Rip lets out a low, pensive sound, but even then he's already made his decision. "Hold onto the tub," is the easy command, and once Ray has gotten some semblance of balance it's Rip who pulls the rest of his clothes down.
So much for the attempt at giving him his privacy. Still, Ray is a part of his crew-- is one of the few members of his crew who thinks more of others than himself-- and on that note, Rip can't imagine letting him suffer more when he could do something to help. He'd sorely miscalculated what would happen letting Rip, Rory, and Stein captured; Rip wouldn't make that same mistake again, not if he could help it.
The blood on Ray's clothes have ruined them, most likely, and the fabricator is absolutely necessary now. But a firm hand lands on Ray's back, careful not to catch on a bruise or a wound, and Rip says, "I've got you, Dr. Palmer.
He is, after all, his Captain first and foremost - but he's also safe, he also has this ship firmly and entirely under his control, and he's being so... so soft, and so tender, and so nice. It makes Raymond want to cry all over again as he steps, cautious and with a wince, into the tub.
But... the water's nice. Rip's hand on him is nicer. Steadying, even if Ray's pretty sure he's going to melt as he sinks into the water and closes his eyes. He sobs, once, and it's an ugly noise; Ray cups the water in his hands and rinses his face with it. Privacy be damned; he wants to be safe more than he cares about being seen. Whatever. It doesn't matter.
"You don't have to call me Dr. Palmer," he says after several long moments spent sitting, staring at the bubbles with his eyes half-lidded and his fingers tracing patterns in them.
Ray is hurting and Rip has never felt so unprepared in his life. It's not that he's a stranger to caring-- Miranda had broken through his defences, Jonas was the light of his life, Sara is a friend dearer to him than he expected, and in fact the whole team (perhaps because Rip has never had a team before) matters-- but more the fact he's a stranger to showing it. Despite his best intentions he's no good at open kindness, not the way Kendra, Ray, Stein, and Jackson are. It was never required of him as a child, and it certainly wasn't required of him as a Time Master.
This mission to save the world from Savage might have never happened if his wife and son hadn't died because of his evil, even.
He feels sort of stupid, stood there at the side of the tub and turned slightly away so he isn't watching Ray try to take care of himself. No, scratch that-- he feels entirely stupid, and stupider still when Ray speaks to him and all he can manage is a 'hn?' in his throat.
The fact Ray isn't looking at him makes it a bit easier, but Rip still can't help but feel he's interrupting something, somehow.
Should he answer? Perhaps talking would help. The raw sound of Ray's sob is still fresh in Rip's head. "What would you prefer I call you?"
Laughing, it's sad and tired and so, so genuine, like everything he ever is and says and does. He meant it, walking through the prison and greeting strangers in the corridors and the yard; Mick told everyone all about it, how ridiculous the whole thing was.
"Just Ray's fine. Or Raymond," he smiles, "if you're feeling fancy. Or if I'm in trouble."
What a fucking concept. It's almost out of place here, with Ray bringing water up to his face and over his arms, his shoulders, sinking into the heat and closing his eyes. If he didn't look so damn content, he might have been mistaken for dead all over again - if he wasn't still running his fingers through bubbles for the pleasant sensory input. It's out of place, except for the part where Ray is seeking comfort in order and in abandonment of any power he might have ever had, at least just for a little while.
"Erm." It's like Ray's really set him up to use nothing but the nickname, but the whole thing feels so personal-- made even more so with Ray just lying there in the water, feeling the bubbles with his fingers-- Rip can't be entirely sure he has the right. It was his fault that Ray needed this in the first place. It was his lack of care, of foresight, that had him injured.
And so, corner of his mouth twitching up slightly, he manages, "Raymond, then. I imagine only fancy men get to bathe in bubbles." He's lying. It's just the easiest way to concede with Ray without ridding himself of that personal barrier.
"Can you reach your arms up?" Rip supposes the answer is 'no', but he asks it anyway. He moves away from the tub, but only to open one of the cabinets in the bathroom, pulling a bottle of shampoo out and a handtowel that's never been used.
"The fanciest," Ray murmurs, soft and easy. He likes Rip's accent, he thinks. He's never really had a thing for them - for accents, the way some people fall head over heels for a nice Irish lilt or a cowboy's southern drawl, but Rip has a soothing cadence about him.
