"Having their hair washed by the other"

disclaimed

...

"—it was such a stupid move, honestly, I can't believe I did that," Allison huffs, cradling her injured arm to her chest and glaring at the dashboard.

Lydia hums out a response, pulling into their driveway with a smooth practiced ease. She doesn't elaborate as she gathers her and Allison's bags and opens Allison's door, or even as she unlocks their front door and holds it open for her wife to shuffle through.

It's not that she's angry. She kind of wishes she was angry, actually, because Allison was reckless and honestly a little selfish and, god, Lydia wishes she could just be angry. Instead, she's trying to forget the stab of fear she felt when it was Scott on Allison's phone, when she could hear Allison's muffled sobs in the background when she picked up the call. Instead, she's so overwhelmed with relief that it was only a broken wrist that she could cry.

Allison must sense it, because she hovers near Lydia as she moves from the hall to the living room, from the living room to the kitchen. "I can help," she insists, trying to grab the bag of groceries Lydia had been getting when she got the call out of her arms.

"You have a broken wrist," Lydia snaps, pulling the bag out of Allison's reach. She deflates instantly at Allison's sheepish look, at how easily she lets Lydia move her out of the way, how she stays put in the chair Lydia pushes her into. "I'm sorry," she says after a beat. "I know it's not your fault."

Allison slips her good hand into Lydia's, tangling their fingers and holding Lydia steady. "It kind of is," she responds. "I didn't listen to Scott and I got hurt. Completely my fault."

Nodding, Lydia lets Allison tug her to stand between her legs and she withdraws her hand from her girlfriend's in order to cup her face, thumbs smoothing along sharp cheekbones. Allison's looking up at her with these wide eyes, silently asking to be let in and so it's with a heavy sigh that Lydia finally gives a voice to the terrible thought that's been hounding her ever since she raced to the hospital.

"I'm glad you're okay. But I'm—," she bites off, struggling with how to best word the next thing she needs to say. Allison turns her face into Lydia's palm, kissing it gently, her good hand coming up to rest on Lydia's other wrist. "I'm tired of being so worried," Lydia continues finally. "I'm tired of having to be relieved that it's just a broken wrist or just a shattered ankle or just a dislocated shoulder."

There's a moment—a pause. Allison thinks that she should say something but finds that all her words are stuck in her throat, choking her. Before she can find a way to say that she knows, that she's sorry, that she'll be careful, Lydia's leaning in and kissing her softly. "We can talk it through later," she promises, dropping her hands from Allison's face in favor of helping her stand and guiding her towards the stairs. "You're in need of a bath."

"I can't—," Allison starts before Lydia shushes her gently.

"You won't have to." She leaves Allison on their bed, slipping into the bathroom and Allison listens to the soft sounds of Lydia moving around in the other room, the water starting as she draws a bath, the cabinets opening and closing as she gathers linens. Eventually she reemerges, whatever irritation or fear pushed aside in favor of that soft look that she reserves for Allison. "Come on," she hums, gesturing for Allison to raise her arms.

Allison can do nothing but comply. Hands in the air, she watches as Lydia carefully gathers the material of her shirt and tug it over her head in one fluid motion, pausing to fold it before she lays it on the bed beside Allison. "Stand up," Lydia requests softly, already working the fly of Allison's jeans. When she does, Lydia rolls the material down Allison's legs, hesitating slightly when she sees the bruises blooming along her thighs and calves. She presses a fleeting, gentle kiss to each purple blossom before she rolls Allison's jeans the rest of the way down, helping her girlfriend step out of them.

She folds the jeans and tosses them on the bed to join Allison's shirt before she guides Allison into the bathroom, bagging her casted arm before she helps her out of her bra and underwear. Lydia lets Allison use her as a steadying arm as she steps into the bath, sinking into the water with a groan.

"Lyds—," she mumbles, biting off a moan. "God, this feels so good."

"Figured you'd been training too hard if you ended up with this," Lydia responds dryly, gently nudging Allison's bagged and duct taped arm. After a moment that Allison misses, eyes fallen shut soon after settling into the tub, Lydia murmurs, "Lean back."

She does as instructed, dropping her head back into Lydia's waiting hands. And then warm water is running over her head, the droplets that threaten to run down Allison's forehead and into her eyes are stopped with a deft hand. Lydia wets the rest of Allison's dark hair quickly, letting her rest the full weight of her head in her hand.

She works in silence through the process, picking up her expensive, sweet smelling shampoo that she knows Allison borrows on particularly hard days. When she gently scratches Allison's scalp, combing through her hair and checking for tangles, Lydia's more than a little amused by the sound that Allison makes in response.

Leaning over, Lydia starts the hand shower and rinse's Allison hair, aiming the water away from her eyes as best she can. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she finds herself saying. "When I got the call I—I thought—."

This time, Allison's ready—her words don't catch in her throat and so she soothes, "Hey, I know." She opens her eyes to see Lydia looking down at her with this awful, haunted look in her eyes; it's a look that Allison has become accustomed to, but a look that she wishes she could erase altogether. She tries her best with the words she has now, here, in this humid bathroom with Lydia still carefully rinsing the shampoo out of her hair. "Sometimes I forget about it. And I forget that you can't. And I am so, so sorry Lydia. I never mean to scare you like this."

Lydia nods, her expression carefully neutral, but Allison is familiar enough to recognize the sheen of unshed tears in her hazel eyes. She nods once more, more forceful than the last before she rolls her shoulder and gives Allison a shaky smile, growing steadier by the second. "I'll have to see if Melissa can get us a frequent flyer discount at the ER," Lydia jokes, breaking the tension.

Allison snorts, reaching back to flick water at Lydia with her good hand. "Another joke like that and I'll pull you in."

"Is that a promise?" Lydia smirks, scrunching up her nose as she looks down at her girlfriend, water droplets clinging to the few strands of hair that have escaped her bun.

For a moment, this is all there is. Allison, grinning up at Lydia, smile wide and bright and dimples deep. Lydia, watching her with the softest look on her face, her hands gentle as she starts to condition her hair. For one brief, shining moment, they exist in this wonderful, insulated bubble—together and safe from the rest of the world.

At some point, the rest of the world will seep in, under the door and through the windows. They'll have to talk this out for about the hundredth time and it probably won't stick. It'll be the same fight, different day.

But right now, it's good.