“How do you feel about these sessions?”
“What?”
“How do you feel about them?” Heucherella asks. “It’s not a trick question; I want to know.”
Quinlan takes a deep, careful breath, looking away from Heucherella. She’s sitting in front of the window, and the setting sun is at just the right angle to blind him. Funny, he thinks. He’s sat here at the same time every day for the past week and a half, but today is the first time it’s bothered him.
He takes another breath. “They make me feel stupid,” he admits. “Helpless. Pathetic.”
Heucherella nods, notting something on her flimsipad.”Okay. Thank you for telling me. Why do you think you feel that way?”
“Because it’s stupid. Being here is stupid. I feel like a failure of a Jedi.”
Quinlan and Heucherella have known each other for nearly thirty years now. When they’d met, Quinlan was a volatile, traumatized four year old and Heucherella was just starting her residency. He hasn’t seen her in three years, though, and he’s a bit rusty when it comes to the whole ‘talking through his feelings’ thing.
He grabs at the end of a thought, brown and slimy and rotting in self-recrimination and denial. “I don’t want to admit I’ve Fallen so far.”
Heucherella nods. She wears her hair longer now, and it sweeps across her shoulders with every movement. When Quinlan was younger, she’d kept it in a short, neat Afro. Today, it’s in thick, greying twists, sort of like the ones she’d taught Tholme to do so many years ago.
“Shame is a wall of a feeling,” she notes. “It leads nowhere.”
He leans back, stretching. His back pops. “I know, I know. I just feel stupid, you know?”
Heucherella sighs. “Quinlan, do you know how many patients I’ve seen in the last three years who’ve told me the same thing? You’re not alone. We’ve all been through a trauma, and now it’s coming to an end. What is it Master Windu always says? ‘To lose one’s way is no crime at all, but—’”
“‘—To stop,’” Quinlan continues, “‘is a tragedy.’ I know.”
“I know you know.” She notes something else on her pad, then sets it aside, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on her knees. “How is Fox doing?”
“Okay. Better than anyone expected.” Quinlan smiles, bittersweet. “He’s still very tired. Medics want him sleeping half the day, but he doesn’t like that.”
“He was just relocated from the ICU to the recovery ward, correct?”
“Yeah. Moved him yesterday. I think he’s happy about it, and I know the others are glad some of his visitation restrictions have been lifted.”
Fox is getting a little restless in the medical wing. Even now, out of the ICU and in the recovery ward, he doesn’t exactly have much freedom. He’s yet to be cleared to leave his bed, though that hasn’t stopped a few unsanctioned excursions. His bed alarm has been set to the highest sensitivity, much to his chagrin.
Heucherella uncrosses her legs, stretching them out off the front of her cushion. “And how do you feel about his progress?”
“Proud,” he says, instinctual. “Very proud. Thankful.” He swallows.
“There’s something else.”
Quinlan scratches at the back of his head, glancing at the clock. “Nope. Just proud.”
“Vos.”
“Heucherella.”
“Vos,” she answers, softer. She catches his gaze and holds it, steady, until Quinlan gives in.
“I’m tired,” he admits. “It’s hard, and I’m tired.” His voice breaks there, right between ‘I’m’ and ‘tired.’ “He needs so much right now.”
Heucherella doesn’t let him look away, just reaches across the floor and takes his hands. Hers are warm and small and callused, and they disappear entirely under his long fingers. “It’s alright, Quinlan,” she says. “It’s normal. You’re not a bad person for needing a break. This is hard on you and Fox, and you have to admit that to yourself.
“If you don’t take care of yourself, you run the risk of burning out and becoming resentful. Fox will be able to feel that. Hells, he probably feels something now. Running yourself into the ground for his sake hurts both of you, and being tired doesn’t make you a bad person. Fox has a long, difficult recovery ahead of him, and he’s going to need a lot of help. Not all of that has to come from you.”
“But—”
“No. No ‘buts.’ Fox needs you with him as a partner and a friend, not as a caretaker. I know you, Quinlan, and I know Fox. You’re already helping him more than you can imagine just by being there.”
Quinlan looks away. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, runs his teeth over it, then hears Fox’s exasperated scolding and licks it instead. “It doesn’t feel like it. I don’t know what he needs.”
“So talk to him,” Heucherella laughs. “Use your words. Communicate.” She releases his hands, sitting up and nodding at him to do the same. “I’ll tell you what, Vos: go home to your man and find something to do. Something relaxing, something fun, something quiet, it doesn’t matter. Get close to each other and take some time to reconnect.”