Maybe it's just the intimacy of the moment that has him thinking about it, even if Rip is lying through his fucking teeth.
Finally, after several beats of considering the hell of lifting his arms, he says "I don't think so," which is true. "But I could try." Always, always aiming to please. Always wanting approval, and isn't that going to be his fatal flaw, one of these days? It was then, in the gulag. It will be with Rip, too, though in wholly different ways.
"Don't," Rip says immediately, stern as he goes to set the items he'd picked up on the side of tub against the wall. With his coat already gone, all that's left is for Rip to shed his jacket, the unzipping efficiently done in one quick move, and place it neatly on a counter. Left now in his shirt, he takes the hand towel and moves to stand behind the end of the tub Ray's back is leaning against, bending to soak the towel without explicitly brushing against Ray's bare body.
"Tell me if I'm being too rough with you."
Because he's started with the towel against the back of Ray's neck, clean compared to the rest of his back, and from there he'll run it slowly along his shoulders, and then lower down the length of him. Rip's strokes are even, moving in opposing directions with Ray's spine as the middle point to differentiate them, and his hand has settled gently on the nape of his neck in something he hopes is grounding.
Rip scolds him. "Don't," he says, and Ray does not. Ray sits where he is, with his hands under the water - it's so warm, and it's so nice, and compared to freezing to death in the cold of a Soviet winter, this is heaven. He doesn't even want to curl up into himself quite so much - not that he could if he'd tried, at this point, with everything sore and stiff even through mild pain medication. It's taken the edge off, certainly, but it isn't magical.
"I will." Ray pauses, swallows hard - "Thanks, Captain."
There is nothing in the world that's as soothing as Rip's hand on his neck, though, and Rip cleaning blood and dirt off his skin. With the shock beginning to wear off - and he hates that, for the record - the real terror of things begins to set in, probably because he's safe enough now that his brain allows it. So, against everything that he wills his body to do, the tears well up and spill over, but at least his face is clean enough now that they don't carve tracks through muck when they roll down over his cheeks. Small victories, at this point.
Rip notices, as one who is wont to perform interrogations (and tortures, if he's being truthful) tends to about body language, the moment Ray starts to cry. There's a change in the way he holds himself-- Rip is especially attuned to this, with the hand on his neck and the hand that scrubs his back-- and he swallows thickly because, Christ, he really isn't equipped to handle this sort of thing.
Should he bring it up? He's not sure. He scrubs the grime off Ray's back, even when the towel dips underneath the water, and when that's done he's moved and taken his free hand with him to brush over Ray's shoulder and slide to his arm. He scrubs here, too, gentle and thorough, but at this point it's impossible to pretend he doesn't see him cry.
Because he really, truly is.
"Raymond," he says quietly, though in all his inability for proper social interaction Rip fails to look him in the eye, "you're safe now, you know." And still the towel keeps moving, scrubbing the remnants of that gulag's filth off and away from him.
"I know." Ray exhales slowly, a measured breath that is done in the sort of way of someone who has to self-soothe a lot. Someone who's learned to calm himself down, because nobody was ever really there to help him do it, the way he draws air in through his nose and then, like he's counting, lets it out through parted lips even if it shudders. "I know."
And he does, is the thing. He's only crying now, for the first time, because he's safe enough to, back on the Waverider with his friends and his team. There's still danger, of course; there always will be, until all of this is over, but it's not like the Soviets can get him here.
On the upside, Rip doesn't have to try to avoid his eyes too much, since they're closed, still, and he lifts his hand to wipe at his cheeks (which... his hand is wet, too, so what's he really accomplishing?) "It's just been a lot." Understatement of the entire fucking timeline, thank you, Raymond. "I haven't really - I don't think it's hit me, yet. And I'm not used to... this. So I'm just," he breathes again, "overwhelmed. I think. I'm not really sure."
Ray has probably never experienced something to this degree. He's experienced danger, yes-- as a costumed hero in Star City, there isn't much hope about that-- but to be beaten raw by angry prisoners? To be dangled and tortured, smashed with a damn hammer?
