Chapter Text
It was a devilishly hot day in Saint Denis, the air hazy filled with smoke and dirt over the city. The streets bustled with life as they always had, with business men searching for new opportunities, women shopping with their children, and hard working men attempting to just make a living.
Despite its modern beauty, you had always thought how much of a sad aura hung over the city, merely a hidden under layer once you peeled back the other layers of tricks and toys it had to offer. People worked hard to the bone just to eat, just to have somewhere to sleep. Orphans ran in gangs, robbing people blind in the streets. Passing business men often losing their fortune to a poker table.
You weren’t any different as you spent your days working at the local bath house, servicing the men and women of class and money as they treated themselves to such a luxury. It was honest work, and you were happy to be of service.
It was a forgiving little store front along the street of many more, a gun shop just two stops down. It was constructed of creaky old wood, carved with bulbous pillars and a cloth banner hanging proudly above the shabby door. Inside was wall papered with little florals, a few rooms on the second floor with large iron tubs and ceramic sinks, decorated with all the lavender soaps and scratchy towels one could desire.
Dressed in a simple white busted dress that had seen better days, you squinted past the long cascading curls that obstructed your view, delicate fingers counting the change of the till behind the front desk. Deep in thought as math danced behind your eyes, you had barely acknowledged the bell of the door ringing as someone entered the bath house.
“Welcome to the bath house,” you spoke, eyes still glued to the change in the till. “How may I service you?”
There was a long pause and you curiously drew your gaze to the customer on the other side of the desk, unable to hide the way your mouth slightly fell agape at the sight.
There was a tall man stood in front of you, a dark leather hat tipped just below his eyes. His facial hair was scruffy and dark, two and half deep gashed scars torn into his left cheek. His chest was clad in a dark denim vest, the arms torn off and a cream button up rolled to his forearms under it. The bullet belt glinted dangerously across his core.
It was a gunslinger if you had ever seen one. A part of you debated turning him away — the owner of the bath house, Mr. Patterson, surely eager to cuss you out if he were to find out you serviced an outlaw like him.
“Why do you think I’m here?” He replied dry and sarcastic, his voice scratchy like nails against a wash board.
“Oh, right — would you like a bath?” You asked nervously, unsure of why your heart had began to hammer so quickly under the white bust of your dress.
“If you’d be so kind.” He replied shortly, his hand hooked onto the leather belt around his waist. There was a certain ease to his stance, not threatening like the guns and bullets slung all over his body.
“That’ll be twenty-five cents, sir.” You state with a small smile, still unable to see his eyes. “…unless you’d like a deluxe bath for seventy-five cents.” You added, voice smaller than ever.
“A deluxe bath you say?” He debated out loud with that strange and unusual husky voice of his. He dug a hand into his leather satchel on his side, a few coins scattered in his leather gloved palm.
You nodded nervously, unable to admit the fact that aiding him in washing made your stomach twist with an unladylike excitement. The coins laying lazily in his palm taunted you.
“You’re gonna take me for all the money I have, woman.” He joked dryly, sliding a full dollar across the counter top with an ear-ringing scratch of metal on wood. You nimbly accepted it, placing it into the already open iron register.
Not sure how to reply, you remained silent as you directed him towards the grand wooden staircase, your laced up boots thudding softly against its running carpet. The prescence of him following closely behind you made your skin itch and crawl from something you couldn't understand.
“I would be careful with all those guns of yours around here…you stick out like a sore thumb.” You managed out, his booted steps heavy and taunting behind you as you both climbed to the second floor and continued down the hall.
“I know how to look after myself.” He replies shortly, entirely unbothered and disinterested in your warning.
“Mr. Patterson would have me hanging if he knew I let an outlaw into his bath house.” You giggled nervously, stopping at the last door at the end of the hall.
