Chapter Text
"I think it's stopped now," I say, damp washcloth ready in hand, as I approach my beloved brute of a boyfriend. Pinching his nose, Kid is sitting on one of the infirmary's beds and looking quite worse for wear with blotches blooming over his face and body.
Tentatively, Kid releases his hold and stays put while I inspect his nose. The rims are caked with coagulated globs but there's no fresh blood trickling anymore. Good.
Stepping in between his knees, I push his tussled bangs out of the way to clean his face, starting with the dried blood around a busted brow ridge. His kohl eye lines are a complete mess so I swab those, too. For his currently tender nose, I gently rub the wet cloth over the red stains. Next to go is the lipstick, all smudged now from kissing the tarp when Dad wiped the floor with him. Twice.
Kid lost the match, but he went down as glorious as somebody being Dad's punching bag could go. He's the only person I've ever seen to hop off the ring by himself instead of being helped down by paramedics after going mano a mano with Joker. The tabloid reporters prowling the nearby hospital will be so disappointed tonight.
I mop up Kid's jaw, finally revealing the plain, pale face that I gradually fell in love with, the one that I now see last thing at night and first thing in the morning.
After dumping the soiled washcloth on the side table, I cup his face in my hands to soothe his wounded pride, and it would have been a nice romantic moment if Kid didn't snort some residual blood from his nasal cavity and gulp it down.
"Don't do that. You're going to break your capillaries again," I chide.
Kid tilts his head up to look me in the eyes, his sunset gold boring into my misty silver. His brow ridges are furrowed and the corners of his lips are pointing downward.
"I lost," he huffs, frustration balled up so tightly in those few words.
"So? We're still getting married. It's just going to be more of a fanfare than we thought."
"I don't want a big-ass ceremony," Kid complains as childishly and petulantly as a two-hundred-plus-pound adult can. He takes my hand in his and our hands slot together perfectly with mine encircled by Kid’s beefy fingers. "I wanted it to be just us. No noisy jerks. No flashin' cameras. Just the two of us... 'cuz you hate the crowd," he mumbles.
It's sweet that Kid always keeps in mind how I avoid the paparazzi and Dad's fans like the plague. If they want to know what's the secret to Joker’s impeccably symmetrical eight-packs or when is his next match with Gild Tesoro, they can go ask his manager Trebol. I swear that man knows everything. He’s like Dad’s creepy shadow. Personal space seems to be a foreign concept to him, given how he’s always behehe’ing right in your face. Even the reporters have learned to hold their microphone some distance away from his perpetually runny nose.
Kid’s still absentmindedly fiddling with my hand. His thumb traces up and down my finger, the one wearing the engagement ring. It's a gold band that I can easily slip a rubber glove over during work. Kid's is a pure silver band. Earlier, I asked him why the different materials and his answer was so we'd be wearing the color of each other's eyes. Gosh, he's a total sap at heart, but this mushy side is reserved for me. Never in a million years would he be caught uttering this sort of corny stuff in front of other people. It'd put a dent in his mad dog reputation. Let people keep thinking that he punts cute little animals in his free time. An interesting fact is that the person who actually does kicks kittens is one of Dad’s wrestler fellows “Empress” Boa Hancock. Despite the throng of playboys salivating after her, she has a humongous crush on waterboy Luffy. Everyone wonders what she sees in that simple-minded teen.
I take in Kid's kicked-puppy (ferocious Tibetan Mastiff puppy, mind you) demeanor and really do feel sorry for him, but I know that he'll get used to his father-in-law's whimsy sooner or later. Love me, love my dad. Or something along those cliché lines.
"Hey," I say, nudging his chin up with the tip of my finger. "Cheer up, big guy. We're getting hitched. Doesn't matter how or where, because we're going to be happy anyway, right?"
He blinks once, soaking up my words, before answering with a growing smile that mirrors my own.
"Yeah."
His arms come up to embrace my waist. I place one hand on his defined trap, the other petting his scarlet locks. Kid’s body slumps forward, melting under my touch. All the stress bleeding out.
"In a few months, I'm going to be Eustass Donquixote W. Law. How does that sound to you?"
And there it is. That jagged grin that strikes terror into the hearts of lessor wrestlers but makes butterflies flutter in my stomach.
"Sounds goddamn perfect."