The only thing that keeps Rip's pressure from going harder in his anger (both at himself and at Savage's men, really) is the part of him with control that the Time Masters had spent years to hone. It's a good skill, he thinks, especially when he starts to clean Ray's hand and each of his fingers.
"That's all right," Rip says, meaning it. "It wasn't the best experience. This... you're allowed to feel that way."
I'm sorry I let it happen to you. I'm sorry I underestimated them.
"You were very brave, Raymond. Not a lot of men would have done what you did, standing up for the right thing like that.
"It was not," Raymond agrees, the best experience. He's certainly had nicer ones. And as the Atom, there's sort of a safety in it - there's something about being a costumed vigilante who can miniaturize and use it to his advantage. Being... just Raymond, though, vulnerable and human and unprotected, with only his stupid optimism to carry him through? It doesn't work. It didn't work.
He huffs a laugh, soft and sad. "Brave or stupid. I guess it depends on who you ask," he chirps back, with a little humor bleeding into his voice, anyway, even as he sniffles and wipes at his face again, then lets Rip take his hands to clean them.
His palms are scraped from falling. His knuckles are untouched, because he didn't swing back hard enough to hurt them. It says too much about him and about what happened, in there. "Thank you for taking care of me," he adds, again, sounding like he knows he should be embarrassed about it, but he isn't - not as much as he should be, anyway. "I'm sorry I'm not more help. I'm just... so tired." Physically, emotionally, existentially. It takes a lot out of a man, almost dying like that.
"I'd be more concerned if you weren't tired," Rip says, and after the gentle treatment of one hand, he goes back up the opposite side of Ray's arm to scrub at his neck, his clavicle, and over his chest. "You're only a man, as are we all. It's time you wind down."
This time it's the side of Ray's neck that Rip touches as he brings the towel down his body, but even his staunch attempt to keep from being too emotionally compromised isn't enough to let him delve lower towards Ray's legs. He stops just at the edge of his belly before moving up to his other shoulder, his arm. At this point Rip's gotten himself situated on the edge of the tub, expression calm even as he focuses on getting Ray clean.
"There's no need to apologise for yourself, either," he says, holding Ray's wrist with a gentle touch and drawing his arm close to scrub it. He doesn't care for the water that drips onto his own trousers; it's more important Ray come out of this feeling new, feeling clean. "It was my fault you were there in the first place. I should've come in to rescue you from the lab myself before they took you all away."
To Rip's credit, he says it like a statement of fact-- an acknowledgement of his mistakes, instead of some attempt at getting sympathy. He made a bad call and he won't do it again, at least to the best of his ability.
There's a little frown that crosses his face, but he's tipped his head into Rip's hand and, for all intents and purposes, given up. He's not stopped crying, and his voice us still right, but he does move to draw his legs up beneath the water, using his fingers to sxrub away dirt and sadness all at once.
"It wasn't your fault I got hurt. And I don't think," Ray opens his eyes to meet Rip's, big and dark and entirely serious, "that I could have forgiven myself if one of you - especially you - got hurt trying to rescue me from my own choices."
Sure, being there in the first place wasn't Ray's fault, but everything that had come after it, certainly. "Apparently Len wanted to leave me there," he adds, with a half-cocked smile.
"But, hey. There's nothing we get out of should have, yeah? It's over, and I'm okay, and home, and..."
"--and I appreciate your attempts at comforting me, Raymond." Rip interrupts him swiftly, but not cruelly; Ray had been trailing off, though, so it might be more of a thought-completing exercise than anything else. "Thank you."
His arm is clean, so Rip offers him the hand towel for his own use for the lower half of his body. After that, he slips off the edge of the tub to get the bottle of shampoo, squirting some onto his palm.
"I promise I'm not feeling particularly inadequate," he says, setting the shampoo in Ray's hair before the callused tips of his fingers start massaging it into his scalp. "I just wanted to... to verbalise it, that I'll do better next time. I know that you know that, but to put into words and say it...
"It makes things feel a bit more real, doesn't it?"
Ray smells like watermelon. Watermelon shampoo. On Rip, the smell is fainter, but only because he's not washed his hair nearly as recently.
