A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Try the thing with the cat. You'll be amazed.
IV. Another Day, Another Siege: What He Dropped
"You're making me nervous," I said.
"You're making me more nervous," he replied simply, trying not to move his jaw too much.
"Well, it's not helping. If you would just sit still…" I dipped the razor into the basin on the counter.
Edward watched me rather warily. "What do you think I've been doing this whole time?"
"Making me nervous. Now quit complaining; I'm almost done." He sighed as though I were inconveniencing him. "Would you relax?" I snapped.
"Easier said than done, Win. You're holding a straight razor to my throat."
"I'm holding it to your face. There's a difference."
I had decided that morning, of all the things that were eating away at me, somehow Edward's scruffy caveman look was the worst. In his defense, I still had not finished the repairs on his arm, and I only had temporary replacement legs ready. I had offered to put a leg in the socket, but Edward had not thought that was a very good idea. I had been trying to make him laugh, and it had almost worked.
When I complained, he said he could not shave with his left hand.
"I thought you were ambidextrous," I said.
"I can do a lot of things with my left hand, but dragging sharp objects over my skin is usually reserved for my right."
"What's the point of having two dominant hands, then?"
He said he only had one hand at the moment, dominant or otherwise, and it was not going to be doing any shaving any time soon. So I, acting as though I were making some great sacrifice, offered to help him. I pretended I was doing him a favor, like I was not near swooning when he grudgingly agreed.
My giddiness quickly vanished, however, when he flipped out a razor blade from his bag and plopped it down in my hand. Oh, right, I thought. This requires blades, doesn't it?
It probably would have been easier if I had allowed myself to stand between his knees. I had him sitting on the bathroom counter, his single hand resting in his lap. He did not sprawl like he used to. I remembered Edward having the remarkable ability to take up a great deal of space when he wanted to. He was like a cat: you never knew how far they stretched until you picked them up by their front quarters, and suddenly you had twice the feline you thought you had. No, he was more contained now. It could have been because he was so obviously uncomfortable, but I had a feeling that this was just how he was now; it was another little piece of Edward that he had dropped somewhere in his travels and had not bothered to pick back up.
I stood to his left and scraped off the last smear of shaving cream. I didn't notice that he was holding his breath—I don't think he did either—until that last pass when he let out a long rush of air.
I tossed him a towel. "I don't see what you're so tense about," I said, so relieved my hands were shaking. "You're not bleeding… badly."
Ed slid off the counter and walked around me to eye himself in the mirror. "Hey, would you look at that. I still have my face!" He ran his hand over his chin. "Not bad, Win." He elbowed me gently before slipping out of the bathroom to get dressed.
The gesture was meant to be playful, I'm sure. I tried not to give it weight, but I did anyway. Silly me.
I realized that, for all the things he had dropped—and I knew I had only seen a fraction of them so far—he had picked up many more. He never used to touch me. He never used to call me Win.