how much you harvest, there’s always more. Zucchini bread, zucchini roast. Zucchini smoothies. Zucchini.

You like the bell peppers most. The recipe calls for red and orange, but you’ve only got green. Armfuls of green peppers, with the eggplant, the zucchini.

Jake is laying on the whicker sofa you’ve got outside. He doesn’t need to be. Really, you said he could’ve stayed inside, but he doesn’t want to, you think. Didn’t really say anything, but his eyes are beautiful and expressive even underneath the black; don’t stay alone, and keep an eye on the exits. Even your home isn’t secure enough. So he’s here in the garden, watching you tug a bell pepper off its stem, placing it in the crook of your elbow.

You look back to Jake. Now, what do you say? It’s not about the peppers. It’s about the way you just gave that eggplant a dirty look. The thought of a bruise filters through your mind again, and you shoot another quick, furtive glance to Jake’s exposed neck. The outline of a hand is still clear. Your own hand grips the eggplant a little too tightly, feeling the skin indent, and it take’s another moment before you cut it away from its stem and put it down in your arm.

“Are you cold?” There. That’s something to settle on. Jake is swathed in one of your thick plaid shirts, the kind with padded elbows. Good for digging out mushrooms in the forest. “Want a blanket? I’ve got a few.” More than a few.

But Jake shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

He might be lying. You start cutting the zucchini faster, because it’s warmer inside the house, and the way the sun is starting to drift heavy towards the horizon is making Jake fidget. That much, you can notice. He never liked the dark. Now, after… after whatever happened, he must hate it. The sunset will be a bloodied one, the sun already bleeding red rays and dappling your exposed arms with it. A few of the droplets of sweat have captured the light, and you are perhaps a bit too brutal with how you cut down two stems of tarragon, too abrupt with how you turn your back to the horizon so you don’t have to see it anymore. It just makes your shadow stretch long, reaching out towards Jake, and he looks to you.

“You still like thyme, right?” you say instead of anything else. “I’m drying some near the fridge. We can use it in the ratatouille.”

Jake’s mouth twitches; it’s a little thing, the way his bottom lip shifts to the left, then back again. Not a smile. Close enough. He always hated when you pronounced it thyme, not thyme. Herb, not herb. You set your trimmer down and nestle the eggplant under your arm, and Jake stands up with your movement.

So you hand him one of the zucchini.

“Careful. It’s still wet from the rain.”

You can’t exactly clench around a zucchini either, since the skin can be broken by fingernails too easily. It leaves awful little indents and then zucchini juice on you and under your nails. Good to remind yourself to relax, though. So that’s why Jake is holding one. You hipcheck the door open, propping it open with your foot until Jake is beside you, then letting the door slam back closed-

Eyes wide, you jam your foot into the doorway at the last second. The almost slam becomes a muffled thud, and Jake only startles a little.

“Sorry. The house is tilted a little, did you know that?” Dragging Jake away from the door, wheedling his mind away from the fear with words. “The foundations are settling weird still, so it’s tilted. The door slams whenever I close it. Awful. Hey, you used to use cast iron, right? Help me season it tomorrow. I can’t get the hang of using it so I’ve been using the stuff from the store, you know, when I lived in the city and would go to IKEA every so many months…”

The words are just a stream. They follow you as you set the vegetables down, as you turn on the faucet, as you dig through drawers for the one good knife. The more you speak, the more you don’t want to stop. It’s easier this way. It’s like you never left the city at all, like nothing changed. Almost. Too close to almost, too near to suffocation.

You embed the knife into the middle of the eggplant and you stop talking.

“Jake, come here. It’s easier to cook with someone else.” Now that is a lie.

But it’s what you say.

Jake complies. You hear him get up, watch him slowly shuffle towards the kitchen, and then you pull out one of the dining chairs and motion for him to sit. It’s a nice spot; perfect angle of the entire house, back to the wall. You pull the blanket off the nearby cupboard table and, after a moment, you set the folded length of it onto Jake’s legs.

His eyes are still so brown. Even exhausted and near hollow, you’d know them anywhere. Your hand reaches out, and after a moment, you slowly grab his. Letting him stop you, but he doesn’t. Just lets you squeeze it and exhale. Your inhale smells of a peach orchard coming out of winter.

“You aren’t alone,” murmurs a voice like yours but quieter than ever it should be. You let his hand go. “Cooking is better with friends. So you can be my spotter, how about that?”

“Your spotter?” He seems to mull the words around. You imagine he isn’t exactly familiar with French cooking, kind of like how you aren’t either, but that’s where the fun comes from. “Okay.”

You smile. You let him go. The sun sets bloody red, but the inside of your house is warm gold and home.