Pushing Buttons

Second Guessing

"Up."

He pulled away with a stubborn growl, "I may be missing an arm, but I'm still fully capable of taking care of myself." To prove his point, Heimdall tugged at his tunic, trying to worm the fabric up and out from beneath his belt and faulds, only to have the stitched cotton get caught and tear. With each passing second he grew more agitated and annoyed, until he ultimately shouted in frustration and managed to rip the tear even further. His chest heaved with exhausted and frustrated pants. 

"Are you finished?" She asked, hands still hovering in place. Her tone wasn't necessarily sarcastic, but it was a far cry from gentle and coddling. It only made him even more frustrated. But her question seemed more rhetorical than anything else, as she didn't wait for a response. Instead, she took hold of the fabric on either side of his waist and carefully pulled it up his torso, slipping it up and over his head much to his chagrin.

She tossed the ripped tunic aside, reaching for the bowl of water and clean cloth that she had somehow managed to salvage from the cabin's supplies. Again, she didn't even ask, and pulling up a stool in front of him, pressed the damp cloth to his cheek.

He flinched at the unexpected cold temperature, earning a swift but quiet "sorry". But she worked quickly, wiping away the dried blood that clung to his skin, and dabbing around the strangle marks still present on his throat. He watched her.

"Hm," She hummed, eyeing the cut on his cheek. "It doesn't look like this one wants to heal."

The words stung just as much as the icy wet cloth, and stirred the rage that was still simmering deep inside him. Losing his arm was devastating, but having that big brute mar his face? It was a direct attack and insult to his title as "the most handsome among the Aesir".

"It's not that deep, but it'll leave a scar," She cleaned the wound thoroughly, rinsing off the stained cloth before turning her attention to his arm. Or rather, what was left of it.

Skin had already grown over the exposed bone, but the blood and phantom pain remained. If given the choice, Heimdall would've grown it back using the Bifrost, but his exhaustion and lack of strength were hurdles that he couldn't presently tackle. 

Like she had done before, she began wiping away any blood and dirt still clinging to the amputated limb. 

He took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. She had lit the hearth not long after their arrival, but the flames did little to ward off the chill of Fimbulwinter. How could anyone stand this? Vanaheim's humidity was a pain, but Midgard's dry cold literally seeped into his bones. Then again...His eyes flickered to the roof. The hole in the mix of wood and thatch certainly wasn't helping.

"You can thank your brother for that," She spoke up upon catching him looking, "Apparently using the door was too much to ask of Thor."

"That fat drunkard froths at the mouth at any opportunity to destroy things." The Aesir god sighed, leaning forward and propping his good arm on his knee once she was finished.

She discarded the red-stained liquid from the bowl, and replaced it with fresh water. Only this time, upon facing him once more, she hesitated. "Your hair is just as filthy. I'll wash it for you, if you'd like?"

He should refuse. He should. But not only had she already gone out of her way to clean the rest of him, she had also asked for permission. As if she knew just how much pride he normally took in upkeeping his appearance. A nod was all that was needed, and with a soft smile, she maneuvered to sit behind him, her fingers nimbly working to remove any hair ties and untangle his braids.

She gently coaxed his head back into the small basin, wetting his hair and combing her fingers through the matted strands. 

It wasn't uncomfortable—far from it, in fact. The soothing motion practically coaxed Heimdall into relaxing, putting any manner of troubles on hold just for a few moments if just to live in the present for a bit. He was reminded of those same fingers tugging at his roots, fingernails scratching at his scalp and back of his neck as she drew him closer, hungrily devouring his lips, crying out his name as she chased her release—