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People say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Yang thinks her hands are.
Even before it was obvious, even before anyone could take one look at her hands and read one sort of a story in the pair (flesh-and-metal, paint-and-skin twinned), there were stories to be seen in them. Aura vanishes some wounds, but not all.
Her Aura couldn't erase the scar she got at fourteen, when an Ursa caught Ruby off-guard in the woods and she flung herself in front, uppercut its jaw so hard she shattered its teeth. It took her till the fight was over to notice how badly her knuckles were bleeding. It's one of many stories that can't be read on her skin anymore. Her right hand always has thrown the first punch.
But if someone looks closely, they could still see the index finger on her left is set slightly crooked. Some kids picked on Ruby when she started second grade. Yang confronted them after, nine years old and barely knowing what Aura meant yet. She wonders if the one kid's nose set straighter than her finger did.
Then there were the gloves, and Ember Celica proud on her wrists, and anyone could look at her and read. Fighter, brawler, punches first, asks questions later.
And now, her right hand, and even if they didn't know her before, don't know if it's a battle wound or just the way she was born, she knows people guess. Knows they wonder and assume a dozen things. And for the people who do know, it'll always mean the Fall of Beacon, always mean Adam Taurus and Blake, Blake, Blake, always mean Yang fought, Yang loved, Yang threw herself in front of somebody. Like so many times. Like always.
And the metal hand, too, has its share of scars. Chips in the paint, gouges in the metal, the slight difference of newer parts. The times it sticks, the times it was stolen, the precise tools she carries now, in her overall pockets, adjustments and maintenance.
Her hands say she's a fighter. They always have, flesh and metal, and the times she doesn't wear her prosthesis, her residual limb says it instead, just by existing.
Her hands say she fought, she hurt, she protected people. Phantom pain chases itself down nerves that aren't there anymore and she thinks Blake. Index finger bends slightly leftward and she thinks Ruby. She raises her fists, Ember Celica fires, flesh and metal hit flesh and bone, and she thinks Ruby, Blake, Weiss, Jaune, Ren, Oscar, Nora, Dad. A hundred others.
Fighting, protection, that's what her hands say, that's what people see.
Except when it's worse.
“You're so strong,” someone stops in the Vacuo streets to tell her, mouth twisting in sickly-sweet sympathy, eyes on the metal of her hand. “I'd hate to lose a limb.”
Yang's mid-laugh, Blake leaning into her, and she wonders what about this made them look and think pity.
“Telling me you'd hate to have my life isn't a compliment,” she says, steady like her heart's not battering at her, like red's not creeping behind her eyes. “But if you want to know how strong I am, I'm happy to give you a demonstration.”
She curls the fist they're sorry about, and they half-run away. Yang swallows fury down behind her teeth. Blake lifts her right hand to her lips, presses a kiss to metal knuckles. Yang feels the faint change in pressure like Blake reached through her ribs and cradled her heart.
Truth is, she is strong, but not the way they said it. Not strong like what a burden this body is to carry. Not strong like I can bear it only because I'm stoic and don't feel. The biggest strength existing in her body takes is the strength to deal with their kind of fucking ignorance.
Most people aren't like them, the worst of them. Even if they think it, they don't say it out loud.
But even the best of them still only see fierce. Fighter. Protector. Someone you don't fuck with.
And all those things are true, it's just...
“How did you get this?” Blake asks, lying against her chest, Yang's left arm around her. She's looking at the hand that rests on her side, fingers splayed by the scar knotted on her stomach. She's tracing Yang's hand with her own when she finds it, the faded burn on her palm. Turns their linked fingers palm up.
Yang looks at the scar she's asking about, the blotch of paler skin.
She half-laughs. “Don't let five-year-olds cook.”
Blake twists to look her in the face, a small furrow between her brows. Like she heard the strain behind the laughter.
