Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a comforting motion in pulling a brush through hair, Cellbit thinks, despite the bristles snagging every so often on some matting, It’s partially worth it for the way Charlie presses into him when he accidentally scrapes his scalp.

They left him for far too long, once short hair now shoulder length and tied with red ribbon, he knows what it’s from, taking care when pulling it free of the twisted hair and knots it’s tangled around. He doesn’t want to just lay it down somewhere, it could get damaged knowing his luck, so he pulls Charlie’s arm towards him, the slight stink of it making him grimace for a second before tying a bow around the man’s wrist. He’s strangely pliant, body malleable, or more than usual under calloused hands, letting out quiet hums and mostly letting Cellbit get on with his work. A quiet hiss every once in a while at a particularly rough snag, but it’s quiet in the room.

Not awkward, but not exactly comforting either.

He’s dressed corpses before, but never whilst they were living, physically rotting away under his fingers, he can see the skin taught on Charlie’s face, his skin bruises so easily, there’s marks all over, from accidental smacks or deliberate attempts to crack a joke.

It’d be disturbing, if he wasn’t utterly fascinated.

There’s a beauty to it, there are clovers and colonies of fungus growing on Charlie’s neck, the skin there discoloured, ripping apart, leaking like a faulty faucet.

He hits a particularly rough snag, his mind wanders too far, he stops paying attention, plastic bristles finding their home in messes of knots and dead hair. The brush pulls too hard as he tries to get it free, a harsh jerk and for a second he thinks he’s hurt Charlie, the man letting out a quiet whine at the pressure and drag.

“You good?” He tries to keep his voice quiet, not wanting to rip off the proverbial band-aid of comfort they’d settled themselves into.

There’s not much of an answer, Charlie’s face thrown into his hands, a quiet mumble of an apology and something that sounds suspiciously like a “Ignore that” muttered like gargling water against skin and ichor.

He can’t keep brushing Charlie’s hair when the man’s curled up into a ball in front of him. The sight of his spine poking through the thin fabric of his shirt makes him recoil for a second, before pressing a hand to Charlie’s back. Warm meets furnace hot, and his eyes zone in on the way the skin on his back sinks in with the touch.

He knows Charlie is dying, knows whatever devotion he has to his daughter is rotting him from the inside out. But the skin and muscle giving way and caving like an underbaked loaf of bread under a gentle touch is enough to pull him out of whatever stupor he’s worked himself into.

It takes him a little bit trying to untangle the brush, easily pulling Charlie out of his self-inflicted ball so he can continue his work of slowly attacking the matting with an ease and patience he doesn’t remember having before being trapped on this hellscape of an island.

They left it to him to sort out Charlie, none of them are all that squeamish, Phil even offered to do it himself, and it might have been a better idea, far more practised hands adorned in pruned skin wouldn’t have taken as long as Cellbit has. But he knows what it’s like to cling to whatever it takes to survive, he’d feel… wrong, wrong leaving Charlie to the hands of someone who’d do it with precision and not clumsy care.

It takes hours before Charlie’s hair is relatively smooth again, fingers and claws running through it like sand, there’s a collection of clovers forming a blanket around them, the clusters of the plant grew around the most infected parts. It was a pain to pluck and ease them out of Charlie’s hair, he winced in pain each time one was taken, like they’d become as much of a part of him as his nails or teeth.

The longer hair looks good on him, it frames his face in such a lovely way…even if the events leading up to it were.. less than ideal.

“Hairs done” breaking the silence felt wrong, but he’s not really sure Charlie is even here right now. He gets a quiet hum in response, but nothing else.

“You’re gonna need a bath, you smell like shit” is not the best thing to say there, but he can’t take it back now. It’s not a lie though, the man smells of rot and infection, and it’s not like Charlie will wash himself. The man barely feeds himself from what he can tell.

This is going to be awkward. Might as well bite the bullet now, get it out the way.

“Mind if I…” he gestures at the bath in the corner of the room, nothing fancy, just a barrel Etoiles had sliced in half at once. It’s set above a fire-pit, primed to heat up the second he feels like rewarding himself with a half hour of relaxation. It’ll get the job done as well as anything else, and Cellbit doesn’t feel like spending the extra time doing a sponge bath.

It takes Charlie a little bit to process what’s being asked of him, gaze following Cellbits outstretched arm to the corner of the room.

“Sure man” Charlie’s voice sounds rough, unused, tired. Lots of things Cellbit hears within his own, the consequence of his self-imposed insomnia. It’s almost pitiable if he didn’t understand it innately.

He helps Charlie up, arms trying to find purchase on the weak flesh without puncturing a hole. The other man is dead weight against his side, the two of them slowly making their way to the tub in the corner, Charlie stumbling every few steps. The weight of his body dragging him back down to the ground.

They make it there, eventually, he props Charlie up against a random chest left by someone. It’s the first time he’s seen him stand in hours, and if he wasn’t aware Charlie was very much alive, he’d assume some fucking zombie had snook into his bathroom.

