hastrustissues | (no subject)

Wichita can't remember the last time she had a shower.

In Zombieland, showers are like bathrooms - they leave you defenseless, exposed, unable to reach for a gun or any means of defending yourself - and unless you have a lookout, you're not exactly going to be following every single rule of basic hygiene when you're on the run twenty-four seven. She'd even forbidden her sister from saying the word, afraid that even hearing it would shatter her resolve.

But here, on the island, a place where zombies are non-existent as far as she can tell, she doesn't have any excuse not to allow herself this one luxury. The only problem is that the fear is still there, the irritating worry creeping in that maybe, the one time she actually lets her guard down might be the time she ends up dead. It's ridiculous to feel this way, and she recognizes the stupidity of her fears, but they run too deep for her to simply shrug them off for twenty minutes or so.

Which is why she's seeking out Columbus, knocking on the door of the room where he's staying, trying to figure out exactly how she needs to phrase her request before he appears.

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That noise. That noise means that I almost stop breathing. I clear my throat and let my head hang down. I close my eyes.

"Good?"

She's too busy laughing at first, sheer delight at the sensation of being clean, of getting clean, sticking her face directly under the spray and hardly caring about it being cold at first. Cold feels good, surprisingly enough.

"So good," she eventually manages, scrubbing a hand over her face to get the water out of her eyes as she turns, dipping her head back to get her hair wet.

I try really, really hard not to think about what she's doing. I feel like...I guess that's just going to complicate things.

I swallow.

And I try really, really hard not to think about her naked.
It's easier said than done.

"You can't tell me this isn't the best thing ever," she replies, reaching out to grab the small bottle of shampoo she's snagged for herself from the closet of toiletries earlier.

It feels like she's washing out a lifetime of grit from her hair - frankly, it was the dirt that made her skin look darker than it actually is, and as she washes off she can see her real color again, pale skin lightly dusted with freckles.

"I think sleeping in a clean bed is pretty much the best thing ever," I say, not paying attention to anything that reminds me that she's naked (I am not thinking about that).

"But, yeah. It's a pretty close second.

"Okay, agree to disagree," Wichita murmurs, giving herself a little longer to savor the whole experience before she rinses soap and shampoo off completely and then steps out, reaching for the towel she's hung up nearby so she can dry herself off without leaving puddles all over the floor.

It's strange, being sans makeup, without any kind of cover on her face - but it just feels so clean, so nice, that she can forego any kind of concealers right now. The outfit she'd found in the clothes box was a pair of denim shorts with a white, summery tank top, and she squeezed her hair dry before knotting it up into a low bun against the back of her neck, stray pieces falling loose over freckled shoulders.

"You can look now," she replied, approaching him with a tap on the shoulder. "I promise I'm clothed."

I'll admit to being kind of disappointed as I look up at her and, yes, she's dressed, but she also looks beautiful, clean and fresh like that and I feel my breath catch in my chest.

"Feel better?"

"Seriously better."

She's putting her dirty clothes together, making a mental note to find the laundry room at the next available moment, and tosses her towel over her shoulder, looking up to find his gaze with her own and smiling slowly.

"Thank you."