"You're alive, home, and safe," he says slowly, hands moving methodically down the curve of Ray's skull. "And I'm going to do better about taking care of you."
Of course that'd be what Ray worries about, Rip feeling poorly about this whole ordeal. Rip, who has gone out of his way to let Ray into his quarters, to draw him a bath in one that he's never used, and who's talking about taking care of him; Ray wants him to know that none of it, he thinks, was his fault. They all made choices that they might have done differently, certainly, but who hasn't?
He makes a little groan of a sound, tipping his head back into Rip's fingers without really thinking about it. Watermelon shampoo is odd and specific and it makes him feel inexplicably safer.
"It does. Now that I'm - I don't know. Not in don't die mode." He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose. "God. I'm so tired, but I don't think I'm going to be sleeping tonight."
“Well,” Rip says, finishing with Ray’s hair and going to retrieve a dipper from another one of his future tech cabinets, “you’re in a bathtub. Try not thinking about sleep in a bed.”
Ray really is too kind for his own good. It’s a dangerous quality to have in times like these, certainly, and Rip only hopes it’s easier to keep him under control than the opposite. Lord knows it’s a lost cause for the others, already.
He fills the dipper with water from the tap, alternating between hot and cold to make sure it’s warm enough. Then he stands behind Ray’s seated form once more, running one hand through his hair as the other holds the dipper steady.
“Would you rather tilt your head up or down for rinsing?”
He leans forward, shoulders curling like he wants to disappear into himself and, frankly, he sort of does. Not that he's particularly mortified by this whole ordeal (he would be, if he were less desperate to be clean and safe) but rather, he thinks, if he can just get small enough to vanish, then he can forget all of it.
"I don't trust myself to tip my head back. Still dizzy. Wild, huh? The physics of craniocervical trauma are something else. I didn't study them, specifically, you know, but just extrapolating on the impact and shear forces involved --"
Rip lets the water trickle in a way that rinses the shampoo off without drowning Ray's voice out entirely, letting him speak his mind in what he expects to be a coping mechanism. He lets out low 'hm's in acknowledgement, and speaks once more only when he's sure Ray's done.
"It sounds quite like your body needs time to heal." He finishes rinsing the last of the shampoo off, ruffling Ray's hair gently to be sure it's clean. Then he goes to put the dipped down at the side of the tub, with the shampoo replaced in the cabinet from whence it came.
"And rest." The tone there is meaningful-- so you better.
Ray is clean now, mostly, having spent the time to take care of his lower half. The salts have helped soothe battered muscle and, with the adrenaline and fear wearing off, the exhaustion is truly beginning to set in.
"I will."
His face is wet, so it's hard to tell if he's been able to stop crying, but he rinses it again and takes a breath as he sits up a little straighter. "... Sleep will probably help." If he can manage it, and if he doesn't wake up stiff.
"Mm." Ray looks like he could fall over with the wisp of a wind, and so Rip goes to retrieve both a towel and a soft robe for him to wear. Finding slippers isn't so tough, either, but Rip has to remove them from their original container-- there're a lot of luxuries he doesn't use, a lot of things he forgets he has.
The slippers are placed by the tub, and with the robe over his shoulder, Rip unfolds the towel so he's got it hanging over his forearm. His other hand touches Ray's shoulder, over clean skin that hasn't been hurt.
"Shall we work on getting you out of there now, Raymond?"
Ray watches him with tired interest, pursing his lips in thought. "Do you even know what you have in here?" he asks, watching him open the packaging and take out slippers (and, admittedly, Ray is somehow quite honored that he's been given such a privilege.)
But he wants to be out and dry, now, so he nods and pushes himself up out of the water, a little unsteady and a little sleepy. Coherent, though. Cognizant. The important things, those are all intact - he knows who and where he is, when he is, what happened - he's lost nothing, thanks to Gideon and his team. He wants to ask a hundred thousand questions about the technology, but that can wait.
Really, the most concerning part is that he doesn't seem to be fussed about privacy, but that's something he'll think about later, too. "Pretty amazing," he says, as he steps out and steadies himself on the edge and on Rip's shoulder (and gets him wet, in the process,) "how much you don't feel like yourself when you're that dirty."
