#zzz trigger

The water was long gone from the tub, leaving in its stead grime and dirt from both your bodies. She had followed the foaming trail of body wash that had trailed down the outside of your knee. Resisting the urge to touch, to feel your scarred skin beneath her fingertips. But now, all that remained on the white ceramic was a small poodle of bloody water and a mix of dust and dirt.

Today had been particularly rough, she sighed, her eyes finally falling on your half-naked form. Your hip was plopped against the sink, your frame dressed in only your matching black bra and panties. It wasn't anything extravagant, more practical than anything, really, a simple elastic band and stretchy fabric. No lace nor underwires for it had been picked in a hurry at a convenience store.

And to her, gone were the days when her cheeks flushed and heartbeat sped at the sight of your naked form. A sort of normalcy had settled, the domestic kind that could only bloom in a trusted environment, something she couldn't imagine without you. It was the kind of domesticity that only came from two women with scars rivaling one another. It only came from two humans with nothing left to lose, for every day might as well be their last.

She slowly brought the cigarette back to her lips, inhaling the smoke before blowing it in the opposite direction from you. She didn't normally smoke indoors, definitely not in your presence since you've made it quite clear that you despise its smell. But today hadn't been normal, and it seemed you shared the sentiment since you didn't say a word at the first flicker of her lighter.

Today's mission was supposed to be easy, the 'kill and go' kind of duty. However, things are never that simple. Especially in this line of work, and, especially with the feelings she felt for the woman 3 feet away from her. She flickered the ash in the drain of the bathtub, always letting the heat get closer than necessary to her fingertips. Today had been too fucking close. Your body before her proved of such.

The wounds had stopped bleeding after a while, but the limp in your movements was evident. Scratches traveled your legs, cuts littered your arms, interrupting the constellation of your moles. She'd seen you, meet the ground, and for one frightful second, she saw what she dreaded most, acceptance behind a wall of fear.

She'd saved you, naturally.

None of you had mentioned it ever since and you had remained silent for the better part of the day, but she wanted to talk about it, wanted to grip your shoulders and shake you until you understood how miserable she'd be if you left. She wanted you to feel how she felt ever since you walked into her life.

Not today, though, never today. Maybe tomorrow, if you even had one. If you both survived again.

It was silent but far from calm. Your wet hair from the previous bath often released one or two droplets of water that met the sink in a low 'plop'.

She watched as you racked your hands through it. It was darker than usual and already curling at the ends. You sighed, too focused on your predicament to notice her balant stating.

She took another hit, leaning against the backrest of the toilet as her eyes followed your hands, reaching for the straightener. It was a ritual she was familiar with. The pattern of your hair had always been too bothersome for you. 'It's too much work', you complained when she asked. Maybe that's one of the many things she loved about you, the routine. She loved how consistent, reliable, strong, you truly were. She never knew she needed that in her life until now.

"You know…" she started, her voice not a whisper, but not her usual tone either.

"You don't have to straighten it all the time, I like the way it curls."

She hummed, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin on one of her hands while the other twirled the burning nicotine.

She didn’t look away, her gaze traveling from the back of your head to the drain as she gently shook the ash off the cigarette. You scoffed, but it seemed softer.

"Please, you don't know what you're talking about. You've never seen it."

You were right, to some extent. No matter how damaging it, you always straightened your hair while still damp and sometimes even when it dripped with water.

You leaned towards the mirror, your back creating an arch she wished she could trace with the tip of her nail and watch as it caught on the ragged skin.

Your nakedness wasn't erotic, it never really was.

Finally, she allowed her eyes to wander. As if she hadn't memorized every single dip and shadow of your skin.

"I've seen it." She finally retorted, quiet. Smoke escaped her lips as it curled under the light of the mirror.

"That one time, when you fell asleep in the bathtub after that mission in the city center. Your hair was a mess, wet, wild."

A pause.

"I didn't wake you up on purpose." She added, plastering a smile on her lips in hopes to hide just how much she meant each word.

"It was beautiful."

She tapped the butt of the cigarette against the poodle of bloodied water, a faint scent of burnt paper briefly filling the room before slowly dissipating through the humid air.

She turned back to you, your mouth parting to release one of those bratty retorts you never run out of. Only for a loud curse to fend the air instead.

"Shit!'

It hit like a flare in the dark.

She halted for an instant, reaching for her weapon (which she stupidly came to realize had been thrown somewhere across the apartment). She quickly made her way to your side. But as her frame stood beside yours, all she noticed was the sharp hiss of water touching burning iron. That's when she saw it, the straightener, knocked over, contrasting over the white porcelain of the sink. Steam slowly rose from your forearm, where heat had kissed skin.