“I think I might have an idea about that.”
Fox is asleep when Quinlan returns from therapy, bundled up in Quinlan’s hoodie and fuzzy socks and a heavy, plush blanket gifted by the Wolfpack. He’s actually sleeping, not resting or fighting through nightmares or sedated or passed out, so Quinlan blows him a kiss from the doorway and goes to gather supplies.
Fox’s room was designed with long-term stays in mind and has a washroom with an easily-accessible tub, so Quinlan won’t have to worry about carting him from Point A to Point B in the Dreaded Hoverchair of Humiliation and Spite. All he has to do is bring his best, most ridiculously luxuriant bath products to Fox.
For several years now, he and Luminara have been competing to find the best bath products in the galaxy. Most of them sit unused, waiting for a ‘special occasion,’ so by now, he has a cabinet full of scented soaps and rich conditioners and bath oils and loofahs and the like with which to pamper Fox. He starts rifling through them, then pauses, considering. Would Fox appreciate the luxury, or would he rather something simple and familiar? Would any of these scents be too strong? What if something irritated his skin?
His gaze lights upon a bottle labeled Oat Milk Hydrating Bodywash For Sensitive Skin that advertises restorative, soothing properties. He thinks it might be for babies. He sets it in his shower caddy. Elsewhere, he finds a clarifying shampoo and a deep conditioner, both with soft, underwhelming scents. Here’s a washcloth so soft Quinlan thinks his hands might sink into it and disappear, and there’s a tub of bath salts with lavender and chamomile. He ventures past something called Empowering CBD Oil Soak (what) and finds a pale green loofah with a little smiley face bead on the rope.
Topping off the caddy is a tub of Quinlan’s favorite body lotion, his beloved purple towel, and a clean set of clothes. It’s full to overflowing, but a last-minute burst of inspiration drags Quinlan back in the door to grab a book off the kitchen table. Then, armed to the teeth, he heads back to the Halls of Healing.
Sometimes, when Quinlan was on-planet and Fox was lucky enough to get half a second to breathe, they’d barricade themselves in Fox’s private quarters and have a ‘date night.’ Quinlan would bring take-out, Fox would bring alcohol, and they’d curl up on his bed and trade stories and watch cheesy holos and screw each other’s brains out. Well, sometimes, they were too tired for the screwing part. Actually, at the end, they hardly ever got to the screwing part.
The dates always ended the same, tangled up in a mess of blankets and hair and limbs and clothes (both on and off), sleeping safe and warm for a few precious hours before someone’s alarm went off.
Invariably, Fox would wake with a gasp and a start, tumbling out of bed and out of their little daydream. More than once, he’d woken up and fallen headlong into a panic attack.
Fox’s cheek is warm under his hand, blotchy red and chapped from hospital air and oxygen masks. Quinlan pets his face and smooths his hand up into Fox’s hair. “Hey, Foxy.”
Fox stirs, pushing into the touch and opening his eyes just a fraction, but it’s the following gasp and flinch that signal his true return to consciousness.
“Hey,” Quinlan continues, level and calm. “There you are.”
“Hi,” Fox rasps, finding Quinlan’s free hand and twining their fingers together. He yawns, wrinkling his nose in that way he swears he never does. “Time is it?”
“Just after 1900.” He tucks his thumb under Fox’s ear and rubs that spot that makes him melt into a gorgeous puddle when Quinlan bites it. “Have you eaten yet?”
Fox retaliates by pressing two fingers to Quinlan’s pulsepoint on the wrist he’s still got a hold of. “Yes, worrywort. Why? Planning on sneaking me out of here?”
Quinlan pulls away with a grin. “Not quite. Something, though.”
“What? Are those—towels?” Fox wriggles into something like a sitting position, leaning over and looking into the shower caddy.
Quinlan scoops the caddy up and hides it behind his back. “They’re not all towels. Actually, there’s only one towel. The rest is other bath stuff.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think, dipshit?” Quinlan snarks, unprepared for the fist that lashes out at his turned back. “Ow! You hit hard for an invalid!” This time, he dances out of the way just before Fox’s hand can make contact with a much more sensitive area. “It’s like you don’t love me or something.”
“I don’t,” Fox says, serene as ever by the time Quinlan turns around. “And if you try and bring me anywhere in that wheelchair, I’ll show you exactly how mobile I still am.”
Quinlan waggles his eyebrows, grinning with all his teeth. “Is that a promise?”
