Some quick pre-story stuff from the WebGrinch:
Just a tender little moment with Martha May and the Grinch after he has returned all the presents and before the Feast.
Silence
"Grinch..?"
More silence. Water dripping.
"Grinchy darling?"
Sigh. Finally, "Yesss...." He liked it when she called him "Grinchy".
Clearly he was reluctant to come out. Martha smiled to herself. She didn't want to rush him, but they did only have four hours before the Feast.
"How many does that make, sweetheart?" she asked.
This time the pause was shorter. Apparently he was caving in. "Four."
This next question would be tricky. "Do you think this time - " she asked as gently as she could.
"Yes...yes...YES!"
She stood up and went to the alcove's entrance. It took a lot of showers to get rid of a lifetime of grunge...
"My fur's aching and I look like a wet cat!" the Grinch grumbled from the other side, staying well out of sight.
Martha May's smile grew as she pictured a six foot tall, wet, green cat. It was a pretty hysterical thought. She better not see him in such a state - for both their sakes.
"I'll go check on the arrangements, then, while you dry off," she said.
"That might be best," he mumbled.
Making sure that all the Whos streaming into Mt. Crumpit were organized and knew where all the Feast preparations went, Martha May returned to the hot spring/bathing chambers half an hour later.
The Grinch was staring into the warm pool of water beyond the rocks he was leaning over. He looked dry, but thoroughly unkempt, his fur sticking out every way possible from his frame.
Martha coughed polietly to let him know she was there.
He seemed not to hear, so she walked over to stand by him. The object of his attention seemed to be his own reflection in the water. His eyes flickered over to her reflection as it joined his.
"It's not any different," the Grinch said cryptically of his own watery image.
Martha laid a hand on his arm. "Should it be?"
He shrugged. "I guess not...I just feel so...different. I thought it might somehow show - " he stopped, thinking of something. "I know how to tell...but...it'll have to wait."
"Why?"
"I had to move the Grinch-o-meter out of the banquet hall."
"The 'Grinch-o-meter'?" Martha echoed.
"Never mind. I'll explain later."
Just then his dog Max came up to them with something in his mouth. Martha put out her hand and he dropped two somethings into it. "Thank you, Max, dear," Martha said.
The Grinch grunted questioningly. He turned from the water to face her. Martha held up what Max had given her.
"Which do you prefer - hard or soft?" she asked as she inspected the fur's texture on his arm.
His eyes widened. "What? Oh, no - "
After a second to think about it, she put down the soft one and made him sit back down again when he tried to get up and away from her. "Oh no you don't," the determined Who female scolded. "You're not getting out of this." He landed rather awkwardly, ending up half laying against the rocks at the water's edge - a decidedly vulnerable position to Martha's whims. She took advantage of it and moved in close, blocking his escape. Max barked, laughing. The Grinch shot out a furry finger in his direction. "You keep out of this, Max!" he admonished.
Martha May rolled her unwilling victim halfway over, away from her, and applied a hard-bristled brush to his back.
"Martha..." the Grinch complained. "Stop that! I can preen myself, for heaven's sake!"
"Looks like you have *never* brushed it, darling. Now hold still."
"Martha - " he whined.
"You really have a beautiful coat under here, " she said encouragingly. "I'm sure of it."
He shivered at the strange sensation of being preened by another person. It felt...it felt...
It felt good.
"There," she soothed. "There...shhhh..." Martha applied the brush in long, gentle strokes to his shoulders, then trailing down between his shoulder blades. It took a few moments, but the tension slowly left his body as he got used to the strangeness of such attention.
It was also doing a wonderful job of scratching his back for him.
By the time she was almost finished, the Grinch was slowly arching and relaxing his back in harmony with her brushing, like a cat getting its back stroked. She glanced at his face and saw his eyes were closed in pleasure. She lingered longer than he really needed, indulging him.
When his back was done, she started on his arms, admiring the rippling muscles under the fur as she worked. She moved around to face him and paused. "Give me your arm." He did.
She did both his arms, all around, front and back, using smoother, lighter strokes. Taking his hands one at a time, she set his fingertips in her palm and gently brushed the back of his hands and long finger-fur with the softer brush. Silently he watched her work. To his surprise, Martha appeared as content with brushing him as he was with being brushed.
She paused, then brushed out his face, cheeks, the back of his head and the crown of unruly hair that crested, threatening always to flop over into his face but never making it over his impossibly high forehead.
Picking up the stiffer brush, Martha May next tackled his chin and throat, brushing carefully so as not to hurt the more delicate skin underneath. She stopped for a moment, pleased with the results, then began on his broad shoulders, drifting downward, pulling the brush through the lush mane over his neck and chest. It seemed to be a particularly sensitive spot on her love, for he sighed, making an odd, pleasant sound from deep in his throat. She brushed her fingertips against his throat and could feel the reverberation of it's rumble. His yellow eyes popped open at the feel of her fingers. He saw her smile, grunted (which also made her fingers vibrate) and closed his eyes again.