You squirmed, a string of charming words escaping your lips as your healthy hand instinctively tried to slap over the burn. She stopped it before you could worsen the situation.

"Damn it, stupid."

In one smooth motion, —without panic, she grabbed your wrist, pulling it under the freezing tap water even as you weakly tried to pull away.

"You always do this."

She murmured, watching as the burn became more prominent under clear water. She didn't let go.

"Always rush into things."

The statement hung heavier than the smoke that still lingered the air. This wasn't about burns, nor about hair. It was about everything.

You didn't answer, she didn't expect you to. The mark on your arm seemed to have settled on a proper Vermilion shade, and when you tried once more to break her grip, she didn't relent.

She could see the tension in your jaw. You were probably clenching your teeth so hard they could break, but you didn't even choke out a surprised noise. Through your pain, your healthy arm reached for support. Finding it in her cotton shirt, bunching up the fabric as you gripped it like a lifeline. Your face falling soon after in the crook of her neck.

It was more contact than usual. You both knew it. Especially her, she'd grown close enough to you to recognize the pattern drawing itself before her eyes. Maybe it was because of how easily you almost died today. Maybe it was everything altogether, but she knew you'd bottled up enough.

She let the tap run, the steam rise, adjusting her hold on your wrist with silent authority.

"No," she sighed, her gaze stuck on the wet strands of your hair. "You don't get to pull away." Her voice wasn't loud, it didn't need to be.

"You can clench your teeth from getting the living daylights punched out of you, walk home with a broken rib, and make yourself coffee as if nothing—" a pause, "but one burn? You fall apart."

She turned slightly, placing herself between you and the sink. Blocking the view of the mirror as if this moment couldn't even be witnessed by the two of you. She looked at you, really did.

"…I saw you today." There, she said it. And regretted it instantly when she felt your body tense. The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop it. "When you went down, when I thought you—"

She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip as her fingers slowly released their deathly hold over your wrist to softly trace over a cut from last week. Sliding her hands down your forearm, fingertips dancing off ragged wounds. One from last month, another from a few days ago. Some healed, others not quite but each painted in the canvas of her mind.

Nuzzled in her neck, you didn't answer. Your grip over her white cotton sleep shirt never relenting. For a moment, or perhaps longer, none of you spoke nor moved. Not until you shifted and slowly rose your head from where it rested moments before.

Your damp hair hung over your face, hiding half of it from her view. But it did little to hide the downturn of your lips and the tightness around your eyes. You didn't pull away yet, your burnt forearm having long given up resisting the freezing cold of the water.

After a beat, you breathed out. Your sigh slightly shaky, a mix between a scoff and a laugh. As if you, yourself, couldn't decide whether to shrug it off or finally snap. She didn't know which she wished for, either.

When you finally parted your lips, your voice was rough. She'd go as far as to say hoarse, but that would be too close to admitting how dampness had met her neck. Dampness she knew that wasn't from your hair.

"I hate this," you finally whispered out, never lifting your gaze to meet hers but staring at the mirror instead. "Hate how you… always see it."

The pause stretched as she waited for you to elaborate without her prompting your words forward. She'd learned to choose her words carefully so as not to frighten you away from opening up, akin to a wounded animal.

One breath, then another.

"I saw its face when it lunged at me, and I swear, just for a second, I wanted to let it take me." You swallowed, the grimace on your face making her wince. "Not because I was scared," she begged to differ, "Because, what if we're already ghosts? Awaiting fate's judgment? Just walking around pretending we'll live long enough to get old?"

Your gaze shifted, from your reflection in the mirror to the straightener on the side of the sink. Dancing across the wrinkles that had formed on her shoulder before finally meeting her eyes.

"And then you pulled me back," you croaked, your voice uncharacteristically small,"…like you always do."

A pause.

"Why do you keep on saving me if we already know how this ends?"

Her breath stopped. For a second, she felt the way your words carved themselves in her ribs. Not because they were new, but because she knew. Knew the shape of that truth like a blade in her own palm.

Suddenly, she moved. Almost foolishly, her hands rose, letting go of your wrist and waist to reach up, to tangle in the back of your hair and pull. Not enough to hurt, God knew you both had enough of that today, but to force eye contact. To stop your gaze from fleeting hers. Her voice became lower with something embarrassingly close to desperation.

"Because I don't care about how this ends."

A beat, her thumb brushing over your pulse point, leaning closer to your weary face, the scent of ash and smoke blending with your sweet body wash.

"I only care that you keep breathing until it does, and I'll save you over and over again, just to witness you bathe beside me."