Work Text:
In retrospect, maybe it wasn't her greatest idea to fight back.
…Not that she has many ideas in general, ever, but that's beside the point.
As Stelle clambered back aboard the Express, she neglected to take into account more than one thing.
One: she's left a blood trail that Pop-Pom will no doubt question and scold her for in the morning.
Two: she didn't notice the figure in the party car before it was too late and then there was sound, oh god the sounds hurt. Then there's rushed footsteps, a squeaky chair being released, and someone taking her arm and slinging it over their shoulder.
“What in the name of Akivili happened to you?” March frantically asked, so very unlike her usual self. Seeing Stelle was always an endeavor, especially for her heart—seeing her covered in unidentified blood and cuts had made it nearly stop entirely.
Stelle didn't bother answering. The hand she's had glued to her abdomen is taking all of her focus, but March doesn't seem to mind as she carefully guides them up the stairs and into Stelle’s bathroom. The second the light flicked on, the grey hair groaned and March flinched at how pained it sounded.
“Come on, sit down for me.” March gently guided her until she sat on the floor in a literal bloody mess. Her wounds are still actively bleeding, albeit sluggishly, and she's somehow lost her jacket, leaving her in nothing but her baggy pants and a t-shirt that has more slashes than fabric in it at this point.
“March,” Stelle lulled, her tongue getting caught in her throat as she tried to pronounce the name. Breathing is not her forte, not now.
“For once, I mean it. Don't talk,” March hushed, prying Stelle’s hand from one of the plethora of wounds. Blood spurts from it and dribbles down, merging with the stains that have long since dried. The smell alone nearly makes her gag.
Iron, trash, and…oddly enough, smoke. It's grimy and grotesque and Stelle still looks like an angel. Her angel.
Beaten, bleeding, bruised.
But not broken.
March murmured to herself that she'd replace this shirt before ripping it for better access to Stelle’s chest. Her legs worked, considering they carried her back to the Express, so she could only assume that the major injuries were on her upper body. She was right.
A deep, gnarly gash is what Stelle’s hand was covering—jagged and ugly, running from the jut of her hip to just beneath her boob. Another, that almost looked like a gunshot, on her shoulder. Her knuckles are bruised and her bottom lip is busted.
It isn't the first time March has patched her up and it certainly won't be the last.
But it is the first time they haven't been in the fight together.
The feeling alone that she got from realizing that nauseated her to no end. She blamed it on the smell.
Cabinets slammed and drawers groaned as March rummaged through all of them like a trained medic. Stelle doesn't see the point in medicine, medical procedures, or even basic bandages—it's a miracle she's survived this long, honestly—so March was always the one stocking her bathroom with even the tiniest pile of bandaids in case she ever needed one.
In this case, it's an obscene amount of rubbing alcohol.
“This'll hurt, I'm sorry,” March cooed. It's never been this bad before. She expected Stelle to grab a hold of the edge of the tub, the rug beneath her, maybe even ball her fists.
As soon as the first drop of alcohol hit the wound, Stelle grabbed March. The hand she was using to pour the bottle, specifically. But she didn't push her away, she didn't even squeeze. She simply groaned, threw her head back against the tub's wall, and gingerly settled her fingers around March’s wrist, almost as if encouraging her to continue.
Shamefully, March’s focus momentarily slipped. Not because there's now blood she has to get out of her pajama shirt, but because even when she's dying, she's gentle with her. Harsh and headstrong Stelle never could figure out how to be anything but a willing and caring fool around her archer. Because there's a blush burning March’s ears and it looks awfully similar to the blood she's trying to subdue. Shameful.
“Just a little more, promise,” March said, her voice low as she moved to the other wound. Given Stelle’s incredible constitution, she usually bounces back quickly. But that doesn't mean she's getting off the hook.
Once the bleeding stopped, March huffed a small puff of relief. Stelle’s head was still thrown back as her chest heaved in exertion, but her hand did not leave March. In fact, her thumb shook with featherlight touches as it stroke the heartbeat it found.
March gulped hard. “I need to grab a washcloth.”
Stelle didn't let go.
Hesitating, March waited until Stelle’s trembling ceased. She got comfortable on her knees, kneeling—embarrassingly—and straddling Stelle’s thigh. Just…one. She hadn't even realized she was that close.
It's minutes before Stelle finally stills. March takes that as a sign to squirm her way from the hold and run warm water.
“Thank you.”
March’s head spun to the voice, unsure if she heard it correctly or not. It was faint, raspy, and unmistakably attractive.
“It's what friends do, stupid.” As scary and disappointed as she attempted to be, her words only invoked a smile from the grey-hair. Lazy as it was, it still held traces of her usual spark.
