Interlude [h.s]

seventy-five

"I'm not buying one of your ridiculously expensive suits," she says, "but I'll get something that looks the part." She puts down the key and takes the sponge from him. "I'll do your back." It isn't a question, because she knows his answer would undoubtedly be no. He wouldn't be able to wash his back on his own though, not so soon after getting hurt, and she has no intention of watching him struggle to obtain no results.

She kneels between the bathtub and sink and gently passes the sponge over his shoulders before sliding down, careful to keep the touch light over the fading bruise on his side he earned when he fell on the street. She puts down the sponge just as the key falls on the floor with a click, but neither of them moves to pick it up.

"Tilt your head back, I'll wash your hair," Alouette says, putting her hands on his shoulders. The water on his skin is cooling down, but he's warm. There's a different kind of intimacy in being in the bathroom together like this, helping him wash himself, something tinged in an odd sense of familiarity and comfortableness, and maybe it's just what she needs to heal her heart after it was brutally shattered a week ago.

"I can—"

"I'll wash your hair," she repeats, reaching past his neck and lifting his chin to make him lean back. She wets his hair under the shower head and then massages soap into his curls. She's suddenly aware that Harry is breathing a little faster, but she can't tell if it's because he's stressed or because he simply isn't used to it.

When she's done she washes the soap away, and it twirls into the drain in a swirl of white and leftover light pink. She waits until the water is clear and then helps him out of the bathtub and hands him a towel to wrap around his waist.

"Sit down for a moment," she instructs, and he sits on the edge of the bathtub, water drops glinting on his bare skin like a thousand crystals in the oddly white light of the bathroom. She pulls out a hairdryer and dries his hair at best, only enough to make sure water won't drip down his neck and it won't feel too wet for him. He doesn't say a word through the entire process, and she has a feeling it might be because it puts him on edge. Something tells her he isn't used to people helping him—both by his request and by their own choice. And something else tells her he doesn't like how it makes him feel. She doesn't dare to address it, though, because he would hate that even more.

She picks up the key and goes back into the bedroom, gasping when she finds Anthony in the middle of the room.

"Here for the regular check up, brought a change of clothes," he says, pointing to the desk.

"One moment." Alouette takes the pair of black sweatpants and walks back into the bathroom, closing the door after herself. "Anthony's here," she tells Harry, handing him the clothes. He finishes drying himself up and puts them on, holding onto the sink not to fall. When he's done, she goes with him to the other room.

Anthony regards him with an approving look. "You look a thousand times better today," he comments, "I told you some walking and a shower would work miracles."

Harry doesn't reply, but the doctor is used to it by now. Over the past week he's had more than one occasion to discover that friendliness absolutely doesn't work on Harry, or better, not like he was expecting it to. In fact, while he still keeps him at an arm's length and hardly speaks to him, he doesn't seem to think of him as much of a threat anymore. Anthony doesn't mind. Apparently, in Harry's book saving his life brings to him being aware of the fact that he isn't going to kill him instead of eternal gratitude, and Anthony's fine with that. In truth, Alouette doesn't think he's ever believed he could ever build a friendship with the President.

Harry sits on the bed while he checks on him. His bandages are a little wet from the shower even though Alouette tried her best to keep them dry, so he changes them. She turns around while he does it. She still can't look at the scarring wounds on his lower stomach without being reminded of that night, and it makes her feel sick—an odd mixture of anxiousness, fear, heartbreak and nausea.