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You’re in for it now.
You wince as you shakily lift your arm, clenching your jaw and scrunching your face involuntarily. Taking a deep breath through clamped teeth, you get the courage to finally look down at yourself.
Your baggy shirt you had thrown on earlier weakly clings onto your side, dark blue fabric growing soaked an oil black with the tacky blood that seeps out from your skin. Your skin flushes with a wave of sweat at the sight, and you forcefully swallow- hoping to get rid of that constricted feeling in your throat- but to no avail. With every breath you take, your side aches with the burn of taut skin and dried blood, which cracks and flakes with the movement. The feeling only intensifies as you clamp the hem of your shirt and feebly start to pull it off of yourself, the material ripping off your raw skin like a bandaid.
You favor biting down on your lower lip rather than clenching your teeth in an attempt to muffle the faint sounds your throat squeezes out as more bubble deep inside your chest. The muscles in your arms strain as you lift the shirt up to your neck, and the smell of metallic blood wafts into your face when you pull the bemired tee over your head.
You carefully hold the shirt out at arms length, grasping onto it with only your thumb and index finger to avoid getting tacky blood onto your hands. Even with the distance, the acrid smell doesn’t get any better. It seems to only spread the more you hold it in the air. Sluggishly, you lean over to the sink on your right and lay the shirt out flat inside the dome. Positioning the tainted blotch over the drain, you turn the faucet on and watch as the water soaks into the cloth, emerging a vibrant pink as the blood mixes into it like saturated watercolor.
Didn’t bring any extra clothes with you when you came to visit. So thats gonna to have to work for now.
The sound of consistent running water might alarm Eight, you know it will. But you’re staring to feel so tired to the point where you just don’t care.
With every moment you idly stand fixated on the sink, another hot flash spreads through your chest and limbs, only to be followed by a wave of coolness. It’s something you quickly become hyper aware of. Not only the constant temperature changes, but the film of sweat that starts to coat you as well, it’s almost as if your body can’t make up its mind.
Once again, you stare down at your side.
The wound stretches from the side of your hip, across your left rib cage, and stopping right below the line of your sports bra.
It’s not the biggest wound you’ve ever seen, but it sure as hell is deeper than you thought and you neglected telling anyone about it, opting to take care of it yourself. The area around the raw wound is slightly swollen and red, littered with blue and purple bruises like calligraphy ink seeping into your skin. The wound itself is crammed with putrid dry blood, sporadic drops of crimson leaking through the rough cracks. Maybe you didn’t clean it correctly the first time, because tiny globs of green pus foam and bubble out of the significantly deeper wedges, leaving you with a light head, a sour smell in your nose, and an even more foul taste in your mouth.
Marie and Eight are always bandaging you up after every mission where you’re careless enough to get hurt. Usually, it’s just superficial scrapes and bruises, which don’t need any piece of mind. But ever since you got out of the metro, you’ve been walking back home with anything ranging from burns, large scrapes, punctures…
This time, you were patrolling with Eight in the valley. It was nothing serious, just a routine checkup to make sure everything’s as it should be. The two of you were making your way down, and you just happened to notice the click of a full charge and a red laser burning into Eights back a little too late. Her back is her most sensitive area because of the sanitization scar from the metro which covers it- a hard shot would’ve been excruciating for her.
To put a long story short, you’re certain that charger was modified in some way because in all of of your life you’ve never been winded so hard by a shot before. It blew right into your side, knocking all of the wind out of you and ripping through your vest. For a moment you thought it had punctured your lung because of how painful it was to breathe as you both rushed back.
You would say you were lucky enough for the severity, and unlucky enough to be in that situation in the first place- but luck had nothing to do with it. You didn’t just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, its something that could’ve been easily prevented if you were a little more attentive. But now you’re here.
Eight was absolutely petrified. Thinking about the distress plastered on her face as she frantically helped you get back on your feet, feverishly spouting apologies even though it wasn’t a huge deal in the moment- it’s a bittersweet thought. Bitter because of how it spiraled out of control like this, sweet because of how concerned she was for you. Maybe it’s sick or selfish to say you enjoyed the attention, but you did anyway.
