Porcelain Fists
By CJMx
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i.
He found her in her old, ramshackle apartment. The floor creaked as he treaded gingerly across it, the wallpaper long since torn from the damp walls. It was pitch black, apart from a poky strip of light glowing out from the bottom of the bathroom door. Peter followed it, and pushed open the door. There she was; sitting naked in the vast bathtub full to the brim with what Peter could only assume was her own blood. Her knees were drawn up to her bare chest as she stared into thin air; goosebumps spreading like wildfire across the open plains of her exposed skin. Peter's heart broke.
Still treading gingerly as not to scare her, he padded over to the bath. A strong waft of rusting iron met his senses, and if he'd had any doubt beforehand, Peter was now certain that the murky crimson liquid she was bathing in was in fact her own blood.
He reached out towards her, and took her wrinkled hand in his, pulling her up and out of the tub. She followed his actions obediently, rising from the dank pool of her own immortality, and he instantly threw his jacket around her.
Within a blink, a sudden pull of weight descended upon her, and within another, she found herself in Peter's hallway. The blazing lights added an unnatural rosiness to her clammy skin as Peter guided her down the passageway. Stopping by a door, he swung it open, and gently ushered her into yet another bathroom. She stood still as he bustled about her, checking for fresh towels and soap, and placing a folded shirt upon the counter beside the pristine hand basin. Peter felt her glassy eyes follow him as he reached to turn on the shower, before he wheeled round and slipped his coat from her shoulders. In the light, he could now see the extent of her suffering. Blood stained her entire torso, and Peter knew that if it weren't for her healing, bruises would mask her from head to toe. He swallowed hard, and shook the thought from his head. Taking her hand once more, he led her into the steaming shower, ahead of peeling off his own clothes and joining her, although both knew there was nothing sexual about the situation.
She stood facing him, eyes locking on his as he took a deep breath. Then, wasting no time, Peter picked up the soap, and started on her shoulders. The water trickled down her body, washing away all the impurities before swirling down the drain, dirty and grimy and bloody and vile. Her skin was caked in layer upon layer of filth, and Peter scrubbed and scrubbed. He inhaled sharply, and decided to risk conversation, though careful to pervade her strong guard gently.
"I've missed you, Claire."
She stiffened slightly, remaining silent as he continued. "It feels like a lifetime since I last saw you. I s'pose we've just been busy with other things…"
Still her silence persisted, but Peter didn't pry. "Your hair's nice brown. I preferred it blonde, but I guess a change is nice once in a while."
He curved round her protective stance, and started to sponge her stomach. Claire watched fixedly as he swabbed and scrubbed away the grunge coating her body, her reclusive posture beginning to falter somewhat.
"You know," Peter remarked, the hint of a chuckle coating his words. "This reminds me of when I was a nurse. I used to have to bathe my elderly patients – but not that you remind me of one!"
When his smiling eyes slunk upwards to meet hers, Claire's raspy voice sounded out and broke him in a way he never thought possible.
"I was 87 in April."
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She sat in his warm, pressed shirt, gazing up at his reflection in the mirror as he stood behind her, brushing out her damp hair. She hadn't said a word since mentioning her age, her defensive walls pitched back up. Peter dragged the comb through her tangled locks, root to tip, while she knotted her fingers together in her lap. He hummed a soft tune, calming her uneasy spirit, and along with the therapeutic strokes of the comb, the tension between them simmered.
"Peter?"
Her small voice drew his attention. "Mm?"
"Why are you doing this for me?"
"It'll be a nightmare to untangle it once it's dry, Claire."
"N-No, not that," she stammered, her blunt words clotting on her tongue. "I meant, why are you saving me? I don't deserve it."
Peter's hands lowered from her hair, and he met her vacant eyes in the mirror. "Don't say that, Claire. Everyone deserves to be saved."
She simply stared back, her expression blank, as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "And besides, by being your hero, isn't it my job to save you?"
Her eyes glimmered with a sudden batch of tears, and he twinkled back, before returning to her dripping hair.
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When he carried her to bed, Peter could have sworn he saw her smile. Granted, it was brief, no more than a split-second long, but it made his heart swell and his mood lift. He set her petite body down, and tucked her in. Claire let out a soft sigh as her head hit the pillow, her green eyes flickering as they struggled not to close. Peter pulled a nearby chair up beside the bed, and sunk into it. His hand reached out, reverently stroking her upper arm, and she peered seriously back at him.
"Promise me you won't leave," she whispered, her eyes wide with apprehension, not daring to sleep with the possibility of solitude.
He leaned towards her, pressed a chaste kiss to her temple, murmured a soft "I'm not going anywhere," into her ear; and her eyes had already fluttered shut before he could pull away.
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Based on the Ingrid Michaelson song of the same name – listen to it, it's good, and fits in perfectly. Thank you to Bethany for proofing. Review, please?