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Carolina breaks Locus’ nose with a crack that rings through the room. For a moment, she feels incredibly proud of herself. And then she feels incredibly guilty over feeling so proud. That feeling doesn’t fade as easily as the first one.
“Uh,” she says, and lowers her foot from the high kick that had done the deed. There’s blood on her sneaker.
Locus cups his hands around his nose to stop blood from staining the matt, although the front of his shirt is already a lost cause. His long dark silky hair is falling out of his ponytail just a bit. Carolina’s ponytail is still flawless.
“Oops?” she elaborates to explain that it was just an accident, in case it wasn’t obvious. It was. She’d really thought he’d dodge that one, and had only been using the kick as a distraction for a series of attacks she’s been gearing up for to slam him into the ground. Just a little harmless slamming of bodies into matts, that’s what she’d intended.
“Excuse me,” Locus says, and his normally smooth and baritone voice is so nasally that Carolina immediately, uncontrollably snorts at him. He gives her a look and she coughs, clearing her throat and looking away like she hadn’t just laughed at him after she broke his nose during a friendly sparring match. No siree. She plays nice. She plays fair.
Locus walks peaceably away in a way that still manages to feel like he’s stalking off, remaining silent in a way that still manages to feel like he’s grumbling. She’s a little impressed, and distinctly uncomfortable. She follows after him without a second thought.
“Hang on,” she says, grabbing his shoulder. She’s only mildly annoyed that she has to jump a little to do it. “Let me straighten your nose for you.”
“I can do it,” he says, and she bites the inside of her cheeks at his still nasal voice.
“It’s better if someone else does it,” she insists. It really would be a shame if he came out of this with a crooked nose. He might be able to pull it off, but so far his face is basically flawless, scars and all, and she’d hate to be the end of that. It’d be like punching the Mona Lisa.
Locus grumbles without grumbling again, and then nods a little. He continues not-stalking towards the wardrobes where there’s a first aid kit, and she follows him. For every step he takes, she has to take two. Does he really have to take such large steps? Does he have to be quite so absurdly tall?
By the time they reach the wardrobe and Locus gets to lean over a sink, when he opens his hand a puddle of blood falls onto the white porcelain, splashing and flowing into the drain, and Carolina winces. It’s not the worst injury she’s given someone while sparring, she’s a little ashamed to admit, but she still doesn’t like that it happened. Makes her itch with failure. Even though Locus should have dodged…
No. No more of that.
When his bleeding slows to a trickle, she approaches him, pressed up against him. He’s very warm.
“Lean down,” she says, and holds out her hands expectantly.
He obediently bends his knees and ducks his head, and she reaches out with her hands, her eyes inspecting the way the nose has broken, her fingers finding themselves to the right places. Her touch is light until she feels prepared. “One,” she says, and then she snaps the bones back into place because everyone knows to flinch at two.
Locus makes a slight, very quiet noise, and blinks rapidly. Doesn’t move a muscle, otherwise. She can’t help but smile approvingly at him. Locus’ lip twitches upwards a little bit at the corner, which she’s starting to recognize as his version of a smile.
“Alright,” she says, pulling her eyes away from him and towards the kit. “Now we can splint it and stuff some tissues up your nose. It’ll be a good look for you.”
Locus snorts derisively at her, and then grimaces like he regrets that, wincing. Blood trickles down onto his lip.
She turns towards the kit to hide her smile, focuses on finding the right things.
“Sorry,” she says as she’s tossing an expired box of aspirin she found into the garbage, realizing that she hadn’t said it before.
“What for?” Locus asks, giving her a genuinely quizzical look.
“For breaking your nose,” she says, exasperated. Duh. Sure, not exactly the gravest sin she’s ever committed, but a pretty obvious one in the moment.
“Oh,” he says, and she hopes he feels as embarrassed as he sounds. “It was just an accident. Negligible damage.”
“Sure,” she agrees, lining up a splint against the side of his nose. “Hold this in place for me.” He does. “But still, sorry. Maybe we shouldn’t wear shoes while sparring,” she suggest sheepishly.
“You could definitely break my nose without shoes,” Locus says, and Carolina resists happily squirming at what sounds like praise to her ears.
“Okay, yes, I definitely could,” she says, trying to tamp down on the smugness rising in her chest. Teammates don’t feel smug about being able to hurt teammates. She fastens the splints in place. “Still, no more shoes. And let’s keep the first aid kit in the training room with us. That’s just common sense, really.”
Six months ago, before Locus was a more or less permanent fixture of their lives, Carolina got lost in the heat of the moment and broke a finger while pummeling the sandbag in the training room. She didn’t try and change anything to prevent it from happening again, had just thought be more careful next time.
It’s easier to take care of others, even now. It’s a good thing she’s starting to surround herself with people again.
“So,” she says, handing Locus a tissue, “should we just count this is as a point in my favor on the tallyboard?”
Locus gives her another look.
Some habits are harder to break than others.