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When the Rest Of The World Sees A Wall…
“What did you do?” Those were Misty’s first words upon finding the headmistress and Headmistress of Miss Robichaux’s stood at the kitchen sink running her hand under the cold tap. Any ‘hey’ or other fond and friendly greeting that might have passed the swamp witch’s lips had fallen away in the wake of the grimace on Cordelia’s face. A beat passed and noticing Misty was indeed not going to carry on her merry way and leave the Headmistress to her sulk, she answered;
“I punched a wall.”
“That isn’t like you,” Misty’s surprise had her tone an octave higher than her usual low register.
“I know, I know,” Cordelia replied, her free hand twisting the tap off and reaching for a towel to dab the damaged digits dry. Having sidled up to the Headmistress’ side, Misty inspected her handiwork.
“That doesn’t look too good…”
“I wasn’t aware of that, thank you.”
“Hey, no need to chew my head off here,” Misty raised her own hands in mock surrender, though glancing dubiously at the Headmistress all the same for snapping. Under that sky-blue scrutiny, Cordelia’s temper withered to a shrug and a shake of the head.
“No, no, you’re right, I’m sorry. It just…”
“It hurts?” Misty offered, carefully taking Cordelia’s hand in her own, cradling it in her palm as she unwound the fluffy towel to take a closer look. The swamp witch nibbled the corner of her lip as she took in the raw red knuckles, swelling with petals already blossoming in a palette of fierce black and blue.
“Something like that…” How hard did you hit it? Misty wondered, what the hell was on your mind?
“I’ll get you some mud for the bruising, but first we should really do something about that thumb,” Misty said with an unmistakable grimace; it was hard for Misty’s trained eye not to notice how crooked the joint was, already swelling a painful shade of royal purple.
“What do you mean, it’s…” Misty nudged her thumb, eliciting a wince and slight whine from the Headmistress. Cordelia could say what she liked, but Misty was no fool when it came to caring for things like this. “ahhh…”
“It’s dislocated is what I mean,” the swamp witch clarified, “I’ve seen my fair share.”
“Ok, ok, but don’t-“ Cordelia’s whimpering protests fell on temporarily-deaf ears as Misty took a more firm hold of her hand. “No, no, don’t do-ahhh.” Before the Headmistress could even count to three, she had forced the joint back into place, sending a throb of fiery pain lancing through Cordelia’s hand.
“How did you manage ta get it like this?”
“I told you,” Cordelia huffed, cradling the offending extremity in her other hand, while Misty pulled away briefly to rummage for a fresh towel.
“Well I hope the wall fared better…” Misty murmured, before catching the look in the Headmistress’s eyes, “sorry, I mean, you must’ve got that plaster all well an’ good there,” she amended, returning her gaze to rifling through the freezer for a handful of thick ice, if only to avoid Cordelia’s glowering look while she wrapped the bundle in the towel.
“Ha-ha,” the Headmistress’s sarcasm was cut short by a hiss as Misty touched the chilling towel to Cordelia’s hand, wrapping the edges around her palm to keep it in place. “Hfff…”
“Sorry, we’re all outta peas.” The apologetic statement did bring a slow sort-of smile back to Cordelia’s features, because of course Misty would apologize for that – particularly as it was her adamance a few weeks previously that they were ‘perfectly capable of growing their own damn fresh peas right there at the Academy, that they didn’t need to go stockpiling a bunch of frozen shit’ that meant there were no such pseudo-ice-packs readily available for Cordelia’s hand.
The Headmistress perched herself down on the nearest stool, leaning her arm outstretched on the countertop to inspect – and possibly admire – Misty’s quick work of her hand. True, the pain had dulled somewhat considerably to more of a dull throbbing sensation at the end of her arm instead of how it had been.
Misty however hovered not far from the counter’s edge, a curious look written on her face, brow furrowed in thought as her eyes seemed to wander between Cordelia’s hand and somewhere else in her head. Just as Cordelia was about to ask what on earth she was thinking of, Misty finally sat down on a stool opposite, and lifted her hand again, albeit much gentler as she turned it left and right. And as Cordelia’s brows pinched down in confusion as to what she was doing, in some twisted mirror of expression Misty’s own brow quirked upward with scepticism.
