Work Text:
It’s been a long week for Karl. As if his depressive episode weren’t bad enough, the township removed his “project” that he was going to get to eventually—a burnt-out husk of a car that he was going to convert into… something. Okay, perhaps there was no real planning involved, but something of his had been taken without permission, a constant in his long, weary life.
You get home from work and find him sitting in his lounge chair in the garage, listening to the same AM radio bullshit that he’s been listening to for days. There are a lot of empty beer cans in and near the recycling bin, but very little in the way of food waste. You can smell his body odor from the garage door, most notably. The man isn’t the cleanliest person in the world, but his hair is a stringy mop of gray, his beard growing too long for what you know he prefers. His nails are probably getting too long, too.
He’s spiraling, and you can’t stand to watch. You know that it doesn’t help to point it out, not even gently. Instead, you take his hand and pull him with some effort out of his chair.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“Just come with me. I want to do something.”
“Can’t it wait?” Karl looks back at his chair, then at the radio, as if casting about for an excuse to continue wallowing.
“Nope.” You shut off the radio and take his hand once again. “C’mon, it’s almost bedtime. I work early, so let’s not waste too much time in here.”
“Where are we going?” His suspicion is growing, but you give him a reassuring smile and squeeze his hand.
“I wanna spoil you.” You give him no judgment about his hygiene, no teasing about his greasy hair or dull skin. There have been times when you didn’t, and couldn’t, take care of yourself.
You walk him into the bathroom and strip him naked. He raises an eyebrow, and you give him a quick peck on the lips.
“I’m not a dog,” he growls, “you don’t have to bathe me.”
“I’m not gonna bathe you—we’re showering. You and me.”
You remove your clothes as well, and you lead him into the tub where you close the curtain and check the water temperature coming from the faucet before you turn on the shower head. The water warms, and you let your aching body soak for a moment before you switch places with Karl.
He closes his eyes and breaths deeply, inhaling the steam before sighing deeply.
“Okay,” you say, “now turn around…”
You start with a tea tree shampoo, gently massaging his scalp while you work it into a nice lather in his hair. It only takes one round to knock most of the oil from his hair. You don’t want to strip the follicles completely dry, though. He leans his head back while you work on his hair, giving a small hum of approval as you finish the scalp massage and apply the conditioner to the ends of his hair.
“Close your eyes,” you whisper as he turns to face you again. He kisses your forehead before complying, and you gently exfoliate his face with some apricot scrub.
“What’s this?”
“You only have to exfoliate once a week,” you say, smiling as he makes a sour face.
“I’m not into that girly shit.”
“It’s just part of your maintenance. It gets the blood flowing and washes off stubborn grease stains, kind of like that soap you use, the one with the grit in it…”
“Hmph.”
“I’ll help you if you’d like,” you offer. This stops his complaining for now.
As you wash him from neck to toes with a damp washcloth full of pine-scented body wash, you rub circles into his stiff back and shoulders, and you’re soft but persistent as you remove every grease stain from his hands. Every inch of him is treated with the utmost care. You compare it to restoring a machine in your mind, but you let the silence hang comfortably between you and Karl.
He’s watching you the whole time—nervously at first, as if he expects to hear complaints or teasing. Then, he relaxes, quietly admiring your fastidiousness. Still, it’s overwhelming, and when he sees how quickly and easily you clean yourself off, he can’t help thinking of how he’d really let himself go. You can see it in his eyes as you step out of the tub before him. You hold out your hands to him, and when you take his, you kiss his knuckles.
“You smell so good, babe,” you say, wrapping a towel around yourself. “Let’s dry you off.”
He doesn’t speak while you rub him down with a fluffy cotton towel; sometimes he’s watching you, other times he’s lost in his thoughts. You carefully scrunch his strands of gray hair, opting to let it air-dry instead of subjecting him to the hair dryer. You caress his cheek before you apply a beard trimmer, cutting his beard down to just the right length. Every plane and every edge is clipped with care, and when he sees himself in the mirror, it’s with stunned silence.
You can tell by now when he’s holding back tears, so you distract him by turning him around to face you. You sit down on the toilet lid and, before he can protest, you pull one of his feet onto your lap and begin to clip his nails.
“What the—” he sputters in protest, and then he clams up and glances away. This is the hard part, but the length of his toenails looks absolutely painful, and you aren’t about to neglect them. You rub away the dry skin on his feet, letting it roll up and fall away. His calluses can wait for another day, you decide, when you look up and see his nervous expression. Your hands slow for a moment.
“Too much?” You ask.
“I’m fine.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet as he steals a glance at you. You watch him, head tilted, and then you finish your labor of love.
Once he’s clean and dry, you stand up and take his hand again. “We’re almost done,” you tell him, removing his towel and folding it on the rack. You lead Karl to your bedroom and sit him down on the bed. He looks renewed, but exhausted from the effort. Now is the time to really pamper him, you decide.
Karl’s tired gray eyes light up as you pump some cocoa butter into your hands and rub it into his skin, starting with his chest and working your way down, taking special care with his dry heels, rubbing it in between his toes. You look up at him as you kneel in front of him, and he’s gazing at you, the love of his life, reminded that you’re the one he can always turn to.
“Here,” you say, straddling his lap with a dab of lotion on your fingertips that you apply to his face and neck, “just a little more… and then the finishing touch.”
You reach over to the nightstand where your lip balm is, and you apply it to his sumptuous, kissable lips. “Just a little moisture barrier to protect you from the elements,” you say. He wraps his arms around you and rolls over on his side, taking you down with him.
Karl holds you as you both lie in bed, his face buried in your damp hair. He strokes it adoringly, breathing in the scent of you, eyes closed as he basks in your warmth.
“Thank you,” he whispers.