The laceration, as disgusting as it is, doesn’t freak you out as much as it should. You’ve seen your fair share of injuries during your time in the NSS- not to mention what you now see every time you look in the mirror- if anything, looking at it gives you a minuscule amount of pride. An amount so small, but strong enough that you can feel it. Just knowing it was the result of you protecting Eight- something greatly instinctual, almost primal, feels deep gratification in that.
Yeah, it fucking sucks and hurts like hell, but at least it’s you dealing with it and not Eight. You’re Agent 3, you can handle it.
So, now your main concern is anyone else finding out. You reassured Eight that it was all good and nothing more than a rough bruise- partly to make her feel better, and partly to make yourself feel better- and you urged her not to tell anyone else what happened. If anyone had happened to see what it really looked like, you would’ve been sent straight to the bench.
And…Maybe they would’ve been right to do that? Maybe you’re too out of your element to keep working anymore. You’re about blind in one eye, still physically messed up from the metro, and you’re just making the same amateur mistakes you would’ve made your first week on the job. You told yourself that it would get better with time, that maybe with patience, you’ll get back your strength, speed, endurance, everything. But it’s been multiple years since you got out of the deep sea, and you’re still… weak. The nightmares didn’t disappear, the headaches didn’t become any duller- if anything, it feels like it becomes worse the more you rest. And that’s really why you don’t want to stop. Being out of commission after the metro was one of the most miserable times in your life. You don’t remember ever feeling so empty, so devoid of a purpose. Being in the NSS gives you that drive, that push you need to feel like you’re worth something.
You’re not taking a break, and you’re sure as hell not stepping down.
So, you’ll hide it. Obviously.
Atleast you’re pretty good at that, aren’t you?
“…Three? Are you in there?”
Through cotton filled ears you hear Eights voice on the other side of the door. Your heart jumps in your chest as you frenziedly try to bring yourself back to reality- you’re in Eights bathroom. With your blood in her sink.
”Uh, yeah, give me a second-“
The words spill out of your mouth a little more frantic sounding than you would’ve hoped, but it’s lost on you. You fumble with the sinks handles, accidentally knocking a bottle of soap off the edge of the countertop in your panic. Shutting off the water, you feverishly grab your shirt out of the dome and wring it out with shaking hands, squeezing it with as much strength as you can muster to the point where your arms tremble, and you find yourself biting the skin on your lips. Flushes of diluted pink turn to small drops of clear water as they patter into the drain. Your shirt isn’t drying at this rate, and you still have clots of blood and puss sticking to the scabs littered down your ribs.
“Is everything alright? Do you need me to come in?”
Eights concerned voice becomes indescribable as your panic grows along with your quickening heartbeat. Every second you spend not replying will only make her grow more suspicious, so you’ll just have to spout something out and figure out your excuse later.
”Don’t- M’all good, just… just need a minute.”
Dropping the shirt back into the sink, you rest your hands on the marble to steady yourself as your ribs start to ache and your head begins to pound. Your sight becomes tunneled, grey noise poking at the sides of your vision and hands becoming blurry through tears poking your eyes.
“Give me,” you screw your eyes shut and swallow, fingers and face wildly twitching on impulse with the hot flashes that start up once again. “Give me a minute-“
Eight says something in response, but all you hear is your own blood pounding in your ears, even when you strain trying your hardest to listen. You’re hot yet cold at the same time- shaking and sweating while the cut down your side sends angry bursts of pain through your veins.
This could’ve been prevented in so many ways, if you weren’t careless in the metro, in the valley, while you were cleaning and bandaging yourself a few days ago- any of that would’ve gotten you out of this situation.
Why did you have to be so stupid? Is it this hard for Eight to do shit right, or is it just you? Now shes getting dragged into your problems, and this will definitely end with you being benched.
