#fuzzytale

“I’m going to wash your hair,” Aramis agrees. He steadfastly ignores the way Porthos’ dark eyes go wide with shock and...something else, and reaches past him to turn the tap on. While the water heats he inspects the dressing on Porthos’ forehead, pressing down along the edges to ensure the bacta patch is sealed and then applying another layer of waterproof bandage from the first aid kit under the sink just to be safe. The hair above the wound is frankly disgusting, matted together with a mix of old blood and pus and bacta that no healing ward sponge bath stands a change of removing - frankly, Aramis can’t blame them for wanting to shave it. Nor can he blame Porthos for wanting to save the curls he’s spent so long growing out now that he no longer has to maintain the short padawan haircut. “But if you pass out on me I’m taking you right back to the healers and letting them do whatever they want. Understand?”

“Understood.” Porthos nods and immediately regrets it, his skin graying as a rush of nausea overtakes him. A moment later Aramis steals the sick feeling away with cool fingers on his temples and a touch of the Force.

“Tip your head back,” Aramis commands softly. Porthos obeys on instinct, resting his head against the edge of the tub and baring his throat without a thought. “This might hurt.”

“S’okay. Know you’d never really hurt me.” Porthos knows better than anyone that Aramis’ hands can kill as easily as they can heal, but they have never touched him with anything but care in nearly twenty years of friendship. He watches as Aramis takes the detachable shower head down, then lets his eyes drift shut at the first splash of water on his head, letting the warm water ease the ache behind his eyes.

Aramis hums a familiar tune as he shampoos Porthos’ hair, doing his best to avoid the myriad cuts and bruises on his friend’s face and neck. Mercifully, there are only a few minor wounds above his hairline. When the soap stings at them Aramis easily leaches the pain away with his next touch. He mends what he can in between working crusted blood out of tangled strands of hair, though some of the best healers in the Temple have already done the heavy lifting. Most of Porthos’ remaining wounds simply require time and judicious applications of bacta to finish healing.

By the time Porthos’ hair is passably clean and conditioned, the water from its last rinse running clear, the man himself is nearly asleep. Aramis squeezes the water from his curls by hand, then gently pats Porthos head dry with a cloth. He eyes the line of products on the nearby counter for only a moment before dismissing them. Porthos is a vain man - to be fair, so is Aramis - but even he doesn’t need perfectly groomed hair in the Halls of Healing. He’ll have to be content with being clean and unshorn. 

Just as Aramis rocks back on his heels and makes to stand, Porthos’ hand snaps up. He catches Aramis’ wrist between his thumb and middle finger - the only fingers he can move at the moment - and holds him still as Porthos sits up enough to kiss the damp palm of Aramis’ hand. “Thanks,” he murmurs against warm skin that smells of his own shampoo.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Aramis replies, thumb stroking over Porthos’ swollen cheek. “I’m abandoning you at the entrance to the Halls. Whatever fate awaits you there, I want no part of it.”

Eliot gave him a mildly annoyed look and set the knife down. “I don’t do social,” he said. “You fix it.”

“Well, I would, but your stray dog still only listens to you,” Hardison said. 

Ah. A Bucky problem. 

It wasn’t that Bucky only listened to Eliot; he got along fine with all three of them and generally did as he was asked. He and Parker got on like a house on fire, actually. But it was true that when Bucky was flipping out about something, Eliot was the person he turned to. They’d bonded, in a way Eliot couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“Sue, take over,” he called to one of the line cooks, and she replied with a sharp yes, Chef! and a pleased look. He followed Hardison out into the bar, which was gratifyingly busy this early on a Friday night.

He saw what the problem was immediately; there was a crowd around the bar, which seemed to move whenever Bucky did. All of them had drinks, which was part of the problem; nobody was buying new drinks. A half-minute of observation confirmed it – they weren’t ordering. They were trying to flirt. And Bucky was growing more frustrated with it by the second. 

Eliot rolled his eyes at Hardison, but he stalked behind the bar and tapped Bucky on the shoulder, friendly-like.

“Hey, go take ten,” he said, and Bucky gave him a mildly grateful look, hustling back towards the kitchen. Eliot didn’t mind tending bar, and the crowd broke up almost as soon as Bucky disappeared, but clearly it was a patch on a situation that would need more attention.

The break, whatever he did during it, did Bucky good; he was a little more tolerant for the rest of the night, once he came back. Maybe it was just knowing he could yell for help if things got a little too intense. Kid still had that high-strung, wide-eyed look of someone who hadn’t settled yet. Eliot remembered that look on himself, so he could relate. 

The next morning, over breakfast, Eliot nudged Parker with an elbow. “Bucky needs some lessons,” he said. Bucky, hunched over a couple of pancakes, looked up, alarmed. 

“Yeah? Ooh, I’ll get the harness,” she said. 

“Not falling lessons.”

“I don’t think he’d make much of a pickpocket. No offense,” she said to Bucky, who waved the quasi-insult off with his fork.

“He needs social lessons,” Eliot said.

“From me,” Parker asked, clearly unimpressed. 

“The problem with you, boy, is you’re cast in that Captain America mold,” Eliot told Bucky, who rolled his eyes. “Good looking man with great hair, got a mystery about you, got a shiny smile, I know how it is.”

“He’s so modest, too,” Hardison said to Bucky. 

“It’s the serum,” Bucky said, startling everyone. He looked mildly embarrassed. “Didn’t used to happen when Steve was around. He shone a little brighter. It’s like…I don’t know. Folks see you and they light up. Tough to explain.”

“I think we saw,” Hardison said. 

“I once stabbed a guy who was trying to flirt with me with a fork.” Parker announced. 

“She’s good at putting people off,” Eliot said. 

Parker hopped off her stool and took Bucky’s hand. “Come on! We’re going to the mall.” 

“Are you worried about the two of them at a mall together?” Eliot asked Hardison, as Parker dragged Bucky away. 

“Nah. If he gets in trouble she’ll break him out and if she gets in trouble he’ll murder whoever was bugging her,” Hardison said. He had a point. 

That night, the crowd around Bucky while he was trying to work was significant, but smaller. By the following Tuesday, it had dwindled down to people who wanted a drink and a smile rather than people who wanted his nonexistent phone number.

“What did she teach you?” Eliot asked Bucky in a quiet moment. Bucky wiped down the sink and shrugged. 

“Trade secret,” he said, grinning at Eliot. “I could tell you but then I’d have to try and kill you.”

“That’d be a hell of a fight,” Eliot said.

“Let’s save it for some time when we’re really bored.”