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Loba deserves it. The disdain and animosity of her "coworkers" was borne from her own actions.
She deserves it, but you still can't help but feel bad.
She winces, just a little bit, as you dab her wound. Her hands are curled into fists on her thighs, legs crossed primly, and head held high despite her discomfort. Usually she's the picture of faux-casual grace, but right now, you can see and feel how tense she is. Not to even mention the complete lack of teasing comments and thinly veiled flirtations.
"Does it hurt?" You ask, keeping your voice low.
"It's--" She glances away, apparently more interested in the first aid kit than you. "You don't have to do this. I don't need your pity."
But… she asked? You tilt your head to the side curiously. "What?"
"You don't need to take care of me. I'm fine." She says, her voice sharp as a knife.
She's trying to piss you off, and while it doesn't work (you're long since used to bitchy remarks, especially after spending so much time with Rev), you have to wonder why.
Is she just more comfortable with anger? Is that what she's more familiar with, or is it some strange form of self sabotage? A kind of punishment, maybe? Did she maybe expect you to be angry?
She frowns, and you realize you've been staring too long. "It isn't pity." You finally say, grabbing another cotton ball to dip in alcohol.
Loba hisses as you press it to one of her larger scraps, her shoulders hunching. "Hijo de la pinche--"
"Relax." You chide. "You get shot at all day, you can handle this."
"I wouldn't have to 'handle this' if your teammates weren't so rough. We were just training." She doesn't like using medkits and things outside the ring, no one does, and asking Lifeline for D.O.C. was out of the question.
You're still a little hazy on the details as to how she ended up seeking you out to patch her up though. Maybe she just figured you were a safe bet.
"You haven't really done much to make them not hate you." You're sure there are better ways to word that, but you're more focused on making sure there's no dirt in her wounds. You think she's clean, but your bathroom doesn't have the best lighting.
"I-- I won't apologize for putting the mission over one person." She says stubbornly.
"That's the issue." You throw the used cotton ball at the trash can. It misses. Sighing, you grab the gauze. "Wattson isn't just some random. She's-- important. To the games and to us, personally."
When Caustic had Loba by the throat, you didn't know how to feel. You still don't. You don't take any pleasure in violence outside the ring, but you were angry too. Angry and scared and hurt.
"It's because she's part of the group. I'm an outsider." Loba says.
"It's because she's a sweetheart who loves shitty puns and gushing about her girlfriend and those little Nessie toys." You respond, making sure the paper tape is stuck. "But yes. You were… an unknown variable. You still are."
You give her bandages one last look. Mostly to avoid her gaze as you add, "You can stay, if you want."
Loba doesn't respond verbally. She does, however, nod and let you lead her back into the main room. Your apartment is small, but not cramped.
You feel her eyes on you, but you ignore it, for the moment. She didn't bother cleaning up before coming to you for assistance. If she wants to stay, the least you can do is offer her some clean clothes.
"Do you like pink?" You ask over your shoulder. You've developed a weakness for pajamas since gaining a semi-permanent place of residence and job. Before, most of your clothes were sturdy and utilitarian.
"You don't need to…" Loba starts and stops. "Pink is fine."
She catches the pajama set thrown at her, and you busy yourself with fixing drinks. Loba likes her coffee with an absurd amount of sugar, something that Bloodhound pointed out to you. You don't know exactly how much she likes though, so you just grab a handful of sugar packets as the coffee machine whirs.
Two cups later, you're pretty sure Loba should be done changing, but you feel the need to ask, "Are you decent?"
"I'm dressed, at least." Loba laughs. Not like she does in the ring, during a finisher or when she's playfully flirting, but… lower. More honest, you think.
You make your way over to the couch to sit down next to her. As she fixes her coffee, you take in the sight of Loba in your pajamas. They fit well enough, and she looks cute. Soft. Better than earlier, and certainly a lot more comfortable and relaxed than you usually see her. She holds herself taut, inside and outside the ring.
The next few minutes are spent in relative silence, both of you content with sipping coffee. The game you were playing before she arrived is still paused on the TV, providing a weirdly intense, but not unpleasant soundtrack.
You idly hum along, wondering if it would be rude to continue playing while you wait for her to gather her thoughts. Is grabbing your phone better, or worse?
What is the etiquette when someone shows up at your door, asks you to bandage them up, and then stays for coffee? Are you her host, her doctor, her friend? All three?
"You know…" Loba's voice brings you back to the present. "For one of the first Legends, this place is… awfully drab."
There it is.
It seems Loba has built her walls back up in the time it took to empty your cup. A shame.
You narrow your eyes. "Loba." You don't remind her that you can and will kick her out if she gets to be too much, but she seems to understand.
Despite that, she smiles and offers, "I could hook you up."
"You… wait, what?"
You've seen Loba excited, riding the high of a win, but you've never seen her look as childishly delighted as when she says, "Let me get you a few things! I don't usually do interior decorating but a girl has to push her boundaries every once and a while."
"Uh." You say. "Loba, you don't need to--"
"Ah-ah-ah." She tuts. "Did I not say the same to you?"
Dammit. She has a point.
You press your lips together. "I guess. We'll have to talk to Bloodhound about it too though." They stay with you more often than not, so.
Loba nods, "They do have a… unique sense of aesthetics."
"Unique sense of aesthetics?" You repeat with a laugh. "You can say weird, y'know, they don't care."
"You know them well?" Loba asks. "Personally, perhaps?"
Her cat-who-got-the-canary grin is infectious, and you find yourself smiling in return as you respond, "We are dating."
Loba's eyes widen. "Wait, really?"
"Yes, really."
"I--" She cuts herself off, seemingly flustered. "I thought you two were simply good friends?"
That's purposeful, but you can't help but tease, "Because we're not all lovey-dovey in public? Not everyone is as bold as you, Loba."
"Says the one who invited me in." She says, taking a pointed sip of her no doubt lukewarm coffee. "I suppose that explains why neither of you have taken me up on my post-game date offer."
"Maybe next time ask both of us?" You say, struggling to maintain a straight face.
It's worth it to see Loba choke on her drink. Her face turns a beautiful shade of pink as she presses her hand to her mouth, presumably so she doesn't spit coffee on herself.
You also cover your mouth, but only to muffle your laughter.
"You--" she says, after recovering. "You are full of surprises."