complaininginthedark:

It is, by all reckoning, the first warm bath he has had in over a decade. 

In Bedlam the water was always cold; used to torture, to coerce, to hurt and roughly scrub away lice and dirt. Water frightened him in that place, a fear that followed him to the ship that took him to Savannah. 

In Oglethorpe’s prison the water was cold simply because it was cheaper that way. Bathing was done regularly and with no privacy. The cold water was a blessing in the heat but when winter came it made him shiver and shake uncontrollably. 

Thomas only let the maids cut his hair. None of them were able to get a razor near his skin, with or without water. He was terrified of the thoughts that would follow if one came close to him, thoughts of then when things had come to something akin to an end and he had almost-

He pushes the thoughts away and lets the heat sink into him. Steam is rising from the surface of the water and he finally feels warm. It seeps into his bones, so old and weak now he has time to feel it. There is soap and a mug of tea on a stool next to the large copper tub and Thomas lets himself cry softly at the sense of home and safety they give him. 

James is hovering nearby, a nervous shadow in the corner like a schoolboy awaiting the cane. He had brought each bucket in from the well near their new home one by one, heated them continuously until the water made his hand pink when he tested it. Thomas had watched silently from the single armchair they owned. 

“James,” he whispers, sniffling a little and stifling a laugh at how ridiculous it is to cry over hot water but knowing that this- this is luxury. “Would you- would you wash my hair?” He asks in a low voice. 

James stands by him moments later and picks up the soap. 

Silently he works the soap into a lather and gently washes the dirt, sweat, errant bugs, from Thomas’ hair. His fingers massage the knots from the strands, short though they are, and Thomas lets himself forget the fear of water and closeness for that time. 

The scent of rosemary and clove, odd but beautiful in their decadence, fill his nose along with the tang of clean sweat from James’ form so close behind him. 

“Do they make soap from pine?” He asks after a moment. 

James pauses, thinking. “I think so, I don’t see why not.”

Thomas nods and sits forward. He lets James pour a bowl of water slowly over the back of his head, ignores the shake in his own hands, the sting of fear that clamps on his chest, and shudders out a breath. 

“I’d like some pine soap, if it can be found,” he manages after a few moments. “I miss the woods. I miss the smell of them, I miss-” He chokes on a sob and leans back. James is there, an arm around his shoulders as Thomas falls apart a little. 

It is ten minutes later, the water cooling and Thomas’ mind clearing, when James speaks again. “There is an apothecary in town. I saw a few different soaps and colognes, even some fragrant oils. We can go look tomorrow if you’d like?” Thomas nods and hears James’ happy sigh. “Pine soap for you… I’d like to smell like roses instead of sweat for once, maybe even lilies.”

Thomas laughs, the sound brittle but honest. “Lilies? Honestly, James, what would Miranda think?” It hurts to say her name but the smile James wears is worth that sting. 

“She would no doubt hate it. Perhaps lilac instead, lavender on her birthday…”

Thomas is out of the bath in the next minute, dry linen wrapped around him and James softly drying him. The fire is roaring and James’ short hair is glowing like embers. 

When James strips and climbs in he lets Thomas wash his back. James is quick and methodical with his cleaning, not wanting to sit in cooling water for long. In ten minutes he is out and dry, curling himself around Thomas like a contented house cat. 

They watch the flames flicker in the hearth and drink tea before going to bed and sleeping wrapped in one another’s arms.