Chapter Text
Before, Sam would never have presumed to do anything so simple for Edgar. One thing he had learned quickly about him, was that he hated having anything done for him, that he could do for himself. He was used to being in control. Once, Sam had wholly believed he liked it that way. But when Sam looked up from the dribbling tap, he saw Edgar watching it, fixedly. He saw his arms crossed, tightly over his chest like a binding, his hands burrowed up into his armpits. He saw his bleary eyes darkening, welling afresh as if in mimicry of the tap, as it spat and belched into the sink. Sam fleetingly wondered if he too, might lurch forward and vomit into the shallow bowl. And he saw his red bandana, peaking through his hair, overgrown and heavy with salt and grease. He looked so frightened, immobile, making no move to undress himself. So, Sam reached out to help him.
Edgar had flinched from Sam’s hands before, when he had gotten careless. That he would have expected. But now, Edgar only drew up his shoulders and anticipated Sam’s touch with wide, glossy eyes. A calf in an abattoir. Sam’s heart clenched at the sight and he paused.
“I’m just gonna take your bandana off, okay, Bud?”
He waited for a nod. None came, but Edgar stayed put, his shoulders wilting a little. Sam pushed out a long held breath and slowly reached behind his head. Gently, he parted the slick thatch to find the knot. It was so loose, a light brush unraveled it. As Sam peeled the strip from Edgar’s head, he found the fabric stiff and cold. Weeks and weeks of dead skin and oil had impregnated it. It was frosty where it had clung to his forehead. Sam peered back into Edgar’s face. His eyes were hidden behind fallen locks and his cracked lips had pulled back in a grimace. Loss of pressure, Sam supposed. Without a word this time, he began to pick the clumped hair from his friend’s sticky face. He found him looking back at him, licking his teeth to banish traces of discomfort. Edgar seemed to be studying Sam, his watery gaze drifting over his face with a reverence that an outsider might have missed. Sam smiled at him, kneading his shoulder, firmly.
“C’mon, Buddy, let’s get your face washed.”