Toeing the Line

“Is it too cold?”

In truth, the water is pleasantly lukewarm around her ankles. Still, she responds with a “yes,” because Artoria, Caster, she who chants, would rather be shot dead than admit her shivers come from anything else.

They give her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, you’ll have to bear with it for now.” They reach out to spray a generous helping of soap on their palm. “Give me your foot. My hands are warm, at least.”

And so, Artoria does.

One hand goes under the sole of her foot, while the other goes up to wrap around her ankle. Their fingers come back and forth on the soft joint, right where her leg meets her foot.

“I like that smell,” she says, blatantly trying to distract herself from the action. “What kind of soap is that?”

“Lavender.” Both hands shift, rubbing their thumbs on top of her foot while their palms are clasped around her. “D’Eon got it for me. Apparently lavender is a specialty in the south of France?"

Their touch is feather-light. She feels the water dripping from their hands more than the actual cleansing.

Their fingertips have long become charred black from magic overuse.

It’s not sympathy that makes them this careful. It’s nerve damage making them unable to tell how much pressure they’re applying.

“You can go harder,” she says, because they will not ask for help on their own (they, too, have things they’d rather be stabbed than forced to admit out loud) and while she doesn’t particularly like having Ritsuka physically check her for scrapes and wounds (fucking clothes-eating slimes. “Oooh you just stepped in one it can’t be as bad as getting thrown in a hentai scenario” WRONG this is mortifying and Ritsuka won’t take fighting barefoot for half an hour isn’t enough to actually hurt me for an answer) the faster they get this done the faster she can crawl into a hole and die.

Following her lead, they increase the pressure. Can they feel the bones beneath? Can they feel her muscles, her sinews, the making of her body? She’s not even sure they can properly feel her skin. Regardless, their hands rub their ways down, from ankle to toe. They briefly care for the sides of her foot, then lift it up, going for her sole.

She flinches when they touch the sensitive skin, and they pause. “Hurt?”

“No, just surprised.” She shakes her head. At her reassurance, they go back to their work, pressing their thumbs into her heel. The soap feels odd against her skin. All her life, Artoria has solely washed by dunking herself in a river. That sticky softness is unknown to her.

Their fingers go up, to the ball of her feet. They press, rub, half cleaning her and half massaging her. She won’t say she’s nervous, and they won’t say they know. That’s how it’s always worked between them. Liar to liar, they can’t trust a single thing the other say. The truth has always laid around their words rather than in them.

She startles, when Ritsuka slides a finger between her toes. “You- you don’t have to go that far.”

“I kinda do though.” Ritsuka isn’t even looking at her, completely focused on their task. Or maybe they think it merciful to not look at her flushed face, who knows. “That’s a prime place for dirt to get stuck in. If you did get scraped, that’s a one-way trip to an infection.”

But you didn’t feel any wound, did you? Is what she wants to say, but she also knows that they have a very effective counterargument right there, so instead she says: “You don’t even know if I can get infections.”

“True.” They rub between her big toe and her long toe. “But I know that I’m not risking it.”

It rings true to her eyes. She still doesn’t know what to do with all the love they hold for her. Sometimes it feels like she could just drown in it.

They move to clean between her long and middle toe. “Your nails are chipped.”

That would be because she cuts them with the same scissors she uses to cut her hair, but she doesn’t say that. “Eh, they don’t tear apart my boots, that’s all I need from them.”

“I could paint them later if you want.” They draw their hand back, moving to the next set of toes. “You could paint mines too. It’d be fun!”

Ah. Here’s the part Artoria has been dreading the whole time.

Ritsuka tries to slide between her middle and ring toe- but their fingers go right through said ring toe. It goes through her baby toe too, as if there was nothing but thin air here. Because there isn’t.

Her glamour doesn’t fade. She couldn’t make it fade even if she wanted to. It’s a reflex by now; hide your hurt. Hide your wounds. Hide any scrape and cut and missing toe. Hide. Hide. Hide. Hide.

Ritsuka, to their credit, doesn’t show their surprise, if there is any. Instead, they go to rub soap on her stumps. Artoria flinches, ever so slightly, and that gets them to look up at her. “Hurt?”

“No, just… sensitive.”

There is a slight pause, followed by: “I see.”

This is much shorter than what they usually say, meaning they’re actively trying to hide things from her eyes. She thinks she knows them well enough to make an educated guess as to what they truly think. She doesn’t say any of it, and they don’t either. Instead, The conversation goes back to nail painting, on what design they could make and what color would go best with her skintone.

Liar to liar, they can’t trust a single thing the other say. But they just go back to cleaning her, rubbing charred fingers on amputated stumps. And they both understand.