Summary: Laundry Day.
Date: Jan. 6th - evening, between Foreign and Dreams (Timeline: http :/ shiruy. livejournal. com/ 3602. html)
36. Precious Treasure
"Alex? I'm doing the laundry. Can I throw the stuff you brought home in with the load?"
He looked away from the book he was reading to see Jack leaning in the doorway, linen basket braced against her hip.
"Uh, sure," he answered distractedly. He needed to get back to his book - he had to finish it until tomorrow or his teacher was going to kill him.
Reading the lines, he was vaguely aware of Jack picking up the shirts and pants Yassen had stolen for him, some socks and - gah, embarrassing - dirty underwear. When she picked up a big, dark blue shirt she made a face and held it away from her. "Geez, this stuff is all filthy. And what's this-" She rubbed at a large dark spot on a sleeve. "Did you bleed on this?"
Alex gaze snapped up, eyes fixing on the shirt and instantly recognizing it. It was Yassen's. The one the man had given him that first night at his apartment.
"Uhm, hey Jack?" he started, pushing himself up and getting off the bed. "Why don't I do the laundry today? It's all my stuff anyway, right?" He took a step closer and tried to tug the shirt out of her hand, but she didn't let go.
The redhead stared at him, half smiling, half just plain confused. "You wanna do the laundry? Alex, you have no idea how to operate the washing machine. Also, don't dodge my question."
"Well, I'm almost fifteen, it's about time I learned, right?" He laughed awkwardly and gave the shirt another useless tug, then cringed. If he wanted to be any more obvious about the fact that something was up he could try the 'Isn't the weather just wonderful today? Why don't you go for a walk?' routine.
Her eyebrows drew together into a worried frown. "Alex, seriously, is this blood again? And what's about this shirt that you don't want me to wash it?"
He fidgeted, loath to admit the truth but unable to come up with a believable lie. "I just... don't want you to?" he hedged, silently pleading with her to let it slide. "And, uh, yeah, it's blood. Just from the scabs on my wrist, they tore open a bit at one point, no big deal." Though he certainly could have lived without the experience.
Her eyes flickered to the white bandage encircling his wrist but then focused back on him expectantly, still demanding an explanation. "Alex?"
He squirmed in place, torn between telling her the truth or blurting out some half-assed reason. "It just doesn't need to be washed, okay? It's fine the way it is," he tried to explain.
Jack frowned at him, remaining entirely unconvinced. "Give me one good reason why you want to keep a dirty, smelly shirt. It doesn't even fit you, it's too big!"
"I know, alright?" he snapped back, getting the shirt from her with a sudden sharp yank and retreating a step once it was safe in his possession. "I know and I don't care, I like it like this and I want to keep it that way! That's all the reason I need!"
She stared at him with big eyes, her mouth opening and closing without making a sound before she heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "Okay. I'm sorry. Keep the shirt. I didn't mean to fight, for some reason this is obviously important to you and I'll leave it be now." Her lips curved into a tentative smile. "We good?"
Great, now he felt like an ass. He dropped his gaze, shuffling on the spot in embarrassment. "Yeah, we're good. I didn't mean to shout."
"Good." Her smile strengthened and she picked up the linen basket again. "Then I'll just get this done. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."
"Okay," he nodded at her, still abashed at getting so worked up over a stupid shirt. Only that it wasn't really stupid, was it?
She left the room, the sound of her steps fading as she went down the stairs. The teen's shoulders slumped and he gave a deep sigh, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He shouldn't have shouted. He was still so tense all the time, not used to being back home yet. Sleeping the whole night through without anything happening surprised him more than some guys kicking down the door to his room would have.
Bracing his elbows on his knees, he started playing around with the shirt in his hands, letting it glide through his fingers. You could feel that it had been worn a lot, the material incredibly soft, the colour faded a shade or two.
Had Yassen noticed it missing? Was he angry, or did he not care at all? Did he maybe have some idea why Alex had impulsively decided to throw it in his bag? If so, the Russian was miles ahead of the teen, because the blond still wasn't entirely sure why he had done it.
[And he would keep telling himself that until he believed it.]
He raised the shirt to his face, rubbed it against his cheek and inhaled the lingering scent. Jack was right, by all rights it was more than overdue for a wash.
It smelled like sweat and sickness and exhaustion.
[A deep voice murmuring his name.]
It smelled like pain and fear and blood.
[Warm fingers carding through his hair, gentle, so very gentle.]
It smelled like being lost and hunted and alone.
[And underneath it all a musky hint of spice and olive, weak enough that he can't tell if it's really there or if he merely wants it to be.]
The corners of his lips curved upwards, a slow, fluttery warmth rising up through him. He stood up, emptied a drawer in his bedside cabinet, carefully folded the shirt and put it in there.
He wasn't ready to give up that feeling just yet.