Fox makes to leap from his bed and Quinlan darts forward, stopping him with a kiss on the forehead. Fox grabs his collar and tugs him down into a deep, warm kiss, licking at Quinlan’s teeth and bumping their noses together. He tastes like the caf’s blueberry tea.
“Shut up,” Fox mumbles into his mouth.
“My—mmhh—my pleasure. Now, do you want a bath, or not?”
“Try the water now,” Quinlan suggests. “It should be about right.”
Cautiously, Fox dips the tips of his fingers into the water. Quinlan takes the opportunity to admire the way the muscles in his back flex as he twists, distorting his scars, wrapping the ghosts of lightning around his ribcage.
“I think it’s good,” Fox says, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “I’ve never taken a bath before, how would I know?”
Some days, he really wishes he could turn back time. “We’ll just go with it. ‘S long as it doesn’t burn, it’s more an experiment in personal preference.” Careful of his still-healing ribs and ankle, he scoops Fox up into a bridal carry. “You want the ankle in or out of the water?”
Fox’s ankle is still wrapped in a blue plastoid brace, hard enough to keep him from doing more than wiggling his toes. The cast is gone, though, and the Healers have cleared him to get it wet.
“In.” Fox holds on tight as Quinlan lowers him into the water, only to relax entirely the moment his legs are submerged. “Oh,” he moans. “Oh, Force. Oh, Force, that feels good.”
Quinlan laughs, settling Fox against the edge of the tub. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Fox tips his head back, leaning against the wall. “Shit, I don’t think I’ve showered in two weeks.”
Quinlan steps out of his pants and boxers. “You’ve been otherwise occupied,” he laughs. “I think you can be forgiven.” He steps into the tub, perching on the seat molded into the side. He’s pretty sure the invalid is supposed to be the one in the seat, but Fox seems content where he is, and Quinlan’s legs might break off at the knees if he tries to get down there and also help Fox.
Oh, Fox is so right, this bath is wonderful. He’d been unsure about the bath salts, but they’re perfect. Somehow, it’s like they’re seeping into his skin and leeching out the pain.
Reaching back out of the tub, he grabs the shampoo. “C’mere, come sit between my knees.”
Fox sighs as he sits up, contentment oozing out of every pore. “You talk like you’ve done this before.”
“Oh, I have not,” Quinlan says, filling a pitcher with water. “Close your eyes.” He dumps the water over Fox’s head. “I’m just making things up as I go.”
Very quickly, he’s realizing why bathing together is such a coveted couples activity. They’ve hardly even gotten started and already, he feels more relaxed than he has in nearly a month. He squeezes a dollop of shampoo onto his hand. “This might be cold,” he warns.
“Go’head.” Fox’s hands find his ankles, thumbs caressing his calves.
Fox’s hair has gotten long, and weeks of hurt, hospitals, and fever sweat have left his gorgeous curls a thick mess of grease and tangles. Quinlan works the shampoo in carefully, listening for Fox’s hisses of discomfort and moving with the dip of his head into and away from Quinlan’s hands.
He reaches his scalp and Fox moans, leaning back so hard Quinlan has to steady him as he scratches at his scalp. “Fuck, Quin. Fuck, ‘s good.” The hands on his ankles spasm.
He drags his hands through Fox’s hair and down his neck, massaging his shoulders. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of Fox’s head. “Bleh. And you taste like soap.”
Fox snorts. “Nice move, genius.”
“Hey, hey, who’s in charge here?”
“Oh, now you’re pulling rank on me?” Fox tips his head back into Quinlan’s lap, looking up at him with clear eyes and blown pupils and suddenly, Quinlan is struck breathless by the way his dark circles have started to fade. “Quin?”
Dunking his hands in the water to get rid of the shampoo, he grabs Fox’s face and smoothes his thumbs over his cheeks. “Nothing, baby. Just looking at you.”
“Sap.”
“Mmhmm.” Fox is already reaching up when Quinlan leans down. The kiss is a little soapy and definitely awkward, but it’s so Fox that it lights something ablaze in Quinlan’s chest. “I love you,” he swears, pulling away.
Fox’s eyes are closed and he chases after Quinlan for just an instant. “Love you, too. So much.”
“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” he asks, tipping Fox’s head back up and going back to washing his hair.
Fox doesn’t answer, just gives a noncommittal little hum.
“You are,” Quinlan presses, scrubbing at the short hair at the nape of Fox’s neck. “Most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. You… I don’t even have words, baby.”