Undressing him isn’t as awkward as he thought it would be. It’s a job to do, and peeling off the layers of clothing is almost meditative. The sash unwinds with ease, green fabric stained with dirt and months old blood, laid out atop a pile of books he hadn't bothered to move. He’ll wash it with the rest of the clothes, give Charlie some of his humanity back as best he can. The T-shirt is next, it’s ripped and torn, and really it should just be replaced, but he’s never been one to throw out something that could be fixed, so it’s carefully laid out with the soiled sash, the cargo shorts following soon after, along with his underwear, he doesn’t think too hard about it, simply piles them with the rest, and helps Charlie climb into the warm water. Bruised and pallid skin soothed by the warm water hugging it as he slips in.

He ignores the moan Charlie lets out when the water envelops his skin, trying to figure out a way to lean over the stupid fucking barrel to do his job, it’s too high up for him, and he’d be embarassed about it if he cared more right now. But it’s either going to take piling something up so he can reach over the rim (embarrassing) or… shit.

“Hey, Slime. Slime?” Charlie doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem like he heard him. He has to tap his shoulder a few times, the skin under his fingers caving slightly with each tap to get his attention, the man in front of him tilting his head upwards, eyes distant, but he’s listening, which is all he needs.

“I need to get in with you, barrel is too tall” he tries to make gestures with his hands, nothing really captures what he’s asking though and so he's stood awkwardly staring at Charlie’s blank expression, before the man lets out a quiet snort and nods his head, before turning back to watching the water move under his fingers.

It doesn’t take too long to get undressed, he’s been in more relaxing clothes than usual, a lax tshirt and some joggers he’d pulled out from somewhere. He takes extra time to fold the clothes, delaying whatever he’s about to do. It’s a job. Charlie needs help.

The water is blissfully warm, reaching the locked up joints from hours of sitting and brushing hair and soothing them with ease, the barrel is big enough he doesn’t brush against Charlie too much, the man slumped against the wooden edge, eyes closed. It doesn’t take much at all to pull him upwards, and lean him towards himself. Hands feather light on Charlie’s shoulders.

He knows there are vials and tubs of wash products next to them, but there are clovers and mushrooms growing out of Charlie’s skin, and it’s probably smarter to remove them first, it just happens that running his hands on Charlie’s skin is the best way to find and remove them without the man flinching too hard, dropping each piece of outward rot into a little bucket next to the bath, the water washing out the wounds as each one is plucked.

The skin under his hands is cold despite the warm water, slowly warming up under Cellbits hands. It's soft, squishy in a way skin and muscle shouldn’t be. The warmth from gentle hands and warm water returning some red to the skin, the pale mottled greens and yellows returning to normal.

It takes a little bit of effort to lean over to the stool with all the hygiene products, using his claws on the underside of the wood to pull it closer, the bottles and vials and tubes rattling against one another in the wicker basket they sit in. It takes a while to find something that he thinks will work, there’s so much shit in here, gifts from Philza, Baghera, Jaiden, Hell even Fit had pressed some things into his arms when he’d realised what he was doing.

He ends up settling on a tea tree oil soap. The smell masks the rotting smell He's been dealing with for hours. Squeezing out enough to cover his hands he starts on Charlie’s neck, a loud hiss being let out anytime he runs the soap against the unhealed wounds, and a hushed apology from Cellbit.

It doesn’t take long to cover Charlie’s skin, He's never been a tall man, and it’s even easier as he’s skin and bone. He only has to top up a few times, making sure to apply it more gently around where the rot has sprung growths, the skin raw and mangled.

Charlie himself was falling asleep in his arms at this point, head resting against Cellbit’s chest, barely breathing, but the rise and fall of his chest makes the water ripple slightly under the slight displacement, and it’s enough for Cellbit, to not worry, dead weight against him as he works soap lather into rotting skin.

It comes off easily in the water, a few scoops with his hands and Charlie is, mostly, clean and doesn’t smell like shit anymore, he has to shake the man awake so he can move on to the next task, letting Charlie rest himself against his body as he shifts to grab some shampoo left by Baghera. He’s not… sure what it’s meant to smell like, but he remembers Baghera telling him Charlie would always compliment it every time they hung out, she wanted him to have some, see if it helped him feel a bit more complete.

The gesture is one he’s not sure he knows how to replicate, so he just settles on doing his job. Pushing Charlie off his chest slightly so he can dunk the man.

“Hey, deep breath, you’re going under, hairs too greasy to put straight shampoo in” he gets a hum, and watches Charlie try (and cough out) a deep breath, retrying when it escapes his lungs, prepared to be shoved into to warmth they’ve been sitting in.

He has to ease Charlie’s head under the water, running calloused hands through greasy hair. He needs to get it as wet as he can, being careful to not apply too much pressure with his claws against Charlie’s scalp. The water turns murky with the dunk, months of dried blood and dirt leaking out into the water. He’s not disgusted, he probably should be, sharing the same bath, but all he’s focused on is getting this shit out of Charlie’s hair so the both of them can take a well needed nap.