At least you can tell yourself that you tried. Not going down without a fight- that has some dignity in it, doesn’t it?
Probably not. It’s more cowardly, if anything.
”I told you not to come in…”
You don’t have to look up from the sink to know what Eight looks like- probably standing there, sorrel eyes wide, brows furrowed, lips slightly apart- that look of disbelief and disappointment that’s burned into your mind as if you’ve been branded by it. You find yourself pulling that look out of her more and more as the days go by. Although her kindness and compassion stays constant through it all, you’re sure she’s at her wits end with you. If you were in her shoes, you would be.
”You’ve been hiding this, haven’t you? How long?”
She crouches onto the floor to get a better view of your laceration, and judging by the way her former expression turns to a look of concentration you have a feeling she’s either A) quickly catching onto exactly when this happened without you saying a word, or B) Trying to comprehend how badly your side has been mutilated. Not a big fan of either scenario.
“How long?”
She reiterates her question, this time firmer than the previous. You’ve been here multiple times before and it’s always the same- you brush it off as if it wasn’t a big deal, get a stern talking to, and then you give in. You always give in. The ending is obvious- this time will be no different, but you’ll try to get away with it anyway, despite how ridiculous it sounds. It’s that endless cycle you always come back to, even if you don’t intend to.
”Seriously Eight, it’s…” Her hands snake up to your side, and even the smallest bit on pressure she puts on your skin leaves it with a burning pang, sparking under the muddy bruises littered on your ribs. “It’s fine-“
Even with that pain her touch brings, you feel more disappointed than anything when she takes her hand back. Your mind craves what your body refuses to; that tender feeling of her coarse fingers on your bare skin, the warmth on her palm transferring to your body, spreading through you like a lot match tossed in gasoline. You yearn for it, even if it hurts. It’s like a spreading fire; the closer you get, the higher the flames burn- hot, seeping into your flesh but only in the most pleasant way. You would think with time, that flare would sizzle out- but it only seems to grow with every moment she’s with you. Even in unfortunate situations like these.
You’ll try to hold your breath, to avoid breathing in the smoke that comes along with it. But just like that cycle, eventually, you give in and breathe her in every single time.
”Fine? Have you looked at it?” Her voice is stern in a way that leaves your throat dry, despite your numerous attempts to swallow the gritty sensation away. “Go sit down.”
Well, no point in fighting it now.
You turn to sit on the toilet seat, wincing at the flashes of dry pain that come with every twist your body makes. Eight methodically searches through the cabinet below the sink, pulling out a few boxes and bottles before picking one, shoving it over her arm and looking the next item on her mental checklist.
She walks over to you, setting the numerous supplies on the ground as she on the floor facing your injured side. It’s a little more than the usual materials she pulls out, probably because of how bad you let the infection get. Eight’s always been so knowledgeable when it came to dressing wounds and all things of the sort, probably from her time tending to herself when she still lived underground. She’s like a dancer when she works- gentle, meticulous, organized… Every move calculated and with purpose. You always pay close attention when she tends to your wounds in hope that you’ll be able to get the routine down, and finally you’ll be able to take care of yourself so she doesn’t have to deal with the burden of doing so. But there’s always something you end up missing, obviously, because here you are. But Eight never forgets a step, painstakingly careful each time as if you’re a delicate piece of ceramic, not to be handled roughly- fragile.
She begins to wipe down the exterior with a wet cloth, and you try your best to hold back the hiss of pain that squeezes out of you. She scrutinizes your wound, brows pinching together and lips pursing in thought. Probably mapping out what step to do next, considering the lack of information you’ve gave her about where it even came from.
“A little over a week.”
She freezes at your voice as she snaps out of her former immersion, brows softening and eyes flickering up to you.
”…What?”
”It happened a little over a week ago, when we were on patrol together… Didn’t think it was going to get this bad.”