“You didn’t hold your fist right, did you.” It wasn’t so much a question, as a confirmation.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you probably weren’t thinking all that much anyway - for you of all people to do something like this– “ Cordelia wondered where she could be going with this, but held her tongue. “But I’m guessing seein’ as you’re hardly the throwing-fists type that no-one ever showed you how to hit something.” Misty nodded to herself; Cordelia however, did not seem so swayed by this assumption of her character – however correct it might or might not have been...
“I know how to hit something.”
“Without breaking fingers?” Misty half-teased, settling the woman’s hand back down to the table. She patted the back of her palm not covered in cold flannel kindly. “I’m not trying to offend you or nothing, but…”
“I know…” Cordelia sighed, conceding, picking at the curling edge of the towel. It had been a stupid, impulsive thing to do, and would now have to deal with. Thankfully not for long with the muds and salves they had stored in the greenhouse, although she did feel a pang of guilt for using valuable resources on something so trivial but wandering the house with a hurt hand for a week didn’t sound like a better option of the two either.
“Maybe you should stick to throwing things with those magic hands o’ yours instead of these,” the swamp witch said, having pulled Cordelia’s other hand away from the wrap and into both of her own warm hands, holding them together over the table top as Misty marvelled over them.
A calloused thumb, still stained with the mud she had come into the kitchen to wash from her hands from the greenhouse, traced smooth circles across the milk-white skin of Cordelia’s undamaged hand. The awe of how soft it was shone in those sky-blue eyes. “Can’t have you damaging these dainty hands for real now, can we?”
Cordelia’s soft laughter seemed to fill the kitchen then, such a sweet air that had Misty softening from the inside, wishing only that she could hear it more often. It shouldn’t have been such a rare thing within these walls as it was.
“Should I be offended or complimented?” The teasing smile tinkling in the older witch’s eyes was so bright, if only for a moment, for Misty at least it lit up the room. The laughter drifted away to a silence so comfortable, Misty felt she could almost stay there, almost sit still in the serenity of it. Cordelia’s very presence exuding a calm that may have been fringed with melancholy but the centre, filled with the two of them, was more than enough to leave Misty almost entirely at ease. It was only then she noticed their hands had never left the table, were still resting over one another. Despite the chill of the ice around Cordelia’s one hand, Misty’s hands felt so warm…
“Miss Cordelia?” Misty cleared her throat, drawing the other woman’s eyes to her own again.
“Yes?”
“I could show you, if you really want.” There was a moment, however brief, of bemusement flickering behind Cordelia’s eyes. Holding their hands together like this, the rare skin-to-skin contact, Misty could show her plenty of things, if she wanted to, if Cordelia wanted her to. But they both knew what the swamp witch meant and another chuckle of mirth escaped Cordelia’s lips again as she gently unwound her hands from Misty’s, pulling her wounded one closer towards herself again. For a moment, she could feel the warmth from Misty’s palm still lingering, melting the ice over her other hand until it soaked cloth, dripped between her fingers like rivulets of pure feeling left to seep into her skin.
“Thank you,” Cordelia said softly, offering a small smile, “but I think it will be a while before I try this again.”
“Well, alright,” was that a glimpse of sadness in Misty’s gaze then, with the decline, or was she merely seeing things that were not really there? Was that hesitance in her step, for a fraction of a second, as the swamp witch stood up from the table and patted her arm as she stepped around her again?
“If you say so,” Misty shrugged, returning the smile of her own. “Know where ta find me if you change your mind,” she teased, nudging the older witch’s shoulder while Cordelia shook her head smiling wider, creasing at the corners of those eyes, the curves of her cheek. That happy look that Misty longed to see. Did no-one know how pretty she was when she smiled like that? When someone took the weight of the world off her shoulders once in a while?
Misty leaned over, tapping a finger on the wet towel around Cordelia’s hand. “You keep some ice on that swelling for me now, while I go get that mud.”
“Misty, thank you,” Cordelia called after her, as Misty made her way back to the door. With one hand on the door frame, the tall witch turned again.
“And Miss Cordelia?”
“Yes?” Those eyes again, that patient smile.
“You have real nice hands.”