He wasn't quite certain what he'd been thinking. Bringing a crazy woman into his house? Kit Walker sat on the couch in his living room, elbows on knees, head in his hands. She was moaning. It was a nearly constant soundtrack for the last three days. He sent the kids to stay with neighbors as much as possible - mainly in the evenings. That was when it seemed the worst.
Jude slept most of the day. Rail thin, vomiting curses and orange bile in the spring sunsets. She was a wraith almost. A shadow of the domineering nun he'd known all those years ago. Her hair was a mass of mats. He'd given up trying to sort it. That could wait. For the most part, he was happy just to get a few sips of broth into her in her moments of consciousness.
She'd stunk like a skunk, too. When he first brought her home he'd had to let down the windows in the truck. She reeked of filth, fear and something irony - like blood. He wasn't even sure. But getting her into a bath was pure fucking Hell.
For all of her weakness, she'd fought like a devil. All bone, she'd elbowed her way into a corner of the tiny bathroom and coiled like a striking snake. He'd managed to get her mostly undressed and Christ... He wasn't sure what those bruises all over her body meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But he had a feeling it explained why she'd struggled so against his ministrations. And once she was in the clawfoot tub it was certainly no better. The bathroom practically flooded from her flailing.
"I'm not tryna drown you, Jude! For fuck's sake!" He'd been as gentle as possible considering she'd nearly scratched his eyeball out with those unkempt talons on her fingers. "Relax! Relax." A near choke hold had finally brought her to a semblance of peace that was more like defeat. She went lax and whimpered in his arms. "I'm just gonna clean ya up a little, I promise. Kay?" Exhaustion won the battle. He'd managed to soap the mass of filthy blonde curls, worried less about the mats until later. The kitchen sauce pot sluiced grey water over an emaciated body that had probably once been pure dynamite.
He tried not to look. Tried not to wince at the scrapes, the outright cuts and various stages of purple, green, and even black spreading spots. "What the fuck did they do to you in there, Jude?" He murmured. His throat closed. Was this her retribution, he wondered? For all the beatings she'd administered in the name of God? Somehow, it still didn't seem fair. Seemed a little overkill in his mind's eye.
He'd been as prepared as possible. All the Briarcliff visits leading up to her freedom had informed him what size gowns he needed for her. They were soft and comfortable. He wanted her comfortable. For some reason, he wanted her happy. Soft slippers peaked from beneath the guest bed. He pulled her shivering body out of the tub with promises of a nice warm bed. But her knees had given way in the bathroom door.
If anyone had told him five years or five days ago that he would be carrying a naked, wet Sister Jude across the threshold of his second bathroom he would have told them to shut the fuck up. Would have insisted that person belonged in the hallowed halls of Birarcliff Manor. But here they were. He perched her on the edge of the bed. It was like dressing a spider. Her arms were gaunt and angular. He'd gotten her covered and gave up the fight himself. Hell, let her live without knickers for a while. He was worried the ones he'd acquired would fall off her, anyway. Sluice down those long, battered legs like cotton snowdrifts...
She'd slept for 29 hours straight. He held a mirror underneath her nose twice. She was alive. Part of him rejoiced at the peace. But that was short lived.
Kit tended to wake dry mouthed. Crusty eyed. He needed coffee to start his engine. His kids woke like tiny comets hurling through a galaxy of constant discovery. Delightful. A normal household morning.