Yang sighs. “I told you how after Mom died, Dad wasn't really... there. Some days it was worse than others. Most days he managed to cook, at least, or Qrow got something, or someone in the village would. But some days...” She curls her fingers tighter, careful not to crush Blake's in them, just needing a way to grip, to hold on. “Well. Ruby had to eat.”
“Yang.”
Yang smiles, and this time, it only half-hurts. “She's my sister. I'd do it again.”
“You shouldn't have had to.”
It's an unavoidable truth, but so is the other. That Yang would've done it a hundred times, all of it, tried to teach herself to cook, stroked Ruby's hair when she'd had a nightmare, turned the pages of books she was still learning to read so that her sister would get to hear stories. Older, would've dug in the garden for hours to make sure they still had sunflowers, and fixed the broken cupboard door, and braided Jaune's hair when he felt homesick, and drawn her past in chalk to help Blake understand, and held Weiss close when they reunited, and Blake when they killed Adam, and Ruby when she cried about Mom.
She would do everything, all the things she shouldn't have had to do, and all the things she wanted to, and everything in-between, because so many things were some of both, after all.
Because Yang takes care. Or want to, tries to, strives to. She's never thought she did it well enough, but she's tried, and not just by fighting.
She squeezes Blake's hand, not holding on for dear life this time, just holding her.
“I know, but... if I hadn't had to, I think I'd still have wanted to. It would've made a difference, if I could've learned older. Could've made it a choice, not just a necessity. But I'd still want to do those things. You know. Take care of people. Because...”
“Because it's how you love.” Blake lifts their tangled hands to her lips, kisses the back of Yang's.
Yang's breath trips over itself, and it's not the kiss, not entirely, even if Blake's touch still takes her breath away. It's the words, more than anything, the understanding in them. “Yeah,” she says, and she feels knocked dizzy by it. Because no one has ever quite said that before. No one has ever quite understood.
“You sound surprised,” Blake observes, and her cat ears twitch, droop at the edges. “I'm sorry if... that's not what you meant. If I cut you off.”
Yang shakes her head. “I'm just... I'm surprised you think that, I guess. Most people think... most people think fighting's how I show love.” She bites the inside of her cheek, thinks through the words, the feeling. “And it is. But not the only way. I want... I like being... I don't know... soft. Too.”
There's heat in her face. She's not sure how to phrase it, how to ask for understanding. It still feels like too much, sometimes, being earnest. Like here's where there should be a joke, something to lighten the mood, something that fits how people see her. I'm Yang, let's fight.
But Blake smiles like she understands. “I know.” A blush touches her cheeks, and she plays with Yang's fingers, traces the burn scar on her palm. “There's something that I do, when I meet someone. I started it by accident, and it just... it helped me make sense of the world. Of people around me.” She bites her lip, caught now like Yang was, in the pauses, the phrasing of a truth. “I ascribe them a word. Something they personify. And sometimes, those words change, as I learn something new.”
“So what am I?” Yang asks, tries to sound light, nerves creeping up her throat.
“Strength,” Blake says. “Right from the start. And it's still true. But I think you're another word, too.”
Yang swallows, can't bear the pause. Her skin's raw. Everything's too earnest. “Cool?” she offers, flippant. “Badass? Handsome? Outrageously sexy?”
Blake grins and nudges her. “All of the above, but no. I was going to say... I was going to say tenderness.”
Yang swallows again, around the lump that's risen in her throat, because she's not sure anyone else has ever seen it, the other half of what she tries to offer, what she tries to be.
Strength, protection, fighting.
Softness, care, tenderness.
Both of them written in her hands, in her soul.
“Is that... okay?” Blake asks, concern in her eyes as tears burn Yang's, and Yang can't answer. Kisses her instead, winds scarred, calloused flesh fingers through soft black hair, lets scuffed metal ones curl around her shoulder.
What a thing it is, she thinks, what a terrifying, beautiful thing. To find the person who understands your soul, and doesn't even need the windows.
She curls her fingers a little tighter, holds Blake close. Like protection. Like tenderness.