One Last Job

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, stroking the rough grizzle of a four month old beard. His daughter sat on the toilet beside him, rubbing the shaving cream between her chubby little palms until it became a thick foam. He bent down eye level with her and held out his empty hand, which she rewarded with a messy glob of lather. Straightening back up to face the mirror, he worked the froth into his whiskers. The wiry hair gave way to neat stubble in inch-long swaths with each downstroke, then glossy skin on the upstroke. She squealed with delight as she blew bubbles from the soap left in her hands. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled a fresh-faced grin at her. A single finger went to his lips, giving her the well-known signal to keep quiet. He followed it with a conspiratorial wink, and she smiled back. She mimed placing a lock on her mouth and throwing away the key. 

She filled his heart with so much warmth. He had missed two years of her life, and he'd be damned if he would miss any more. He moved silently to the motel bed, where a plastic drugstore bag held a box of hair dye and a pair of cheap sunglasses. It lay next to an unzipped canvas duffel filled with crisp twenties, fifties, and hundreds, all wrapped in colored bank bands. A Smith & Wesson .357 peeked out from the top. 

He heard her humming a soft tune from the lavatory as he reached for the dye. He could picture her swinging her legs in little kicking motions while she sang. His reverie was interrupted by four sharp raps at the door, and his hand hovered from the plastic bag to the duffel.

Author's Note: This piece of flash fiction was originally posted on Reddit as a response to the prompt, "At least two characters interact without any dialogue". Let me know your thoughts in the comments!