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There’s a rush of warmth that embraces Yor as soon as she opens the door to their home; it’s a small, soft breeze that she never gets tired of even after years of repetition.
Home, she thinks, with little less than bliss, the word akin to a balm for her tired mind.
“Welcome home,” Loid’s quiet voice rings from the couch. He’s still awake and dressed despite the late hour, Yor notes with little surprise and great fondness, as she takes out her shoes and aligns them neatly along his and Anya’s.
He’d been waiting for her, newspaper in his lap and mug brought to his lips, despite her insistence that he goes to bed before her undoubtedly late return after work, and she feels torn between scolding him gently and thanking him for doing so.
She’s always grateful for his company.
“I’m back,” she greets him, before adding kindly, “You shouldn’t have waited for me.”
Loid only gives her a knowing smile, before he takes in her ragged appearance – sympathy dawns on his face, along with shy concern.
“Rough day?”
Yor knows what she looks like; a bloody mess in the most literal way. She’d been careful not to leave a trail of red splatters behind her as she walked home, having barely the energy to clean herself up after her assignment.
Days like this made her terribly grateful towards Loid’s, and it had become even more of a truth nowadays; it was just so much easier, not having to hide blood or injuries when coming home. He always cooked warm, delicious food for her after a harsh mission, and he trusted her with his own bloodstained suits. They rarely talked of their assignments, and never in detail when they did, but it always felt nice to talk about a mundane subject like work – especially when theirs were anything but.
“Messy day,” she corrects with a tired smile, knowing he’d understand. The assignment itself hadn’t been hard – but there had been more people to get rid of than what had been anticipated, and the cleanup afterwards was always an arduous chore. “It went alright, though.”
He’s standing before her in a second, newspaper still clutched in hand, checking for visible injuries or even traces of it, and Yor shakes her head in what she hopes to be a reassuring gesture – it works, clearly, as the slight tension in his shoulders melts away.
“Good work,” he praises – she can’t help but preen at those two simple words – as he finally folds his newspaper and his reading glasses to put them on the kitchen counter, the latter toppled aside – an habit she’d always found terribly endearing. “Did you walk home?”
She nods. “Mh-mh. It was too late for buses anyway, and I didn't want to attract attention to myself.”
“You should have called me,” he tells her gently as he helps her out of her coat. “I would have picked you up.”
Yor shakes her head, and gives him a pointed look. “I didn’t want to wake you or Anya up. I was hoping you’d be asleep.”
He only laughs quietly in return, as he inspects her coat for blood specks. There’s a few stains here and there, she’s sure. Nothing too difficult to clean, though; she’s been drenched in worse quantities before, which had made today’s aftermath comparably tame if not still terribly unpleasant.
“Still, you don’t have to come home alone,” Loid insists, carefully folding the coat so as to not stain his own clothes. “Call me, next time. I’ll come to you.”
“Okay.” Her heart swells. “I will.”
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Just a little bruised,” Yor admits sheepishly, “but it’ll heal just fine.”
“And the blood-”
“It’s not mine.”
“Good,” he smiles at her. “Do you want to eat? I can reheat today’s leftovers for you.”
“I think I’ll just sleep,” she replies tiredly; she doesn’t care much for food right now. Her head feels like mush – her arms, like useless lead. The only thing that calls for her at this instant is the warmth of their bed and the inviting scent of freshly washed sheets.
“You should at least wash yourself,” Loid insists then, understanding and gentle as ever, eyeing her hair with little subtlety. “Let’s rinse your hair before the blood crusts over. I’ll draw you a hot bath.”
“That would be lovely,” she mumbles, and even though the task of washing up feels herculean, Yor can’t help but smile gratefully. “Thank you, Loid.”
His hands are gentle when they guide her to the bathroom; gentler even when he helps her undress. Drowsy, she lets him remove her earrings, pull her hair band out for her dark locks to brush her shoulders, unclasp the impossible straps of her dress with slow carefulness. He’s delicate, even more so as he eases her into the bathtub.
Yor can’t help the sigh of bliss as she dips into the water; it’s just warm enough not to be scalding, and feels heavenly on her sore muscles and battered skin. She watches, pleasantly dazed, as Loid pulls out her favorite scented candles from a cabinet and lights them up.
“I’m going to get some ointment for those bruises,” he tells her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Okay,” she smiles. “I’ll start washing off. Thank you for the help, Loid.”
“Of course, Yor.”
In spite of the growing temptation to just close her eyes and enjoy the warmth, she manages to reach for soap and wash off the last of the blood specks she had somehow missed during the mission clean up – but then she just feels so heavy, so slow, and raising her arms to reach for her blood-soaked hair simply feels impossible.
Just a second, she promises herself, as she finally gives in and closes her eyes. I’ll do it in a second.
In truth, and unsurprisingly so, she ends up nodding off until Loid knocks softly on the door. There’s a splash of water as she startles awake.