You can almost see the way her gears turn in her head, eyes flickering back to the wound, face growing the same look of concentration it had dawned just a few seconds before you spoke. She swallows slowly before going on;
”Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her strict demeanor unravels like the seam of a torn doll, tone turning into one that bleeds with concern- and maybe even disappointment. You know she’s been coming at this with sympathy from the beginning, but the stoic facade makes it just a little less guilt inducing. Not in the way where you feel better about being careless and getting hurt- that stays the same. More in the way that you’re getting treated the way you should, because you lied. Unwavering and with discipline, that’s the way situations like these should be handled. But knowing Eights good nature, that’s not what’s going to happen.
You want to give her a real answer, but a shrug of your shoulders is all you give her as your mouth fails to project the ideas your brain comes up with.
“Three, we’ve known each other for so long yet,” She bites her lip and avoids your eyes, “Do… Do you still not trust me?”
“What- No- no, I do! Of course I do.”
The words spill out of your mouth so quickly they have to be true, but nevertheless she seems unconvinced. The following silence can only be an invitation to explain yourself.
”But ever since… you know, You guys have always been cleaning up after my mistakes. Every single week I come back with some stupid injury I need help with.” You let out a disingenuous laugh, sour and ashamed. “At this point it just feels like I can’t do anything right anymore. It has nothing to do with you, I just thought if I didn’t tell you guys then maybe…” You bring your hands up to vaguely gesture, as if the motion will manifest the words you want to say out of thin air, before dropping them down again. “I don’t know. It would feel normal again. Like it used to be.”
Usually with Eight, you don’t mind the quietness. Sometimes you just need a quiet atmosphere to calm your nerves. And, in a weird way, you find that some moments are more intimate in silence- where you don’t need words to express how you truly feel.
But now, with every second that passes while Eight sits in deep thought, you grow more and more ill. Your skin feels hot with shame, yet cool with sweat- and you absentmindedly scratch at the dampness that begins coating your palms. If only you knew what she thinks when she sees you- especially what she thinks when thrown into stupid scenarios like this, where she has to deal with what you can’t . You don’t know how she does it. Maybe you could learn something from her.
”It wasn’t your fault, Three… I was supposed to watch your back, if I was being more careful then we never would’ve got spotted. It was my fault. If you weren’t lucky I really could’ve gotten you...”
Her voice grows brittle as it trails off, and you don’t need her to finish her sentence to understand what went unsaid.
It wasn’t your fault either, don’t blame yourself. We were supposed to watch each others backs, I did what I needed to do
Thats something along the lines of what your brain tells you to say, but your heart must have conveyed its personal message much faster, because what comes out of your mouth is completely different than what you intended.
”I would die for you.”
Outright and brutally honest.
Way too honest, even.
The tension the following silence brings is so thick it’s almost suffocating, tightening your throat and igniting a bubbling feeling of anxiety deep in your chest. It stretches on, and Eights probably waiting for you to say something else- deflect it with a joke, remark that you’re just kidding, anything to lighten the deadweight of what you just said. The pattern of both you and her breathing seems louder than before, as if the two of you are struggling to get enough air in the atmosphere you created. Even then, you say nothing.
”Three, that’s… Seriously, that’s not funny.”
”I’m not trying to be.”
Despite all of your dishonesty, it’s the truth. If you had to relive the metro again for her- for her warm brown eyes, for her gummy smile that perfectly suits her soft features, for her striking magenta tentacles that curl up when you compliment her, for the faint freckles that litter her nose and cheeks, for the way her brows furrow when shes thinking about something, and for the way those eyes shine when she gets the results she was looking for. For her hardworking and innovative mind- strengthened and defined from her past experiences, yet creative and running wild with vivid imagination. For her pure and still healing heart- burnt out from stress and hardship, yet she still has it in her to be selfless, helping everyone but herself even though she’s the only girl you could think of who truly deserves everything the world has to offer.
The only person who strives to make you smile, even though you had always thought you looked strange when you did so. The only one who will proudly hold your hand- though they’re clammy and littered with the scars of the many years before you- and tell you things you’re almost certain you’ve done nothing to deserve hearing. The only person who looks at you and those scars with fondness instead of disturbed fear, even though she has every right to feel that way.