Rip doesn't seem to react to the pressure on him and the subsequent wetness that seeps into his shirt. He's more focused on getting Ray out, letting him get to his feet without argument, and the moment he's got a hold on himself, Rip starts with two hands ruffling the towel over his hair.
Assuming Ray still can't bend properly, it's probably best if Rip dries him off, too.
"Grime is as much a layer as anything else is," he observes, looking up when he pats at Ray's cheeks and then careful as he starts to work the towel down the rest of his body. "And we all tend to lose ourselves when there're too many layers, don't we?"
It's funny whenever he considers just how tall Ray Palmer is; in the tub he'd looked so small, dwarfed by water and bubbles and his own trauma, but Rip sinks lower to dry his legs, keeping his gaze focused and his touch gentle, even if his mind is methodical.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he says, rising once more, and with the towel slung over his shoulder, he holds the robe up and spreads it open for Ray's arms. "Come on, now. You can stay in my room while I go get clothes for you from the fabricator."
Ray is tall, but that doesn't mean anything, not really. It's not even that he's insecure, that he lacks confidence - it's just that he has the cadence of someone who needs protection more than he offers it, who needs looking out for. The shame is beginning to set in, so he turns his gaze up to the ceiling and closes his eyes, until Rip's standing again.
Obedient, he slides his arms through the robe and winds himself up in it. "Clothes would be nice. I look better that way."
Well - no. But not the point. He's got to crack jokes, because if he doesn't, he might actually melt altogether, and that's infinitely worse. Smooth it over with humor. "Can't promise I won't get into your snacks, though. You sure you want to leave me unattended?"
"Of all my crew," Rip says without hesitation, "you may be the one I'd trust the most here."
Seeing how Ray's muscles seem to be working better now-- perhaps that healing serum's begin to kick in-- he doesn't bother with the wheelchair, but he does keep a steady hand on Ray's back to lead him into his bedroom. Rip will have to come back for his bloody, dirty clothes later.
But this is a little bit like penance, taking care of Ray after his mistake of leaving him to the gulag. Maybe it'll make things a little better (but then, maybe not).
He guides Ray to sit, and after that excuses himself to the fabricator to have Gideon make a soft, long-sleeved shirt and easyfitting trousers. Then, remembering Ray might want to sleep first, he goes again with a sweater and a pair of sweatpants, and takes these clothes and a pair of underwear back to his bedroom with him.
Rip briefly entertains letting Ray sleep here. He has a bigger bed, after all. More pillows. Just because Rip doesn't sleep here himself doesn't mean it can't be slept in at all.
"Here," he says, handing the pyjama set and the underwear over. He lays the other set of clothes out just to show Ray they exist. "Hopefully that's to your liking."
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So much for the attempt at giving him his privacy. Still, Ray is a part of his crew-- is one of the few members of his crew who thinks more of others than himself-- and on that note, Rip can't imagine letting him suffer more when he could do something to help. He'd sorely miscalculated what would happen letting Rip, Rory, and Stein captured; Rip wouldn't make that same mistake again, not if he could help it.
The blood on Ray's clothes have ruined them, most likely, and the fabricator is absolutely necessary now. But a firm hand lands on Ray's back, careful not to catch on a bruise or a wound, and Rip says, "I've got you, Dr. Palmer.
"Into the tub with you."
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He is, after all, his Captain first and foremost - but he's also safe, he also has this ship firmly and entirely under his control, and he's being so... so soft, and so tender, and so nice. It makes Raymond want to cry all over again as he steps, cautious and with a wince, into the tub.
But... the water's nice. Rip's hand on him is nicer. Steadying, even if Ray's pretty sure he's going to melt as he sinks into the water and closes his eyes. He sobs, once, and it's an ugly noise; Ray cups the water in his hands and rinses his face with it. Privacy be damned; he wants to be safe more than he cares about being seen. Whatever. It doesn't matter.
"You don't have to call me Dr. Palmer," he says after several long moments spent sitting, staring at the bubbles with his eyes half-lidded and his fingers tracing patterns in them.
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This mission to save the world from Savage might have never happened if his wife and son hadn't died because of his evil, even.
