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The empty infirmary still reeks of copper and steel when Áila steps in. She has lost count on how many times she ended up here in this month alone – has stopped counting, to be honest, after the second or the third visit, realizing that it’s better if she doesn’t count her wounds. She limps past empty cots, making a beeline towards the glass cabinet at the end of the room.
The cabinet door creaks when she slides it open; the numerous glass bottles inside are clinking against each other; the smells of alcohol and iodine assault her nose. Áila looks around as best as her swollen eyes can see, where is it? Where is it? Until she finds the white first aid box perching on the top shelf – who in their right mind put that up there?
Grunting, she reaches up with a calculated movement. She hisses at the pull on her side, and at the soreness of her arm. Her fingers make contact with the box, and swiftly, she pulls it down. A victorious sigh escapes her lips as she cradles the box like it is a precious treasure. As much as she wants to savor her small victory, time is of the essence, her wounds require tending.
Like the many times she has done before, she takes a seat on the cot by a mirror; her reflection greets her, and the view makes her grimaces partially in terror. The Grandmaster is truly powerful… She contemplates while tracing the swelling of her left eye where he had elbowed her in their sparring, in which – like always – he did not hold back.
Áila runs her hands around her body, checking for more injury. Her left side is particularly aching, she can only wish she doesn’t have a cracked rib. The ripped sleeves of her uniform are stained with dots of dark red, and she can guess there are more cuts and grazes on her arms. She continues inspecting herself; undoing her belt so she can open the front of her uniform. Her torso looks fine, no signs of swelling or bruising – she quietly thanks her Viking blood for her durability. When she finds no other injuries, she begins to tend to her face.
By the Fire God, what am I doing here?
The question that Áila has recently been asking herself, because she honestly doesn’t know why. She could have stayed at the Wu Shi Academy, and she’ll learn just fine, perhaps better than here with the Lin Kuei. But the decision wasn’t hers to make, or as the Fire God Liu Kang would say, it is better for her in the long run. Right now, the only thing she becomes better at is being the Grandmaster’s personal training dummy.
At the thought of the stern Grandmaster, Áila feels her cheeks becoming warmer. Gods , never has she ever seen a person so dedicated in life, so disciplined and stoic. His demeanor fits his title so well, Sub-Zero, cold and – sadly – distant. Áila wonders if it’s all attributed to his real name.
Bi-Han. Cold wall.
Well, he is definitely cold, alright.
Áila uses a warm wet rag to clean up the cuts and the grazes, lips stifling a whimper. When they seem clean enough, she dries them off with another rag, creating dots of wet blood on the fabric, drying the excess wetness from her skin. Then she opens the first aid kit box, trembling fingers reaching for the bottle of iodine and a stack of gauze. She dabs the gauze with the iodine, and then she pauses, inhaling deeply because she knows the next part is going to hurt.
The iodine stings. It always does. But she continues, as there is no way she would back down. She reminds herself that with each open wound that she rubs with the iodine, she is getting closer to her warm bed that’s waiting in the sleeping quarters; a peaceful rest where she can dream about the good times she had at the Wu Shi Academy; about the warmer places with warmer people.
Finally, almost every inch of her has been covered in a thin layer of iodine. Áila casts the gauze aside to be thrown away, and opts to take the warm compress again to dab over her swollen eye. The heat soothes her ache, making her sigh in relief, tensed shoulders slumping to a relaxed state. For the moment, this is her haven; her own space to take care of herself; where she can be herself, far from the eyes of the other Lin Kuei and the Grandmast –
The sudden drop of temperature in the room startles her; eyes shoot open; she jumps down the cot – hissing in protest from how the sudden action causes a pull at her aching side – and out of habit, she turns to the source of the cold; hands clasped together and she bows despite not seeing the person she fears it to be. “Grandmaster!”
Though she can’t see his face, she knows his shoes from the many times she has seen them in her apologetic salutes. Sub-Zero stands still far away from her, but the chill in the air makes her skin crawl nonetheless.
“Áila.” The gruff call of her name makes her jump. “It’s past curfew.”
Áila lifts her head, a mistake, as she is now face to face with the mask-less Grandmaster. His usually furrowing eyebrows look rather relaxed, though still accompanied by the thin line of his lips. He is not dressed in his uniform, but rather a loose dark blue robe with a black string keeping it tied around his waist. The attire bares his usually covered neck and the top of his chest – Áila quickly responds before her wandering eyes are noticed, “A – Apologies, Grandmaster, I didn’t – uhm – I was cleaning my wounds – I could go now –”
Their eyes meet, and she is not sure if it’s a trick of the light or the truth, but she is certain that Sub-Zero has just flicked his gaze briefly to her chest – he raises an eyebrow. “I sincerely hope that is accidental, unless you think such shameless display would earn my sympathy.”
“Huh?” Áila looks down, and – OH SHIT – she is met by the sight of her bare, iodine-layered torso. Though her not-so-humble-sized breasts are covered by a white binder, the top parts are bulging out of the hellish containment device. She gasps, hand discarding the warm compress to quickly pull her uniform to a close, holding the fabric so tightly until her knuckles turn white. “Grandmaster, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t – I didn’t do it on purpose, I – I swear!”