“Yor?” Loid calls out softly from the other side, probably not wanting to wake Anya up. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” she calls back.
“I found the ointment I use after– Yor? Are you alright?”
“Ah,” she blushes, still barely managing to keep her eyes open. “Just tired. Thank you.”
There’s a quiet lull as Loid watches her, and she recognizes the gaze he bears; there’s that flash in his eyes, that look that inevitably appears when he ponders about whether or not what he wishes to say would be equivalent to crossing a line. It’s a strange thing,to navigate boundaries within the new terms and truths of their relationship; and, in the end, Yor knows that neither he or she would change anything about it.
“Would you like me to help you wash your hair?” he finally asks, in that quiet, warm tone of his, and Yor smiles up at him and shifts to sit up against the bathtub. The warm water laps at her skin in ripples.
“Please,” she breathes out.
Loid nods knowingly as he removes his vest and rolls up the white sleeves of his shirt, reaches out for a stool and a small basin, and settles behind her to gather her hair in her back.
“I’ll just start with combing your hair,” he explains softly as he fills the basin with lukewarm water, and she shivers at the cold blow of air his words drive to her skin. “It should get most of the blood off.”
“Okay.”
And then he starts running his fingers through her hair, and she all but melts. He’s slow but confident, as he delicately separates strands of hair, massaging her scalp to dislodge the drying blood clusters before sliding dissolving crusts to the end of her locks and into water. Yor watches, almost fascinated, as the water gradually gains a very faint rosy hue – but soon, the heaviness in her eyelids grows strong again. It just feels too good. Rarely has she felt so safe and cared for, floating and weightless in the comfort of his hold. She lets out a deep breath; she wishes it could last forever.
“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” Loid asks of her with a low chuckle, after an unclear amount of time – presumably a few minutes, that nevertheless had the ring of eternity. His voice sounds so far away, and yet so fondly amused.
How unfair of him to make that request, when he was the one lulling her to sleep.
“Your voice makes me want to sleep,” she tells him.
The weight of her words sink in, then, and her eyes snap open as she turns back to him in a whirl of water. “Not that I think you’re boring,” she adds immediately, “I just like your voice, and–”
She interrupts herself, because surprise paints Loid’s face in a very unusual light – and yet, as soon as they lock gazes, it melts into the utmost fondness, eyes crinkled and impossibly soft, as a smile blooms in the corner of his mouth.
“I like your voice, too,” he shots back, just a bit teasing and still entirely genuine as he gestures at her to turn back. “Okay, I think I got most of it off. Let me apply some shampoo – the rose-scented one?”
“Sure,” she agrees drowsily. Her gaze drifts to the flickering flames of the candles, and she adds, “You bought rose scented candles, too.”
He lets out a low, pleasant hum. “I thought you’d like it. Is it of bad taste?”
“No,” she smiles back, even though he can’t see it – she knows he’ll still receive it, somehow. “I think it’s just right. Is there a scent you like best with candles?”
“I’m not sure,” he answers, tone growing pensive, and Yor guesses he’d never really thought about this feeble of a matter. There’s a moment of comfortable quiet, before he answers, “Maybe jasmine? The fragrance is elegant.”
“Let’s get some of those next time, then.”
She hears the pleased smile in his voice when he agrees.
The shampoo is cold to the touch, and she shivers when he starts massaging her scalp with it. He apologizes quietly, brushing his fingers against her forehead to make sure no foam reaches her eyes, and it doesn’t take long before she feels herself drifting off again – she barely notices when he rinses her hair slowly, and almost comes to regret it when he asks her to stand up so he can help her out of the tub and apply the ointment to her blooming bruises.
He brings her clean pajamas as she dries herself off with excruciating slowness, and then he directs her to the stool he’d previously sat on.
“Let’s dry your hair,” he explains at her confused glance, holding out a dry towel. “Or you’ll catch a cold. It won’t take long, I promise.”
As always, he stays true to his word; gentle as ever, he squeezes and brushes along for a few minutes before finally lodging stray, humid locks behind her ears.
“All good,” he tells her. “Go to bed, Yor. I’ll join you after I get changed.”
She catches his wrist in a gentle grasp before she even thinks about it, before letting off him with rosy cheeks. “Ah, it’s just – thank you, Loid.”
He offers yet another smile. “You’ve done the same for me.”
She miraculously manages to stay awake until she feels the mattress dip with his weight, and watches quietly as he settles in his preferred position, facing her.
“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” he tells her kindly. “You’re tired.”
“It seemed only fair that I returned the favor,” she breathes out, even as her eyelids grow heavy with the promise of a restful slumber. “Goodnight, Loid.”
“Goodnight, darling,” he whispers back, and shifts just enough to press his lips on her forehead – she’s already drifting away, but her skin tingles pleasantly with the ghost of his touch. “Sleep well.”
And she does.