He feels sort of stupid, stood there at the side of the tub and turned slightly away so he isn't watching Ray try to take care of himself. No, scratch that-- he feels entirely stupid, and stupider still when Ray speaks to him and all he can manage is a 'hn?' in his throat.
The fact Ray isn't looking at him makes it a bit easier, but Rip still can't help but feel he's interrupting something, somehow.
Should he answer? Perhaps talking would help. The raw sound of Ray's sob is still fresh in Rip's head. "What would you prefer I call you?"
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"Just Ray's fine. Or Raymond," he smiles, "if you're feeling fancy. Or if I'm in trouble."
What a fucking concept. It's almost out of place here, with Ray bringing water up to his face and over his arms, his shoulders, sinking into the heat and closing his eyes. If he didn't look so damn content, he might have been mistaken for dead all over again - if he wasn't still running his fingers through bubbles for the pleasant sensory input. It's out of place, except for the part where Ray is seeking comfort in order and in abandonment of any power he might have ever had, at least just for a little while.
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And so, corner of his mouth twitching up slightly, he manages, "Raymond, then. I imagine only fancy men get to bathe in bubbles." He's lying. It's just the easiest way to concede with Ray without ridding himself of that personal barrier.
"Can you reach your arms up?" Rip supposes the answer is 'no', but he asks it anyway. He moves away from the tub, but only to open one of the cabinets in the bathroom, pulling a bottle of shampoo out and a handtowel that's never been used.
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Maybe it's just the intimacy of the moment that has him thinking about it, even if Rip is lying through his fucking teeth.
Finally, after several beats of considering the hell of lifting his arms, he says "I don't think so," which is true. "But I could try." Always, always aiming to please. Always wanting approval, and isn't that going to be his fatal flaw, one of these days? It was then, in the gulag. It will be with Rip, too, though in wholly different ways.
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"Tell me if I'm being too rough with you."
Because he's started with the towel against the back of Ray's neck, clean compared to the rest of his back, and from there he'll run it slowly along his shoulders, and then lower down the length of him. Rip's strokes are even, moving in opposing directions with Ray's spine as the middle point to differentiate them, and his hand has settled gently on the nape of his neck in something he hopes is grounding.
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"I will." Ray pauses, swallows hard - "Thanks, Captain."
There is nothing in the world that's as soothing as Rip's hand on his neck, though, and Rip cleaning blood and dirt off his skin. With the shock beginning to wear off - and he hates that, for the record - the real terror of things begins to set in, probably because he's safe enough now that his brain allows it. So, against everything that he wills his body to do, the tears well up and spill over, but at least his face is clean enough now that they don't carve tracks through muck when they roll down over his cheeks. Small victories, at this point.
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Should he bring it up? He's not sure. He scrubs the grime off Ray's back, even when the towel dips underneath the water, and when that's done he's moved and taken his free hand with him to brush over Ray's shoulder and slide to his arm. He scrubs here, too, gentle and thorough, but at this point it's impossible to pretend he doesn't see him cry.
Because he really, truly is.
"Raymond," he says quietly, though in all his inability for proper social interaction Rip fails to look him in the eye, "you're safe now, you know." And still the towel keeps moving, scrubbing the remnants of that gulag's filth off and away from him.
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And he does, is the thing. He's only crying now, for the first time, because he's safe enough to, back on the Waverider with his friends and his team. There's still danger, of course; there always will be, until all of this is over, but it's not like the Soviets can get him here.
On the upside, Rip doesn't have to try to avoid his eyes too much, since they're closed, still, and he lifts his hand to wipe at his cheeks (which... his hand is wet, too, so what's he really accomplishing?) "It's just been a lot." Understatement of the entire fucking timeline, thank you, Raymond. "I haven't really - I don't think it's hit me, yet. And I'm not used to... this. So I'm just," he breathes again, "overwhelmed. I think. I'm not really sure."
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The only thing that keeps Rip's pressure from going harder in his anger (both at himself and at Savage's men, really) is the part of him with control that the Time Masters had spent years to hone. It's a good skill, he thinks, especially when he starts to clean Ray's hand and each of his fingers.
"That's all right," Rip says, meaning it. "It wasn't the best experience. This... you're allowed to feel that way."
