Woman hearing her train is arriving over the intercom and rushing a little faster than she should down the stairs, tripping once she's on the platform, cane goes flying, hitting the floor and hissing in pain as her whole body just smacks against the cement paving
It's quiet, dead as hell.
An hour until the next train, and she hates having to wait for hours on the platform for the next one when she does a late shift and the trains are more spaced out, but she literally lives across the road from her home station, and she hates taxis bc people are always Weird and make strange convo
She hears the train's doors shut on the far side of the platform, hears the train rumble and then set off, and she groans, face basically mashed into the cold floor, and half pushes herself up on her elbows, feeling about for her cane even though she knows it clattered further away
It's dark as hell, and even if it wasn't, she'd never be able to distinguish between the white of her cane and the grey of the floor
She suddenly jumps up when she hears steps on the cement, hadn't realised there was anybody else in the station
It's a rich voice, resonant and deep, a man's, but he's not really distinguishable from the rest of the dark of the station. Tall.
"On your left hand side," he says quietly - calmly, no fuss, no anxiety. It hurts to grip hold of the cane, grit and roughness on her hands. "May I help you up?"
God, she hates strangers. She's not very fond of people she actually knows, but strangers are worse, especially the ones that are desperate and eager to help and fucking weird about it. This one, at least, doesn't seem that desperate, and doesn't have the frantic energy some people do.
And, for once, she actually does need the help.
"I don't think so," she says, grunting in pain as she pushes herself up onto her knees. "Except skin."
"I'm going to put my arms out, just grip me by my forearms or lean your weight on me."
She doesn't grip his forearms, leans her forearms against his instead - his hands are very big around her elbows, and he waits for her to put her weight on him before he lifts her, and God, it's clear that it's very easy for him. He IS tall, and broad, too. It makes her nervous.
"May I look at your hands?" he asks, and she doesn't know why she lets him - because he's so big, because he keeps saying "may I", because he asks instead of just grabbing for her, she doesn't know, but she lets him.
She lets her cane rest against the crook of her elbow as she turns her palms up.
"Ow!" she hisses as his thumb touches against the side of her palm - his hands are very warm, and very careful. His fingers feel ridiculously large against her wrist, and it's not as if she's an especially dainty woman, not skinny, really.
A cloth runs over her palm and the pain retracts a little.
"What is that?" she asks. "Antiseptic?"
"Yes," he says calmly, and strokes her other palm - it tingles, the wet slide against her skin and her fingers, and then the pain is eased in each of her hands. "You should put this shirt in the wash as soon as you get home. You stained it in the fall."
She doesn't know if that's some weird fucking come on, feels herself stiffen, but he's already pulling back.
"The wrist loop on your cane," he says.
"I caught it in a door," she says.
She stands there for a second. He doesn't reach for it, doesn't try to take it.
His hands aren't even out, she doesn't think - he's keeping them to himself. She flexes her fingers, feeling the ease on each side, no pain now - her body is a bit bruised, her knees scuffed, but her hands feel fine.
After a second's hesitation, she holds out her cane by the handle.
He doesn't take it from her, just holds it steady and does something quickly, must be tying the loop or something, and then his hands come back.
"There," he says. "The next train is in thirty-seven minutes."
"Thank you," she says, and doesn't ask, even though she actually almost wants to.
Why's he so normal about it? Why's he NOT a freak about a blind woman, why is he NOT weird or anxious, or too helpful in unhelpful ways?
"You're facing Platform 2," he says. "The line is just ahead of you-- yes, there you are. Good night."
She doesn't turn as he passes, goes up the stairs.
It's only when she gets home and Kelly says, "Jesus, Mer, are you bleeding? Your cuffs are all red!" and touches her hands that she realises it wasn't just a cloth on her earlier. "No cuts. Where'd the blood come from?"
"Just a spill at work," she lies. "Pork, I think, sorry. It's gross."
She puts the shirt straight in the wash, just like he'd told her to, and she feels her palms, feels how there's no grazing, no cuts, no scrapes. When she feels the loop of her cane, traces the string, she finds that he hadn't knotted it after all - it's a clean loop, threaded into the handle.
Laughing - for some reason, she's more amused and giddy than scared, the fear completely evaporated - she falls into bed, and dreams of a very big man with magic hands, and wonders what it might be like to let him touch her some more, next time.
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