"...a smile on Christmas day..." Martha sang softly as she took up the rhythm again of slow, gentle stroking. "Break out fruitcake and eggnog..."
"...let there be Whobilation..." echoed the Grinch, his voice joining hers in singing the beloved Whobilation song they were both taught as children.
"I remembered it from childhood," he recounted to Martha's unasked question when they finished the song. "Aunt Clarinella used to sing it to me every night...even though I hated it," he admitted sadly. "But it was comforting - the music and her voice...I think I always..." he trailed off drowsily.
Martha was relaxing him way too much.
"...always?" she gently prodded.
"Knew I...should like..."
"No...it's all right,' she stroked his furry cheek with her hand. "Don't think about it."
He grew quiet again, and so relaxed that in minutes his deep breathing told his beloved he was drifting in and out of a peaceful sleep. Martha continued brushing his chest until it fairly glowed a lusterous, emerald green. She paused. Unable to resist, she set the brush down and lovingly caressed the great mane of fur curled over his collarbone, lightly, so as not to awaken him. Its warmth and softness were irresistable. Deeper down, closer to the skin, she found his fur retained body heat remarkably well and Martha couldn't help but let her hand sink deeper into its softness.
"I can't believe," she whispered, barely audibly. "After 30 years, I'd be touching you - "
" - like this," he finished for her, opening his eyes.
Embarassed she'd been caught, Martha tried to take her hand from his mane, but he laid his hand over hers, preventing her from leaving. He caught up her hand not in his fur and lingeringly kissed her fingers, holding her eyes with his own piercing, yellow gaze. Those eyes were still those of a fox, still cunning, even still a little mean, and worst of all, completely hungry for her. Martha shivered, his lips sending a spark of palpable electric current straight through her.
Rooted in place by some deep, predatory magnetism the Grinch possessed, she watched as he released her hand from his fur, slid his hand up her perfect white arm, grasp it and upturned her wrist to him. He kissed and nipped at the skin, still holding her eyes with his gaze. If Martha May Whovier hadn't been sitting down already, she would have dropped to the cave floor in a dead swoon.
"I - " she began, going nowhere.
The Grinch smiled, the same predatory, evil smile he'd had when he had taken her hand on the steps of City Hall at the Whobilation to dance the first dance of the celebration with her*. His hand not holding her wrist slid around her waist, pulling her closer.
"I've - always loved you," she whispered, trembling, reaching out to touch his face. She drew her hand down his soft cheek. Her voice cracked. "Oh, how I've always loved you!" Tears welled up and spilled over, staining her cheeks. The flood of emotion was shaking her loose from the spell of desire he seemed to have trapped her in.
The words brought him back to reality as well. He blinked, as if coming awake, and back to his senses. Drawing her to her feet, he felt deeply touched by her sincere words. He brushed at her tear-stained cheek.
"I...I never got to tell you," Martha choked. "Even then - !"
The Grinch grasped her hands, not wanting the moment to be spoiled by bad memories. "I know now," he soothed. "That's all that matters."
"It was never August May - "
"I know," he whispered. "Hush." He drew her into his arms. Martha cried into his chest, comforted by the smooth rhythm of his hand gently rubbing her back and the steady thump of his strong, new heartbeat. He was deliciously warm, irresistibly so, and she was loathed to leave that halo of love and comfort.
After the cry she felt better, cleansed. The bad memories lost their sharp-edged ache. It was only then she realized that her back was cold and damp with his tears as well, and that somehow dulled the pain even more. She drew back, kissing the tears from his cheeks. "My life was so empty without you - and I never even realized it," Martha told him.
He smiled. "It was so hard to forget you. It took years - and even then not completely." The Grinch glanced around her, towards the other chambers. "I had to take up a pretty intensive hobby as a distraction."
Martha nodded in agreement. "This place is amazing. I want to see it all - everything!"
"And you will," he assured her. "After the Feast. We have time now." Then he thought of something. Another smile crossed his face - this time it was more mischevious, making Martha recall how he had snatched the mistletoe from her at the Whobilation.
"What..?" she asked hesitantly.
"Well..." he began, reaching for the soft bristled brush. He toyed with it. "I can't possibly get dressed for the Feast in the state I am in."
"Why? You look wonderful - "
He wrinkled his upturned nose at her and grinned. "Because...Miss Martha May Whovier. You didn't finish the job!"
Martha took the brush from his furry hand. She gave him a good, long appraising stare, from crested head to his toenails - and everything in between. When her eyes came back up his shaggy bulk to meet his, he smiled again, exposing charmingly crooked teeth.
She handed him back the brush. "And I'm not going to, Grinchy darling." Kissing his cheek, Martha ignored the unintelligible grunt and disappointed gaze he tried to use to change her mind.
Max laughed, following Miss Whovier out of the room. The Grinch watched her go, faintly impressed with how she had gotten herself out of that one. Sighing, he turned to a broken mirror to finish getting ready for the Feast. "Well...hope springs eternal, Miss Whovier. Hope springs eternal."
* See the poem "A Whobilation Dance".