I'm sorry I let it happen to you. I'm sorry I underestimated them.
"You were very brave, Raymond. Not a lot of men would have done what you did, standing up for the right thing like that.
"But brave men deserve a cry, too."
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He huffs a laugh, soft and sad. "Brave or stupid. I guess it depends on who you ask," he chirps back, with a little humor bleeding into his voice, anyway, even as he sniffles and wipes at his face again, then lets Rip take his hands to clean them.
His palms are scraped from falling. His knuckles are untouched, because he didn't swing back hard enough to hurt them. It says too much about him and about what happened, in there. "Thank you for taking care of me," he adds, again, sounding like he knows he should be embarrassed about it, but he isn't - not as much as he should be, anyway. "I'm sorry I'm not more help. I'm just... so tired." Physically, emotionally, existentially. It takes a lot out of a man, almost dying like that.
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This time it's the side of Ray's neck that Rip touches as he brings the towel down his body, but even his staunch attempt to keep from being too emotionally compromised isn't enough to let him delve lower towards Ray's legs. He stops just at the edge of his belly before moving up to his other shoulder, his arm. At this point Rip's gotten himself situated on the edge of the tub, expression calm even as he focuses on getting Ray clean.
"There's no need to apologise for yourself, either," he says, holding Ray's wrist with a gentle touch and drawing his arm close to scrub it. He doesn't care for the water that drips onto his own trousers; it's more important Ray come out of this feeling new, feeling clean. "It was my fault you were there in the first place. I should've come in to rescue you from the lab myself before they took you all away."
To Rip's credit, he says it like a statement of fact-- an acknowledgement of his mistakes, instead of some attempt at getting sympathy. He made a bad call and he won't do it again, at least to the best of his ability.
"I'll be better. And so will you."
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"It wasn't your fault I got hurt. And I don't think," Ray opens his eyes to meet Rip's, big and dark and entirely serious, "that I could have forgiven myself if one of you - especially you - got hurt trying to rescue me from my own choices."
Sure, being there in the first place wasn't Ray's fault, but everything that had come after it, certainly. "Apparently Len wanted to leave me there," he adds, with a half-cocked smile.
"But, hey. There's nothing we get out of should have, yeah? It's over, and I'm okay, and home, and..."
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His arm is clean, so Rip offers him the hand towel for his own use for the lower half of his body. After that, he slips off the edge of the tub to get the bottle of shampoo, squirting some onto his palm.
"I promise I'm not feeling particularly inadequate," he says, setting the shampoo in Ray's hair before the callused tips of his fingers start massaging it into his scalp. "I just wanted to... to verbalise it, that I'll do better next time. I know that you know that, but to put into words and say it...
"It makes things feel a bit more real, doesn't it?"
Ray smells like watermelon. Watermelon shampoo. On Rip, the smell is fainter, but only because he's not washed his hair nearly as recently.
"You're alive, home, and safe," he says slowly, hands moving methodically down the curve of Ray's skull. "And I'm going to do better about taking care of you."
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Of course that'd be what Ray worries about, Rip feeling poorly about this whole ordeal. Rip, who has gone out of his way to let Ray into his quarters, to draw him a bath in one that he's never used, and who's talking about taking care of him; Ray wants him to know that none of it, he thinks, was his fault. They all made choices that they might have done differently, certainly, but who hasn't?
He makes a little groan of a sound, tipping his head back into Rip's fingers without really thinking about it. Watermelon shampoo is odd and specific and it makes him feel inexplicably safer.
"It does. Now that I'm - I don't know. Not in don't die mode." He huffs a tiny laugh through his nose. "God. I'm so tired, but I don't think I'm going to be sleeping tonight."
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Ray really is too kind for his own good. It’s a dangerous quality to have in times like these, certainly, and Rip only hopes it’s easier to keep him under control than the opposite. Lord knows it’s a lost cause for the others, already.
He fills the dipper with water from the tap, alternating between hot and cold to make sure it’s warm enough. Then he stands behind Ray’s seated form once more, running one hand through his hair as the other holds the dipper steady.
“Would you rather tilt your head up or down for rinsing?”