The girl who was with you then, when you were hurt and trapped in the metro. The girl who was with you when you were confused, lost, and scared after you both escaped. The girl who would stay by your side when you asked it of her, and the girl who would take time out of her day to visit you when you desperately needed to be with someone. The girl who’s with you now, who will continue to put up with your reckless behavior every time without fail because that’s just the way she is. Always caring, always thoughtful, always loving- a growing flower that continues to blossom and flourish in the face of every storm and drought. Against all odds, the petals continue to grow ever more vibrant and beautiful. Always beautiful. Always.
You wish you could do more for her, you wish you could be the one to show her amazing things. You wish you could give her everything and anything that could possibly atone for what she had to go through. Your stomach tenses, twisting in pain- not because of your injury- but because of how badly you yearn for it. How badly you yearn for her.
She’s incredible. Extraordinary in so many ways that you’re not even close to comparing to, and when given that choice, you would do it. Of course you would do it. Who are you to say no?
“You know I care about you a lot, right?” Her voice is hushed, yet sincere. “I know it can be hard but you need to tell me about these things, because this is… this is bad.”
“What if something like this were to happen again, and it got so bad to the point where I couldn’t- to the point where…” She tenses for a moment after stumbling on her words, lips pursing and eyes twitching slightly, “What I’m saying is, if you keep hiding stuff like this you’re only going to hurt yourself more and more. And I really need you to be okay, Three.”
Her eyes twitching turns into squinting, and her bottom lip starts to quiver slightly. It’s a look you’ve seen many times- and it hurts just as much as the first.
”Hey, hey- shit, I didn’t mean to upset you- I’m sorry.” Maybe you can salvage this- wipe up the spilt paint before it hardens- but the tears are already making their way down her face, rolling down her reddened cheeks like hot wax. “Fuck, please don’t cry. I’m here, I’m okay-”
You hurry to sit on the tiled floor in front of her- trying your best (and failing) to ignore the stinging feeling ripping down your side in your haste- and you desperately grab onto her, first her shoulders, then her hands that clench into fists in her lap- in a weak attempt to show her that you’re there. You’re fine.
”You’re not okay,” She spits out between shaking breaths, “you’re hurt.”
”So are you.”
Moving your hands up to hold her face- red and sticky from salted tears- you rest your forehead against hers, feeling the tremble in your palms for every small sob that shakes her body. Her hands snake up behind your neck, thumbs rubbing self soothing circles behind your pointed ears as she tries to compose herself.
She opens her eyes just slightly, wide enough to the point where beautiful warm pupils stare directly into your own mismatched ones.
God, you really are in love, aren’t you?
“You’re beautiful.”
Her cherry tentacles curl up into themselves as her eyes flutter back to the ground, her lips retracting into a straight line- a smile she tries to hold back, but barely has success in doing so. Despite her flustered nature, she swats a playful hand across your knee, digging in the unspoken message; Be serious.
“I’m sorry I hid this from you. I didn’t know…”
I didn’t know that you cared.
You’re lucky enough to catch yourself before saying that, because it’s not true. You know she cares. She’s stayed by your side throughout everything- through all the times she needed her own support, when she was dealing with her own issues, even when you had hurt her. All time times you didn’t deserve her company, she gifted you with it anyway.
She’s so kind- too kind to the point where it’s almost aggravating. How can she stay with you after all this time? Who in their right mind would stay with someone who hurt them? How do they know they won’t get hurt again? How could they be so stupid to put themself in that situation?
You would say she’s foolish or naive- but she’s far from it. She’s intelligent, quick witted and analytical- she knows what she’s doing, and that’s what frustrates you. The fact that she sees something in you that you’re completely oblivious to, that’s the truly aggravating part about it.
