Split Ends

Posted on 12 Apr 2021 @ 3:29pm by Commander Calliope Zahn & Lieutenant Commander Lance Quinn (*)
Edited on on 12 Apr 2021 @ 6:54pm

Mission: M2 - Sanctuary
Location: OC, Recovery Ward, Rm 08
Timeline: MD02 ~2000 Following Broken Flowers
1062 words - 2.1 OF Standard Post Measure

Calliope knew Lance's promise to take her upstairs to the memorial was a hook to get her to pick herself up and eat. It was as if he'd said 'Let's see you try.'

Holding the support rails, she climbed out of the tub with a lot of effort. She wasn't sure if Lance was standing back and letting her go through the effort out of deference to her own pride or what, but it was damned awkward. She tried to pull off her shirt but didn't quite have the reach and thrust him one of her wrists to indicate he should assist with the sleeve. Lance helped her get her arms out of her blouse. "Don't de-replicate it." She said more sharply than she had intended. "It goes out for cleaning." He looked around for a place to set the shirt for later.

"I know..." he sighed softly, folding it over in his hands and putting it aside for the moment. "What's next?"

"My brush. For my hair. Do you see it anywhere?"

He scanned the room, spying it hiding under an upturned travel bag. He'd not really unpacked most of her personal care things yet. In truth there were a lot of little things and products he didn't fully understand. For that reason he'd left them alone until she was ready to sort them into her own arrangement. Back in their early academy days he had been able to recognise the little patterns she made with things. A structured method he could appreciate. He picked it out from among the rest of the discarded items.

He handed her the hairbrush from the floor and, starting from the ends, she worked on the matted hair as he patiently picked up the scattered things— it was not unlike his saying he'd end up playing housemaid, she thought guiltily. Her arms grew so weary so quickly from reaching up and fighting through her hair. She had to pause now and then and flex and relax to let the circulation recover. Her arms were shaking, just like they had been when she'd given out a roar addressed to the universe at large and pushed all of her things to the floor.

The universe had cared very little; it just allowed the indifferent forces to redistribute her outburst in a broad arc.

Ignoring the pile of miscellaneous toiletries and beauty essentials, Lance started to scoop things up and set them in order. He hefted a fallen, slightly damp towel and put it down next to the previously rescued vase of sunflowers. Without really thinking about it he took a moment to adjust the crooked one so that it stayed a little more upright.

She flushed a shade of embarrassed watching Lance pick up after her without so much of a comment. His silence almost made it worse. If she had inadvertently left something out on one of their trips, he would have chided her with his dry wit and she would have snarked back playfully. Now the lack of tête-à-tête was a gaping uncomfortable silence. He was probably afraid to say all the wrong things. Calliope was an emotional bomb, and she knew it. What she didn't know was what to do about it. What was there for a bomb but a damage control squad to set it off?

Reaching back up to her head to have another try at getting the brush through, Calliope found it to be too easy— it pulled right out. She looked at the brush aghast. Her hair. A big chunk of it had pulled right out of her scalp.

Calliope drew her fingers from her scalp through the hair and came away with another handful of it and sat looking at it before ripping at her head and watching it shedding away. It had been on the possible list of things that could happen with the treatments: trouble with skin and nails and hair... she hadn't found it quite so dismaying listed out in type as she did when it was actually strung out through her fingers, though.

She made a fist around the lost hair, started mashing that into her forehead repeatedly, and began to laugh incredulously until laughing became crying and she slid to the floor again. She felt Lance put his arm around her while she heaved dry sobs.

Between dry lips he murmured comforts that he wouldn't remember in a few minutes time. Part of him felt hollow - hypocritical even, for speaking out words that didn't even come from a place of warmth or deep feeling. He did care, but that care had become a little robotic over the last few days. Like an automatic response triggered by a sense of emotional duty.

He found himself staring at the formerly lush brown locks on the floor of their shared bathroom. More pieces of their life together, stripping away hair by hair. In some places that was like clumps coming apart too. But he was still there. He would still hold her - after all, what else could he do?

There was no bath that evening. There was no going anywhere. He rocked with her until Calliope cried herself to sleep.

After a while, when he felt sure she was deep enough under, Lance lifted his wife off the floor and carried her into the bedroom. The bedding was still unmade from that morning. He ignored that fact as he lowered her into place and covered her gently with a sheet. She didn't stir once during the movement, which was a small relief. Rather than joining her, he stumbled to the replicator, entering an override into the locked replication permissions.

"Malt whisky. On ice." He picked up the glass as soon as it materialised, taking a long drink of the synthetic dram. Too much - but in that moment he needed it. Needed something to not feel quite so numb. He put the glass down and stared at it for a few seconds. Maybe a minute. "Another," he told the computer.

Sliding down to the floor against the wall, he looked back over at the open door to the bathroom, where things were still scattered. The sunflower had flopped again. A strange allegory for their situation. Leaning against the wall, Lance closed his eyes and felt his mind drift away.