Fox whines, knocking his head against Quinlan’s knee. “You, too,” he whispers.
“You are,” he repeats, pulling up another pitcher of water. “Tip your head back and close your eyes.”
He washes Fox’s hair twice more, working his fingers through the knots and scrubbing the dried bacta and blood and gods-only-knows-what else from his scalp. The last time, when he lathers the shampoo, it goes easy and Quinlan can feel how much cleaner his hair is. Fox says nothing, just relaxes by increments until he’s leaning against Quinlan’s knee, hands back around his calves.
“Conditioner now,” Quinlan says, rinsing his hair one last time. “I’ll let this soak for a little while, and then I’ll try and detangle some of this.”
“Gonna soap me up?” Fox asks, grinning sleepily as he moves off Quinlan’s lap.
“Sure am.” He grabs the bodywash. “You want a loofah or a washcloth?”
“I don’t… What the hell is a loofah?” Fox cracks an eye open, raising his eyebrows at the puff of mesh Quinlan holds up for him to see. “Um, that, I guess.”
At some point, Quinlan slides down into the water with Fox, abandoning the seat and the loofah and leaning closer and closer until he’s got his arms braced on either side of Fox’s head and Fox’s knees pulled up around his thighs.
Fox’s mouth tastes like salt and bathwater and something clean and sharp, and he sighs into Quinlan’s mouth with every shift of his hands up and down Fox’s sides. His hands are so tightly woven into Quinlan’s hair that Quinlan’s not sure they’ll ever be apart again, and he can’t bring himself to mind.
“Quin, kriff, I love you,” Fox murmurs between open-mouthed kisses trailing from the corner of his mouth down. He stops at Quinlan’s collarbone and bites. “Love you, love you, love you.” He punctuates each ‘love you’ with a kiss to the bite mark.
“Love you, too,” Quinlan gasps. He takes Fox by the chin and tugs him into another kiss, slumping forward until he’s pressed all along Fox’s front. “Love you so much, gorgeous.”
Fox sets his teeth against Quinlan’s lip, running blunt, ragged fingernails down his back. “Quin,” he starts, and breaks off with a hiss.
Quinlan sits up so fast he gets the spins. “Oh, Force, sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Fox laughs, and Quinlan realizes they’ve slumped so far down the water is at Fox’s neck. “Just sore.”
Quinlan takes Fox’s hands and helps him up. “We should probably ease up, anyways. Water’s getting cold and I don’t know about you, but I’m a little tired for where this is going.”
Fox smiles, soft. “Yeah, probably.”
He reaches for the pick. “Want me to do your hair?”
“Mm, yeah. Sounds nice.”
Most of the knots have given up the fight under the hour-long onslaught of conditioner (and a good amount of finger-combing courtesy of Quinlan’s search for a secure hand hold), and the rest come out easy enough with a little bit of time and attention.
Fox’s hair hangs around his ears in deep waves and corkscrews. In the water, it stretches straight and shines pitch-black. Quinlan knows full-well this is the first time in at least three years Fox has had time to take care of his hair, and he’s pretty sure he’s never had anyone else do it for him. When Quinlan runs his hands through it, he hums, deep and content.
“Close your eyes one more time, love.” Quinlan washes the last of the conditioner out, wiping Fox’s eyes dry and spinning him around for a kiss. “There. All clean.”
Fox is practically asleep by now, lax and warm in his arms. “Mm. Thanks.”
“Bedtime?” Quinlan stands, stepping out of the tub. He leaves a hand on Fox’s shoulder, keeping him down even as he tries to follow. “Let me help you out.”
He eases Fox out of the tub and sets him on the bathmat, pulling the plug and letting the water begin to drain. Fox stays pliant and drowsy through being dried off and hardly twitches when Quinlan takes his brace off to dry it. Good. Hopefully, it’s mending properly. Hemlock had warned them about the ankle, about the danger of spiral fractures and the possibility of permanent damage. He notes the sores growing where the plastic meets Fox’s skin, and takes a moment to wrap his foot in gauze before strapping the brace back on.
He dries himself quickly, redressing in sleep clothes before helping Fox do the same. He’s completely out of it now, swaying back and forth and blinking so slowly Quinlan wonders if he isn’t already asleep. He lets Quinlan pick him up without so much as an eye-roll, even going as far as to wrap his arms around Quinlan’s neck. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t tell Quinlan that he can walk on his own, doesn’t say that someday, Quinlan will get sick of carrying him around, he just hangs on, and Quinlan just carries him.