Work Text:
Click click click.
Click click click.
One of the things Dea loved best about knitting was the sounds. The clean rhythmic tap that the needles made against one another.
She was knitting a pair of gloves for Gwynplaine. A more ambitious project than anything she’d tried before (after all, knitting a scarf only involved casting on, knitting your heart out, then casting off), but she had a good feeling about it.
She was doing her best not to knit too fast. That was the danger; she’d get too enthusiastic, and her piece would end up a few inches longer than she intended. So instead she was knitting a little slower than her usual place, running her fingers over the stitches to count them from time to time.
Of course, Gwynplaine wouldn’t need gloves if he’d remembered to buy himself some when he’d bought her a pair, but he’d forgotten. But that was Gwynplaine all over – he’d be so caught up in looking out for her that he’d forget his own needs.
She still remembered a conversation she’d overheard between Gwyn and Ursus back when they were both very young and money had been tight. Gwynplaine had suggested that to bring in money he could star in a freak show. Ursus had taken him into the next room and had a very, very quiet argument with Gwynplaine, both of them unaware that Dea had her ear pressed to the crack in the door. Ursus had been adamant that Gwynplaine should not exhibit himself like that, strengthening his position after Gwynplaine admitted that he didn’t think he’d enjoy showing off his face.
“Why on earth did you suggest it?” Ursus had whispered furiously.
“Because if I can make money then Dea won’t be hungry,” Gwynplaine had replied, with all the conviction that a just-turned-thirteen-year-old can muster.
There had been a rustle of fabric, and Dea was pretty sure that meant that Ursus had hugged Gwynplaine.
That had been nearly ten years ago now. These days, Ursus was a tenured professor of philosophy, and food was a regular, three-meals-a-day occurrence.
These days, Gwynplaine had proper masks that he could wear, in a variety of patterns and colours, instead of an old red scarf of Ursus’s that had served to hide his mutilated face.
(Gwynplaine still wore the scarf sometimes, just not as a substitute for a mask. He said it was comforting. Dea suspected that it was because it was the first gift he’d ever been given after he ended up in foster care.)
These days, the reason why Gwynplaine didn’t have gloves wasn’t because they couldn’t afford it, but because he’d forgotten. ‘Buy gloves’ had been pushed further down his to-do list, underneath last-minute editing for his shadow-puppet film which would begin showing at a local theatre next week, and driving Dea to and from university.
Dea knew that by the time Gwynplaine got back from the grocery run, his fingers would be freezing.
She felt slightly guilty about it, but she didn’t mind too much if his fingers were cold. If he came home with icy hands then, well, it was only natural for Dea to warm his fingers up again. A guaranteed five-to-ten minutes of holding hands with Gwynplaine wasn’t anything she would ever complain about.
Still, cold fingers weren’t good, especially for a puppeteer, so here she was knitting gloves in the softest wool she could find.
*
The sound of the car pulling into the driveway had Mojo’s tail thumping enthusiastically against the carpet. In the time it took Gwynplaine to walk to the front door and unlock it, Dea had stowed the gloves in her basket of ongoing knitting projects. She wanted them to be a surprise, and they wouldn’t be finished for another day or so.
“Is it cold out?” she called.
“Freezing,” he said from the hallway.
Dea heard him carry the shopping bags to the kitchen and put the groceries away, and then he was coming back down the hallway to the living room.
He sat down next to her. “Do anything fun while I was gone?”
“Just some knitting.”
The timbre of his breathing changed.
“You’re worried about something.”
She heard him swallow. “I just… the film starts showing in a week, and I’m worried. It’s good – I know that it’s good, I’ve worked so hard on it, I know that it’s a great piece of theatre, but I think that might be what I’m scared of.”
“You’re worried that you’ll be too successful?”
“Yes, I…” he shifted slightly. “On one hand, if my movie is a success then it could make my career. But on the other hand…”
Dea reached out and found Gwynplaine’s hand on her second try. Even after several minutes indoors, his fingers were still cold to the touch. “On the other hand?”
“What if it gets successful enough that people start writing reviews? A lot of reviews? And then they might want a picture of me, and then…”
Dea knew that there was a picture of Gwynplaine in the advertising for his shadow puppet film. She also knew that Ursus had taken it very artfully. In it, Gwynplaine was resting his head on folded arms, and between the shadows and the way that he was posed and the fact that it was black and white, the scars would only be visible to someone who knew they were there.
“If they ask for a photo we can send them a copy of the one Ursus took.”
“But what if they want a different one? Either way, if someone meets me, I’ll be wearing a mask, and sooner rather than later, someone will ask why. I just – I don’t want it to become a big public thing, and I definitely don’t want anyone to dig up… y’know.”
Dea did know. One of the best things about finally having enough money in the house was that Gwynplaine had started seeing a proper therapist. From what he had told her, Dr Angelica was eccentric, but very good at her job. Gwyn was definitely having fewer nightmares than before he’d started seeing her.
Dea also knew that the cold couldn’t be helping Gwynplaine feel any better. Cold weather – especially snow – held a lot of memories for both of them. Gwynplaine had been maimed on a snowy winter day, carved up by a lackey on orders from the city’s biggest crime boss because his parents had dared try and help the poor and needy.
For Dea, cold was the snowy day when they’d first met, Gwynplaine pulling her out of the way of a car which had swerved up onto the pavement so suddenly that Mojo hadn’t been able to warn her. In spite of the way it was tinged with adrenaline, it was a happy memory for Dea. Still, cold weather made Gwynplaine sad, and for that, the cold made Dea a little sad too.
She took his hand in both of hers and kissed it. “If they ask for a photo, we’ll give them the black and white one,” she repeated.
“And if they ask for one with my face more visible?”
“Then we’ll say that it’s the greyscale photo, or a photo of you in a mask, or nothing. And if they ask for anything else then they’re arseholes, and they’ll have to deal with me.”
A lot of people thought that Dea would be a pushover because she was blind. She was more than happy to prove them wrong; she’d trained Mojo to growl on command. Large and black, he could be intimidating when he needed to be. Dea suspected that there was some wolf in him, somewhere in his family tree.
Gwynplaine traced a finger along her jawline softly, delicately. “Tell me that it’ll be alright?”
“It’ll be fine.”
He pulled his hand back, and Dea heard him fumble at his mask, pulling it off, and then they were kissing.
Some might think it strange, but Dea always closed her eyes when Gwynplaine kissed her. She breathed him in, slid her hand up into his curls, pulled him closer. Dea felt the thin ridges of the scars on his lips under her mouth. He brought his hand up to cradle the back of her head, and Dea tilted her head, deepening the kiss.
By the time they were done they were practically in each other’s laps, Dea’s head tucked under Gwynplaine’s chin.
“Oh,” said Gwynplaine, pulling away from Dea slightly.
“What is it?”
“I just remembered. I was going to buy gloves at the shop, but I forgot.”
“That’s alright,” said Dea, with a small smile.