Work Text:
The drab green uniform was stiff to the touch, though whether that was the fabric or the dried blood is anyone's guess. Nevertheless, Mophead was more than glad to strip off the damned thing sooner than later. It was wash-day in Crown Army base, a logistically needed routine [somewhat] ensuring the soldiers are given direly needed showers – and crucially, a change of clothes. However poor the given facilities were.
Firstly, their uniforms would be washed, scrubbed, boiled and left to dry — however invulnerable they were with the Rezzer, it was best not to cultivate the occurrence of louse or pestilence. Secondly, they’d wash themselves, and be given new uniforms while the last batch dry — rinse and repeat. Not everyone abode by the routine however, facilities being a bit too over-crowded, somewhat poor amenities — that, or just plain ambivalence.
A prime example of such being: Carrie.
“Yeah, you lot have fun with that.” the man said sarcastically shortly after being informed, a rough almost-laugh like huff escaping him. He shamelessly flipped through the pages of some pin-up magazine, playful illustrations of attractive women – in swimwear, in bed or the bath, shoulders and collar bones showing – covered it from front to back. Mophead rolled their eyes and averted their gaze, them and the other two waiting for their turn in the showers, they sat on the bottom bunk with Munroe, the other man uninterested and resting his eyes in a light nap, a little slumped back on the wall behind him. While Mophead leaned on the support bar behind them.
Carrie skims through another magazine, quickly losing interest, “Eugh – ey’ lad, this one’s booring, have at it.” He tosses the mag haphazardly somewhere in the direction of Mophead. It hits their foot, which they move away to get a better look at the cover. This one was more unassuming, illustrations of women in fashionable clothing adorned the cover. A fashion magazine?
Having nothing better to do in the mean time, they pick it up, lo and behold, they had assumed correctly. Catalogs of clothing, company names they did not know – but mostly women. Their eyes scanned over the illustrations, long flowing dresses and gowns that were cinched at the waist and flowed at the feet, absurdly big, feathery hats, furs, purses and jewelry – luxurious items Mophead was unfamiliar to, but admired nonetheless. . Their finger tracing over the words thoughtfully, their legs crossed at the knee as they sat. In their peripheral they could feel Carrie’s gaze and heard what felt like an amused, judgmental huff, they don’t pay it any mind for now.
It enumerated what was fashionable for a young woman, the right evening gown to wear for what occasion, how to wear one’s hair – that one caught their attention. The model of the illustration even resembling themself a bit, though she was a blonde. It showed little panels of a step-by-step guide on how to braid hair. Their hand quietly found their own, fingers combing through the smooth strands. Their attention is quickly taken off the page as Warwick enters the shared quarters – informing it was their turns washing up. Putting the booklet down, they get to their feet.
Water droplets dribble down on to Mophead from thin, rickety pipes. The geometric and intertwined form raining water from shower-heads above them – it was a shared facility, cramped and over-crowded. Mophead had thought it would be a relief, but being in awfully tight vicinity with these men – strangers – in the nude, trying their best to avert their gaze and avoid bumping elbows, could leave a person feeling justifiably uncomfortable. Their hair fell forward, hanging heavy with water that ran cold over their scalp as they gently and carefully washed it, hands combing through it thoughtfully and were careful not to tug too hard.
They were encouraged to get on with it quickly, the claustrophobic conditions encouraging them further. Mophead felt out of place and small in the crowd – quiet literally, their stature doing them no help, and if not their stature then their build: a soft, gawky sort of thing. It didn’t help the water was insufficiently warm, quickly cooling as it hit your skin, the tiles too slick and cold under their feet, their body too slippery and exposed. The incessant, intrusive feeling of needing to cover their back rearing it's ugly head.
They swore they felt eyes boring into them and tracing the curve of their nape down to their back, then legs – they shudder. Suddenly they’re reminded of a few comments made on their appearance once, or twice. How they could be mistaken for a woman, or rather the more demeaning: not being ‘man enough’, and a lousy soldier for it at that – and other such occurrences with the same sentiment. The thought did little to comfort them, only advancing their discomfort.
Finally having rushed out of the showers, there was a small room provided to dry up and get dressed. A few lockers and seats lined it, and most interestingly however were old damages to the wall, small cracks and what seemed like the residue of adhesive, and empty holes where bolts could have been in neat rectangular shapes. Mirrors that were all but removed.
Mophead patted down their hair with a tattered old towel, and chest, back – wherever else. It wasn’t enough for them to dry completely, their skin still damp so they wait a moment. They catch a glimpse of themself in a thin shard of the mostly removed mirror. Their hands find their hair again, combing through it – it’d mostly dried, somewhat damp. Curling a section of it away from their face they turn their head a little to the left, then the right, examining their features thoughtfully – fingers tracing their jaw, feeling the fullness of their cheeks. Absentmindedly they pinch a section of their hair between their fingers, toying with it and curling it, doing the same and clumsily overlapping it with another, then again, and again, and again – and well…
Before they knew it a subtle smile tugged at their lips, they admire their work and the bumpy sensation of a braid against their hand. They repeat it on the other side of their head, and gosh they looked silly – however, not half bad. They were ripped away from the moment however, not having anything to tie them down with, and realizing the time. As they get a move on, the braids quickly shook off and unraveled as they got dressed.