As you turn to face him, you were taken off guard as you were finally met with his eyes for the first time, the dark slivers pointed directly at yours, making you feel as if you’d melt into a puddle under him at any second. Your throat became thick, unable to break the eye contact as the small smile dropped from your mouth.
“Does letting an outlaw into your bathhouse scare you?” He asked, his eyes still burning into yours. As if god himself and come down and pulled your voice out of you, all you could do was nervously shake your head no.
“Then we shouldn’t have a problem, would we?” He asks. If it was any other man, you’d have taken his words as a threat. Yet, this seemed like teasing more than anything.
“No sir.” You squeaked, pushing through the thick and heavy wooden door.
The two of you entered the large room, and you stood awkwardly at the entrance as he sauntered in lazily. An iron tub sat in the middle of the room, attached by a thick pipe to a coal-burning boiler tucked into the corner of the room, a small wooden table with an iron jug, a little dish adorned with a cheesecloth wrapped bar of soap and large sponge waiting for him. A large window draped with heavy fabric faced it, blocking it off from the life outside of the bath house as warm filtered sunlight leaked into the space.
He barely acknowledged your presence as his back faced you, his hands steadily working at his gun holster and bullet belt slung across his chest. He dropped it to a pile on the floor with a loud clunk, his hand pinching the top of his hat as he pulled it off to join the pile on the floor.
You hadn’t realized you were staring until he barely glanced at you over his broad shoulder, just barely able to see his eyes. “Are you going to fill it for me, miss?”
“Right, I’m sorry Mister…” you trailed off, suddenly aware that you hadn’t known his name. He didn’t bother to fill the blank, only continuing to work away at his clothing, which upon further inspection was tattered and grimier than the dressings of most men who walked past these doors.
Rounding the room, you reached over into the deep tub to twist the hot water knob, the metal spout coming to life as steamy water began to thunder into the tub, like heavy coins falling from a thunder cloud. Your eyes remained glued to the water as it continued to flow, aware of how you could see the front of him undressing in your peripheral only feet away.
“I don’t recall getting your name, sir.” You finally spoke, cutting into the thick silence of the room. Your hands twisted the tap once more, water stream closing off. You tested the temperature with a drag of your fingertips within the tub.
You looked into your lap as you heard him moving, a small grunt falling from his lips as he lowered himself into the tub, the water sloshing against the sides.
“I don’t have one.” He said plainly, no particular tone in his voice. You finally brought your eyes up to his, unable to not sneak a glance at his chest that was scattered with scars and dark chest hair.
A small laugh accidentally made its way out as you rose a stand once more, rounding the tub to where the small wooden table stood beside it. “We all have a name, mister.”
“Well, I don’t.” He insisted, voice lower in his chest now, as if it was a distant thought. You delicately unwrapped the bar of animal-fat lavender soap, dipping it into the water.
“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” You continued on as the soap gained the smallest of lathers. Your movements were purposeful as you slowly brought it to his chest to begin washing him with, his head suddenly turning to watch your hand from its previous position of starring off into the draped window.
“Suppose theres not much to say…” he mused, his eyes following your hand as the soap lathered his hair-littered chest, and then slowly dipping under the water to where his stomach was.
“Everyone’s got a name and everyone has a story,” you insisted with a tender smile, cheeks flushing pink from the small thought of how close you were to what lied below his belt line. “Take me for example…a working girl at a bathhouse, whereas most my age would already be married off and having children…or worse, working the night at the saloon…”
Your eyes moved up to meet his, where he blinked distantly at you, as if he were actually considering the things you were saying for once. Despite his scarred face and stringy long overgrown hair, he was rather handsome.
“I…” he began, the singular word stuck in his chest, “I used to run with a gang. Had a woman and a child. It was a long time ago.”
Taken back by his honesty, your hand paused where it was lathering his stomach. You hadn’t thought such a rugged man like him would have had a family out there somewhere waiting on him.
