Work Text:
When she kisses you-an official kiss-your hands are unguarded.
Hands, you learned at an early age, were vulnerable. Broken fingernails meant that you couldn't work or prove your worth which meant no food which meant no money. A tremor in both of them meant you were a child trying to play at the big kid's table. Missing one was a cool story to tell; missing both meant you were the dumbs who can't wipe your own ass. Hands became fists or claws, can punch and slap and shove and pierce, can hold the answer to the world or the detonation button.
You realize your hands will never be as quick and clever to build like Jinx. No, you can use them to protect her (or at least try to). If they're not in your pocket, guarded, they're in a fist. Or fiddling with something.
But, this time, they're buried in the thin and soft strands of Caitlyn who kisses so sweetly. She doesn't taste like cupcakes, but of that black tea she always drinks-earthy and cool and so, so good. Its like you are finally unclenching for the first time you left prison. Its like you are being led into a warm bed where the ceiling above you won't leak.
You wonder if Caitlyn understands how precious this is, your rough hands learning how to soften. As they cradle her angular face and smooth out the dark circles under her eyes, as they become familiar with the long stretch of her nose and the back of her neck. Her hands are not soft either-calloused from handling so many guns. Its a little hot, thinking of the perfect Piltover girl handling guns.
You want this moment to last as long as it should.
Instead, in the next couple of hours, you wrap them in white bandages and stain them with red.