Sub-Zero only hums, though the frown has returned to his forehead, and there is a slight pink at the tip of his nose. He clears his throat. “You should remain vigilant even among allies.”
“I will, Grandmaster. I’m… sorry.”
“What’s this?” He notices the warm compress she has thrown, and he bends down to take it off the floor. “Really? A warm compress for swelling?”
“It… soothes the ache.” Áila tries to defend herself.
“But it won’t make the swelling go down. Truly, can you do anything right?”
There it is, the cynical tone of his that renders her looking away as if it could alleviate the damage it has done to her psyche.
Sub-Zero sighs, “Sit down.”
Áila scrambles to the cot, never has she ever sat down so quickly in her life. She watches as Sub-Zero approaches and stands in front of her, so close that she can smell the faint fresh smell of soap from him, osmanthus mixing with his natural icy smell. She is not sure on where to look, so she opts to watch him take the bowl of hot water; how easily he makes frost blooms on the water, turning the steam into snowflakes.
He dips the rag into the bowl, and Áila watches partly with anxiety as he squeezes the excess water out. She has never seen his glove-less hand before, especially not from this close; how blue his vein looks under his skin; how thick and long his fingers are; how big his palm is, decorated with the callouses and old cuts. When he slightly lifts the sleeve of his robe, Áila’s breath hitches at the sight of his forearm, bare without the vambrace he usually wears.
“Look up.” Sub-Zero commands.
Doing as ordered, Áila is now looking at his face. Stern expression still graces his feature, but this time with a hint of gentleness especially in his eyes. She only admits internally that he is a beautiful man, though that secret may have been spilled with how flushed her cheeks are right now, and they only grow hotter when he holds her chin in one hand while pressing the cold compress on her swollen eye.
The icy temperature stings, making her winces in response. Sub-Zero grunts, “Bear with it.”
Áila closes her eyes, growing hot and cold at the same time. She tries to regulate her breathing, though a hitch comes now and then, and it gets difficult when her heart is running a marathon in her rib cage. She can feel the Grandmaster’s calloused fingers against her neck, pressing, keeping her steady. Her hands are still gripping at her uniform, now tighter than before, trying to keep herself grounded in the moment.
The cold compress is removed leaving wetness over her left eye. She jumps when she feels a soft fabric is pressing against her face, drying her skin. Curiously, her eyelids flutter open, and she swears her heart just does a somersault when she finds Sub-Zero leaning closer; his lips are parted and pursed a bit; and the next thing she feels is the cold air he blows to the left side of her face.
Áila can’t help the whimper that escapes her throat. While the action soothes the swelling, her brain can only focus on how close they are right now – she can clearly see the faint lines on his face, and the texture of his skin, and –
“Isn’t that better?” He asks in such a low tone akin to growling. The corner of his lips seemingly pulls up a bit. His gaze is piercing, amusement playing behind those browns, especially when he notices her lack of reply.
Áila wants to nod, but he still has her chin in a grip, so she chooses to answer with words, shaky and whispery. “Ye – Yes, Grandmaster…”
“I hope you learn a valuable lesson today. Hot compress is for soreness. Cold compress is for swelling. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
“Good. You finally had something right for once.” He stands up straighter and sighs. His grip on her chin loosens, though she can feel his fingers linger a second longer when he pulls away. “Clean up the mess before you leave.”
Sub-Zero walks away without a warning. The sudden loss of his presence startles Áila, and she copes with a deep breath, watching him crossing the room in a long stride; the tail of his dark blue robe swaying with the action; broad shoulders and strong hips moving with such commanding presence.
He stops at the door as if he can sense her stare, and he turns to her. There is an unreadable expression on his face, nose scrunching, top lip curling up almost like a snarl. Yet his words do not convey agitation, “Don’t stay up too late.”
Áila scrambles for an answer, “Tha – Thank you, Grandmaster, good night.”
He only hums before opening the door and taking his leave.
The temperature in the room gradually returns to normal. But it’s not the same with Áila’s racing heartbeat. Shakily touching her chin where she can still feel his fingers, how cold they were, and yet she found the sensation to her liking. Mind replaying the moment where his face was so close to her, with a look so predatory and playful compared to his usual stoicism, and his voice – oh Gods –
Her body calls for another need to be sated. With shaky limbs and scattered focus, Áila tidies up the room, eager to quickly leave the infirmary and back under the warm blanket of her bed.
Meanwhile, walking purposefully in the empty hallway, Bi-Han makes his way back to his chamber. Body tensing, fist clenching, silently cursing the predicament he is facing; how come he nearly loses himself so easily with such a shameless display? The image of Áila’s voluptuous body still lingers in his mind; the pinkish tint of her breasts; how they jiggled despite the restrain of the binder; and her face –
Bi-Han blames her. Ever since her arrival, she has been nothing but a thorn at his side, and now an aching in his pants. Hardness throbbing with want, imagination feeding his thirst; how good she must have looked underneath him, pinned between the cot and his cold body; how soft and warm her body would be.
At least for now, this longing shall remain his secret.