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“Oi, would it kill you to be more— oi!”
Heathcliff leaps up from where he was sitting on Ishmael’s bed and shoots her the best death glare he can muster; if looks could kill, Ishmael would be lying on the floor drooling blood right now. He stands there in his boxer-briefs, glowering at her with his arms crossed.
“You keep squirming! It’s not my fault you’re a scaredy-cat, is it?!” Ishmael returns his glare with a scowl of her own, still gripping the needle—namely, Heathcliff’s hormone replacement therapy needle, full of his weekly testosterone—in her fingers. “If you’d just stop moving—”
Heathcliff lets out a deep, exaggerated huff before flopping down next to her again. “You can bloody warn me next time before jabbin’ me in the thigh like that.”
“That’s where it goes. Unless you want to turn around and—”
“I ain’t lettin’ you anywhere near my arse with that thing.”
“Then let me do this properly! You’re the one who asked, you big coward!”
Their cold war of a staring contest continues for a few more moments with annoyed glares from both sides until Heathcliff gives in, averting his eyes with a snort. At his giving in, Ishmael rolls his eyes and grasps his thigh again, pulling his skin taut. Despite his furrowed brow, his grip is gentle in its firmness, pressing his callused sailor’s hand against his scarred skin.
“It would be easier if you didn’t have so much scar tissue,” Ishmael mutters, more to herself than Heathcliff. In a way, his scars are intriguing to her; it’s not something she views as negative, rather a quaint little map on her lover’s skin that she can study like any other. He has them all over his body, really; sometimes she wonders how he got each one, but it’s a thought too sappy to tell him about without getting mercilessly made fun of.
“Oh, yeah, sorry for being in a syndicate, lass, I’ll just get in a fancy lil’ time machine an’ get rid of those for you, since it’s so inconvenient,” Heathcliff grunts, but his body is stock-still for her, not allowing their argument to affect his determination to get this done.
“That’s not what I meant, but whatever you say,” Ishmael sighs. As he focuses, he picks out the last injection spot; he moves the syringe slightly away from the little bead of blood to an area without any scar tissue nearby. “Don’t. Move.”
Heathcliff tenses, trying his best to stay still for her, and Ishmael stares at him expectantly before he exhales and relaxes his thigh muscles. She plunges the needle in quickly and moves her other hand to his opposite thigh, then steadily injects him with his full dose.
“Shit,” Heathcliff hisses, but commendably, he stays still, and Ishmael removes the needle from his thigh. He tosses the syringe into the sharps bin next to them before grabbing an alcohol swab and putting pressure on the injection site with it.
“...You alright?” Ishmael finally asks, her brows still furrowed as she gently presses on the little wound.
Heathcliff lifts his head to look at her. “Yeah. ‘M fine now, just…”
“...Just that you’re scared of needles,” Ishmael finishes for him, checking the area underneath the swab. He nods briskly to himself and fetches a bandaid from the box on the bed next to him, peeling the film off of it and pressing it onto Heathcliff’s thigh. “Not gunshot wounds or getting beat to death by my mace, just needles.”
Heathcliff lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. “Everyone’s got somethin’ to be embarrassed about,” he mutters, his face flushing just a bit. “You got the steadiest hands on the bus, so…”
“Nah, that’s probably Outis,” Ishmael corrects, and the look Heathcliff shoots at her is absolutely scandalized.
“Sure, but Outis would do it wrong just because I dared to ask,” Heathcliff grumbles, glancing down at the injection site on his thigh. He flexes his leg and raises his eyebrows, impressed by the lack of soreness. “...Oi, not half bad. I feel like I always do it wrong, an’ my leg constantly hurts like hell after.”
Ishmael rolls his eyes but a little grin creeps onto his face. “Imagine. My big, tough butch. Scared of needles.”
“You—” Heathcliff narrows his eyes at her before tackling her to the bed, chuckling deep in his chest when Ishmael shrieks and starts squirming underneath him. He pins her wrists above her head and leans in to give her a kiss, but is interrupted. “Oi, don’t kick me! What is wrong with—”
Ishmael turns the tables on him, tossing him off and rolling onto him instead, ending up perched triumphantly on his hips, panting hard as he glares at Heathcliff with a smug smirk on his face. She promptly leans down to kiss him, just as he had been about to do, and Heathcliff growls softly at her but accepts her kiss, cupping her face with one hand. Ishmael pulls away with a laugh and Heathcliff glowers up at her, defeated, his own chest heaving with every breath he takes. Ishmael reaches down and snaps one of the straps of his sports bra against his shoulder teasingly.
“Ow. You’re mental.”
Ishmael just snickers again. “I had to do your T shot for you. Frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’m allowed to push you around a little.”
Heathcliff rolls his eyes at her, the corners of his lips turning up in a little smirk, too. “Yeah, whatever. Okay, laugh at me. Get all your kicks out of it, I’m waitin’.”
Ishmael flops down onto his chest instead, prompting a grunt out of Heathcliff, but he responds by wrapping an arm around her, moving automatically. Ishmael leans into his chest almost imperceptibly.
“... Are you going to make me do this every week?”
“I didn’t make you do anything!”