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He leans forward, shoulders curling like he wants to disappear into himself and, frankly, he sort of does. Not that he's particularly mortified by this whole ordeal (he would be, if he were less desperate to be clean and safe) but rather, he thinks, if he can just get small enough to vanish, then he can forget all of it.
"I don't trust myself to tip my head back. Still dizzy. Wild, huh? The physics of craniocervical trauma are something else. I didn't study them, specifically, you know, but just extrapolating on the impact and shear forces involved --"
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"It sounds quite like your body needs time to heal." He finishes rinsing the last of the shampoo off, ruffling Ray's hair gently to be sure it's clean. Then he goes to put the dipped down at the side of the tub, with the shampoo replaced in the cabinet from whence it came.
"And rest." The tone there is meaningful-- so you better.
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"I will."
His face is wet, so it's hard to tell if he's been able to stop crying, but he rinses it again and takes a breath as he sits up a little straighter. "... Sleep will probably help." If he can manage it, and if he doesn't wake up stiff.
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The slippers are placed by the tub, and with the robe over his shoulder, Rip unfolds the towel so he's got it hanging over his forearm. His other hand touches Ray's shoulder, over clean skin that hasn't been hurt.
"Shall we work on getting you out of there now, Raymond?"
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But he wants to be out and dry, now, so he nods and pushes himself up out of the water, a little unsteady and a little sleepy. Coherent, though. Cognizant. The important things, those are all intact - he knows who and where he is, when he is, what happened - he's lost nothing, thanks to Gideon and his team. He wants to ask a hundred thousand questions about the technology, but that can wait.
Really, the most concerning part is that he doesn't seem to be fussed about privacy, but that's something he'll think about later, too. "Pretty amazing," he says, as he steps out and steadies himself on the edge and on Rip's shoulder (and gets him wet, in the process,) "how much you don't feel like yourself when you're that dirty."
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Assuming Ray still can't bend properly, it's probably best if Rip dries him off, too.
"Grime is as much a layer as anything else is," he observes, looking up when he pats at Ray's cheeks and then careful as he starts to work the towel down the rest of his body. "And we all tend to lose ourselves when there're too many layers, don't we?"
It's funny whenever he considers just how tall Ray Palmer is; in the tub he'd looked so small, dwarfed by water and bubbles and his own trauma, but Rip sinks lower to dry his legs, keeping his gaze focused and his touch gentle, even if his mind is methodical.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he says, rising once more, and with the towel slung over his shoulder, he holds the robe up and spreads it open for Ray's arms. "Come on, now. You can stay in my room while I go get clothes for you from the fabricator."
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Ray is tall, but that doesn't mean anything, not really. It's not even that he's insecure, that he lacks confidence - it's just that he has the cadence of someone who needs protection more than he offers it, who needs looking out for. The shame is beginning to set in, so he turns his gaze up to the ceiling and closes his eyes, until Rip's standing again.
Obedient, he slides his arms through the robe and winds himself up in it. "Clothes would be nice. I look better that way."
Well - no. But not the point. He's got to crack jokes, because if he doesn't, he might actually melt altogether, and that's infinitely worse. Smooth it over with humor. "Can't promise I won't get into your snacks, though. You sure you want to leave me unattended?"
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Seeing how Ray's muscles seem to be working better now-- perhaps that healing serum's begin to kick in-- he doesn't bother with the wheelchair, but he does keep a steady hand on Ray's back to lead him into his bedroom. Rip will have to come back for his bloody, dirty clothes later.
But this is a little bit like penance, taking care of Ray after his mistake of leaving him to the gulag. Maybe it'll make things a little better (but then, maybe not).
He guides Ray to sit, and after that excuses himself to the fabricator to have Gideon make a soft, long-sleeved shirt and easyfitting trousers. Then, remembering Ray might want to sleep first, he goes again with a sweater and a pair of sweatpants, and takes these clothes and a pair of underwear back to his bedroom with him.
Rip briefly entertains letting Ray sleep here. He has a bigger bed, after all. More pillows. Just because Rip doesn't sleep here himself doesn't mean it can't be slept in at all.
"Here," he says, handing the pyjama set and the underwear over. He lays the other set of clothes out just to show Ray they exist. "Hopefully that's to your liking."
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hey this tag's a whole loada nothing