You could help but let your eyes wander down to where your hand was in the water, and then further. You swallowed hard, cheeks surely crimson red now. He felt your lingering gaze, clearing his throat to gather your attention once more.
“And those scars?” You asked curiously. You retracted the soap from the water, replacing it with the thick sponge as you let it soak up the hot water that steamed towards the ceiling.
“Was attacked by wolves. Like I said, a long time ago.” He replied more painfully now, as if it was physically hurting him to share this much about himself.
That piece of information didn’t surprise you. He looked like a man who would hunt and sleep in dangerous places where wolves resided.
“I apologize for all the questions…I ought to be punished for being such a nosy girl.” You admitted bashfully, dragging the sponge across his collar bones. He rolled his head against the back of the tub, his Adams apple tight against his throat.
His skin was glossy with the steam, eyelids shiny as he peered past them, watching you with an unwavering stare, as if he had never quite seen someone like you before. And in a way, you had never quite seen a man like him before either.
“You’re just curious, it’s no crime. You’d have me hung if you’d heard of the things I’ve done.” He protested almost playfully now, a ghost of a grin on his thin dry lips.
Your mind wondered playfully to the adventures he had been on, the things he had done with those dangerous guns on his holsters. Every little scar on his body and marks on his face were the badge of a solider. Somehow, you knew he’d never hurt you.
“I’ve always dreamed of a better life than this.” You confessed, replacing the sponge with the wash jug. You dipped it into the water, watching it gulp up a few cups of water by his knees.
“You don’t want my life,” he assures you, “Running from the law, stealing from innocent folk…killin’ people you don’t want to.”
You felt a beat of sadness for him. In way, both of you were tortured by life in a sick way; one way of torture by boredom and wanting more, the other by wanting less, craving said boredom. Yet, the prospect of his life didn’t scare you. Running was never something that bothered you, nor using force to get what you wanted — it was just something you never had the chance to chase.
“It don’t sound too bad…much better than washing people for a living.” You giggled, using your free hand to grasp his shoulder. He followed your guidance, wide back peeling off the back of the tub.
“Head back, please.” You ordered kindly, and he obliged. He was silent as you poured the warm water over the back of his head, his long dark hair sticking to his skin like spilled ink.
“You sayin’ you ain’t enjoying our time together?” He taunted with closed eyes as you continued to wash at his stringy hair.
You blush. “That ain’t what I said, gunslinger.”
Placing the empty jug back on the small wooden table, you watch as he runs his hands over his wet face, clearing the water droplets from his brows and lashes. He then runs a hand over his wet hair, pushing its wild strands from where they stuck to his stubbled cheeks.
For once, he refused to look at you, as if it was entirely too much. You hooked your palms over the edge of the tub, resting your chin on top as you playfully peered up at him, watching the way as the leaking sunlight caught against the water droplets on his skin.
“You just about done here, cowpoke?” You continued to tease innocently. He was still for a long moment, looking off in the distance. For a moment, you thought you had lost him completely.
“I don’t know.” He said simply, and he truly didn’t. Turning his body slightly to face you, he reached a wet hand over to brush a curl that had fallen in front of your eyes.
You didn’t mind that he had dampened the strands, or the fact that the droplets falling from his facial hair were wetting your hands on the edge of the tub. Truthfully, you wanted nothing more than for the handsome strangers hands to never leave you.
His grey eyes searched yours with determination, a cuss falling from his breath before he lowered his head to place his warm mouth on yours, wet and inviting. You allowed him to kiss you, your stomach dancing in rejoice as your skin grew that familiar crawling feeling from before.
He kept it short and sweet, not wanting to overstep or overpower. You longed for his lips once more just as he pulled away, but kept your pleads within. His face hovered nearly touching yours, his breath warm.
“Where you headed next, sir?” You asked softly, secretly hoping he’d say that he would stay here with you forever, in this bath and all.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied, “But I may stick around for a few days…just in case I need another wash.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “You know I’ll be here.”