“Friends,” Stelle said, clearer now.
With a bowl of warm water and a washcloth, she settled back on the floor, this time between Stelle’s legs rather than on one. She endeavored to ignore the way Stelle’s bleary gaze bored through her with an intensity that always caused her to feel naked. She isn't the one missing a shirt and yet.
“Would you rather I call us companions?” March asked, tenderly scrubbing at the darker blood stains in hopes of lifting them. “It sounds formal.”
Stelle’s head weakly lulled back and forth, which could only mean no. “Best friends,” she grunted.
March couldn't help but smile at that. She's beginning to see more skin by the second. “It's what best friends do,” she corrected.
Satisfied, Stelle’s head rested against the tub while March cleaned her the best she could without a shower. It’s a long moment of nothing but the sound of a washcloth being wrung and March’s tiny grunts when the blood refuses to come off.
“...What happened?” March asked again, quieter, haunted. Terrified of which answer she’ll give this time. Her scrubbing turned to cleaning and now is a subtle wipe, ensuring that everything is at least free of blood and grime.
“Typical bad guys. I roughed ‘em up real good,” Stelle replied, raising her arm in an attempt to flex. She only half succeeded.
It's a shame she didn't lift her head. The disappointment on March’s face is probably why she didn't.
Instead, March poked at a bruise and received a yelp. Not pained—she'd never dare hurt Stelle, not when she knows how she handles pain—but surprised. Her head finally lifts and amber eyes are nothing but overcast.
They stare at each other for a beat—then another, and then Stelle finally exhales.
“They recognized me from somewhere,” Stelle said, swallowing after. March’s eyes intently tracked the movement before returning to scrubbing. “From my Stellaron Hunter days, I think.”
“You don't even have those memories,” March murmured.
After the chapter with Constance, Stelle had sat March down and told her everything. From the memory erasure to meaning so much to Firefly, and Kafka having treated her with such kindness? There wasn't a world where she wasn't something to them, hunter or not.
“They didn't believe me when I told them that,” Stelle chuckled, wincing immediately after.
March sighed and wrung the washcloth again, then folded it on the side of the tub. She doesn't say a word as she cinches the gash shut as best she can with the steri-strips. Stelle heals quicker than the average human (considering she probably isn't one, not entirely), so they'll suffice until morning when March can ask Himeko for something better and then lie her ass off when asked why, even if Himeko is beyond aware. That woman knows everything that goes on with them.
“Can you stand?”
Stelle grunts. “Leave me on the floor.”
“No?” March scoffed as she bit back a smile. “You should take your pants off. They're covered in blood.”
“Take me on a date first.” Stelle lulled her head and grinned, earning another disbelieving sound from the pink-hair. Even so, she gave her best effort in raising her hips so March could do the rest.
With bloodied (and completely torn, ruined, et cetera) clothes in a messy pile, March stood and opened the door so Stelle could beeline for her bed. She crouched beside her, a wordless invitation for assistance.
Wordless, because March is a little frustrated knowing Stelle wouldn't have come to her had she not been caught, and because they've known one another so long they don't really require speech to communicate. It's a relief, really—to be able to touch one another and know? To share a thought simply with eye contact?
Even if she's irritated, she is entirely, ashamedly, and irrevocably turned on. Aeons forbid this woman ever skips any day that involves physical exertion.
Stelle stands mostly on her own and with the aid of the bathtub, but stumbles right into March when she attempts to walk, which gives her a crutch the whole way to her bed. When she's on her back, March tucks her in.
“Thank you,” Stelle repeats with half-lidded eyes. The adrenaline has all but faded.
March shakes her head. “Best friends, idiot.”
A tired smile. Then, that same shaky hand around March’s wrist.
“Can my best friend stay for the night?”
Stelle has never sounded afraid before a fight of any caliber—not the way she sounds now, before March, smaller than a mouse. Terrified not of a no, but of a yes. Of further vulnerability despite having years of it thus far. Years of tending wounds, of cradling wrists, of discovering themselves anew.
With a blood stain on her pajama shirt and a stricken beating in her chest, March stutters and forgets herself entirely. Not out of disgust or otherwise, but of unyielding shock at how deeply she wanted nothing more than to say yes.
“...Move over.”
There'll be hell to pay in the morning—for the blood trail leading straight to them, to the blushing confusion of one early rising Dan Heng when he barges in shouting if Stelle is alright, and the wrath of Pom-Pom coming down upon them (which will involve making them scrub the carpet).
But…with March’s head on Stelle’s chest, body heat mingling and limbs thrown wherever they can find space? Stelle would get into a thousand and one fights if it meant waking up like that.
Maybe it was a good idea after all.