He has to pull Charlie back up so the man can get some air. Forearms under armpit, lifting him with an ease he didn’t expect. There’s no sputter, no deep breath of relief, just a quiet grunt, and Charlie leaning back against Cellbits chest.

“Asshole, are you trying to drown?” It comes out softer than he expects, there’s anger sure, but it’s tinged with a hint of something Cellbit doesn’t want to name.

It’s quiet for a moment, before Charlie lets out a quiet sob, or a chuckle? Cellbit isn’t sure anymore. No other response from the man in his arms. So he holds on tighter for a moment, making sure Charlie can’t sink back into the water, sink down and leave them for good.

After a while (a long while) he let’s go. Arms snaking back to his sides, reaching for Baghera’s shampoo, the glass jar cold in his hands after being pressed against Charlie’s now warm skin for so long.

The lotion is even colder, like an ice cube, he works it between his fingers for a second, the sweet earthy scent filling the air and he tries to warm it up to not shock Charlie.

There’s a mumble against his skin, allowing himself to look down to see Charlie gazing up at him, green eyes half lidded, tired, but alert for the first time in hours.

“What?”

“Is that Baghera’s?” Clearer this time, he still feels each word against his chest, but it’s not muffled by his own skin.

“Uh, yeah. She gave me some for you. Thought it’d cheer you up” he has to look away, he can’t stare at Charlie like he wants to, not now, not ever, he has a job to do, he’s dressing a corpse.

Another soft hum, and green eyes are hidden once again. Wet hair falling over Charlie’s eyes as the man shifts himself. Pulling himself upright so it’s easier for Cellbit to run his fingers through the strands. Working the lotion in with care to not snag with claws.

He wasn't built for this gentle stuff, hands that were caked with blood shouldn’t be used to untangle mats and care for the dead. But Charlie didn’t complain, simply relaxed, let himself be cared for, for the first time in months.

Another dunk, washing out the lotion, controlled this time, Cellbit has to brush his fingers through strands of auburn hair, whilst making sure Charlie comes up for air. It’s harder, but at least he won’t be in a bath with a corpse, or well, a deader corpse.

The lotions all out, and Charlie has finally fully resurfaced, wet skin pressing against Cellbit, again, like it’s his favourite place in the world, before there are hands on his arms, and Charlie is trying to turn to face him in the water, it takes the both of them to get it to work, Charlie’s tired body finally getting much needed rest protesting against the action.

They’re nose to nose, the barrel feels much smaller now. And suddenly there’s no space between them at all, eyes closing in anticipation as Charlie’s arm shakily comes up behind his neck, the miniscule amount of strength he has left used to pull their faces together, soft lips meeting ragged ones, and Cellbit can't Help but grab onto Charlie’s face, running his hands along the torn places the rot grew out his skin.

It’s soft, much softer than it should be for the two of them, they’d kissed once before, quick, violent, behind a pillar someone had built for the introductions, hiding from the view of the others, teeth and tongues fighting. This is different, all of it is different.

Charlie is clinging to him like it’s all he has left, soft presses shared between desperate pulls for air. There’s no desperation, simply something that should have happened a while ago.

They part, after a while, he’s really not sure how long. Charlie's lips are flushed red, his eyes darting between Cellbit and the walls of the room they’re in before finally settling on Cellbits shoulders.

“Uh. Shouldn’t have done that. I'm sorry haha I uhm. Don’t know what happened I’m so sorry dude I-“ his voice is barely there, more a suggestion if anything “I know you said it was one time”

It’s easier to cut him off by kissing him again, sharp canines catching pliable skin, his hands shakily reaching into Charlie’s wet hair and getting tangled there.

A soft sigh from Slime and the feeling of his lips pressing back into his is his confirmation that this is fine. More than fine, if the salty wetness that lingers on his mouth for a few seconds is any indicator.

It doesn’t go any further than kisses and nips traded between the two of them. Hands clutched to one another’s hips or in hair when Charlie eventually pulls away, eyes heavy and slumping against Cellbit’s chest and neck. His breathing slowly sputtering out to the rhythmic pattern of sleep, something he’s sure the man has been missing lots of.

There wasn’t much left in cleaning Slime up, his hair washed and the water around them going from a soothing warmth to a slightly unpleasant lukewarm, the wet clovers floating atop the water occasionally sticking to his skin and causing him to grimace before he decides to pull himself out, shaking Charlie awake enough so he can help him out the barrel, wrapping him in a warm towel that smells like Baghera, another thing left by her with the lotions, before walking them both to his unused, unwrinkled bed in the adjacent room, letting Charlie flop down on the covers before the man passed out again, wet hair soaking the pillows.

Someone might as well use it, Cellbit doesn’t sleep, or he tries not to these days, the well used coffee machine in his room reflecting the brown of Charlie’s hair.

His job is done for now, letting Charlie sleep is in both of their interests, walking back into the bathroom to start the process of cleaning clothes and stitching them back together, to finish his work dressing the corpse laid in his bed.