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“C’mere love,” mumbles a familiar voice, rousing you from your light sleep. You’d been drifting, eyes closed and heart rate slowed, but not fully unconscious. You feel warm fingers stroking at your temple, and you turn towards the touch, blinking blearily. Soap’s face comes into your blurry view, eyes tender. Then the aches of your body register, and you curl away from him in pain, wincing. Your fists clench; you press them into your lower belly, where the muscles are tight and sore. “Bonnie?” he tries, note of concern in his Scottish burr.
“It hurts,” you moan plaintively, curling into a ball where you lay on your side. He lets out a light chuckle, a loving exasperation, and his fingers leave your temple, only for his hands to skate down your back, palms applying light pressure in their wake. They settle at the base of your spine, massaging with a firm pressure just above the crest of your ass where you’re most tender.
“I’ve run you a nice, warm bath,” he mutters in your ear, ducking down to press a quick peck to the hinge of your jaw. “Sound nice, aye? Have a li’l soak?”
You give a reluctant nod, and before you can really register what’s happening, he’s got your baggy, gray sweatpants around your ankles — actually, they might be his sweatpants — and he’s tugging upward on the hem of your shirt, which is definitely his, a worn, faded Glasgow Rangers tee that was too soft to pass up on when you fished it out of his clean laundry. You feel like a child as he undresses you, thought not occurring to you to protest as he maneuvers your helpless arms from the sleeves, tugs the worn cotton carefully up over your face and hair, takes a cheeky paw at your bare breasts. But then his fingers touch the hem of your underwear — the old, oversized, period panties you reserve for this first day hell, and you go into fight or flight mode, flinching violently. Soap immediately raises his hands in defense, eyes widening fractionally. “Love —”
“Let me do this,” you tell him, calming slightly at his retreat. “It’ll be a big mess otherwise, I —”
Soap’s gentle sigh has you trailing off, and he dares to run another hand over your back soothingly. “What do they call me?” he asks you, eyebrow hiking up his forehead.
You set him with a look before responding, “Soap.”
“Aye. Think I got that name ‘cause I can’t handle a li’l mess?”
You look away, and you know your frustration is evident in your voice when you respond. “This is different though, it’s —”
“Naw, it’s not. I want to take care of you. Let me.” He leans over your prone form, wrapping one arm carefully around your shoulders and hooking the other under your knees, lifting you into his arms with ease, and he holds you against his chest as he maneuvers you carefully into the bathroom. The air is warm, almost muggy, and the bath is almost comically overflowing with suds, the fragrant scent of whatever soap he’s added pleasant to your nose. He’s even lit a candle, tucked onto one of the tub surround’s shelves. He adjusts you in his arms, muttering, “Careful now, love,” as he sets you on shaky legs. You feel almost like a newborn doe as he hooks two fingers into the hem of your panties, tugging them down your legs. You can’t look at the mess of your pad; telltale, traitorous tears prick at the back of your eyes out of shame as he helps you step out of them and wordlessly rips the offending pad out, rolling it into itself and wrapping it in a few sheets of toilet tissue before discarding it in the bin, as if it’s no big deal. Maybe it isn’t. But he catches sight of your face then, and freezes.
“Hen,” he says softly, sighing, stepping closer and reaching forward to cup your cheeks in his broad hands, thumbs swiping below your eyes at the tears that have betrayed you. “It’s alright. You don’t have to hide from me. Nothing to be… embarrassed about, is tha’ it?” You avert your eyes, nodding once, blinking away all the overwhelming emotions raging through you.
“Just didn’t want you to see me like this,” you admit softly, wrinkling your nose. “I’m a mess. And it’s just… well, it’s gross.”
“You’re a far cry from gross, Bonnie, I promise you that,” he rumbles, and when you chance a glance up at him, he offers you a roguish grin, winking. “Look at ye.
“Now,” he continues, letting one hand drop to your hip, long fingers spanning from the front of your thigh to curl around to your cheek. He gives your hipbone a gentle squeeze. “You’re burning bubbles. Ge’ in, have a soak. You’ll feel better. I should know — my area of expertise,” he adds with a teasing grin before pressing a kiss to your forehead.