How could she see anything at all in a girl like you? She’s taken care of you, for fucks sake she cried for you and now here you are. You’re sitting in her company berating her in your mind for it. You really appreciate everything she does for you, you just don’t understand it- and maybe you’re jealous. Jealous that she can find a reason to take care of you, while you can’t find any reason to take care of yourself.
If she knew how you really were- If that rotten, gross part hidden deep inside of yourself was brought to light- would she treat you the same way?
Well, that insinuates that she treats you based off not what’s inside of you, but what’s on the outside. The actions you take, the words you say, the way you look. And thinking about your past, how you acted and how you treated her- not to mention how you look. You just can’t seem to grasp any redeemable qualities, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself there’s something there that makes you worth it- no matter how hard she tries to convince you you’re worth it.
You wish you could just take it how it is. You wish you could let people show they care instead of shutting them out and pushing them away- trying to convince yourself that they’re stupid or ignorant or anything of the sort to even think about showing you compassion. You refuse to let yourself believe that there’s any person out there who could be so sincere and good hearted, despite going through living hell just to be here today. How can she empathize with someone who’s barely gone through anything at all, who has no reason to act they way they do when compared to her? The answer to that question is simple: she’s just a good person.
Even with that answer, you aren’t satisfied. It only brings up a million more questions you’ll never get the explanation to.
“I don’t understand.” It’s all you can muster up, and she looks at you with such patience, it drives you mad. Because you just don’t understand. There’s a lot of things you yearn for in your life, and you think the thing you want the most is just to understand why. ”No matter how hard I try, I just don’t get it.”
You slightly back up, bringing your hands down to hold her arms instead, and now it’s your turn to stare at the floor. Avoid eye contact while you attempt to come up with something, anything that can serve as a decent follow up to your actions.
But, you have nothing.
”Im sorry. I know that you care about me, but I just don’t know why.”
You’re not sure what to expect for a response. What even is there to say to that?
You assume you have her stuck, but she does respond. She pulls you in close, resting her chin on your shoulder;
”Because I love you.”
Her hands run down your bare back, scarred and littered with imperfections. Her palms are rough and calloused after years of labor- still being worn down in the hands of a charger- but despite the battered exterior, her hands are tedious and gentle. As gentle as they are, they leave a burning fire in their trail- a desperate ache to get impossibly closer that you can’t satisfy. Her fingers slowly glide down your skin, feeling every untold story formed in the shape of scars scattered along your back. Her hand stutters for each flaw, stopping in its tracks to meticulously feel the surface with her thumb. Each scar has that story behind it, and you can imagine how her brain works overtime trying to piece together what could’ve happened to you to earn all of them- only through touch alone.
”Don’t hide who you are around me anymore.” Her voice is low and warm, flowing right into your ear like a melody. “I wan’t to see every part of you, even the parts you don’t like about yourself.”
“I wish I could do more for you.” You say, closing your eyes and resting in the crook of her shoulder, trying to breathe in so much of her in hopes it overflows your senses- where you can’t think of anything else, where you can’t feel that pulsing pain in your ribs. “There’s so much you deserve and I can’t give it to you.”
“I don’t want you to give me anything, I just want…I just want you. Not a different version of yourself that you pretend to be. I want you.”
Despite her efforts to console you, the effect is almost the opposite because you feel so powerless. Each word of endearment cuts into you like a heated knife, leaving your skin hot and warm in its wake. You’re truly at her full disposal, even a simple ‘I want you’ is like a flip of a switch, leaving you to always to give in. It’s such a wild thing to want- you.
And even though the two of you aren’t looking at each other, you’ve learned very quickly that it doesn’t make the words come any easier.
”It’s hard sometimes to... open up, you know? Even if I know they mean well it’s just… difficult.” She hums lowly in your ear, insinuating for you to go on. ”But out of everyone I know, you’re the one I trust most. I want to do this for you.”
”Don’t do it just for me, do it for yourself too.”
If she requests it of you, you’d do anything.
“I’ll try.”
”Thank you. Thats all I’ll ever ask.”