Work Text:
The smell of burnt flesh perforated the room.
“Thanks, Mick,” Sara muttered to herself.
Jaw clenched, she held the cool rag to the ruined skin of her arm soaking the fabric of the shirt melted to her arm. The cold touch of the cloth did nothing to stop the constant burning of the seared nerve endings. Tossing the rag away, she reached for a small knife on her desk and quickly cut through the sleeve of her sweater near the stitching of the shoulder. The fabric drooped and caught where it was fused to her skin. She paused when her door opened.
“Get out.”
“Let’s not get hostile now.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Leonard leaning against the doorway. His casual stance was betrayed by the intense expression on his face.
“I might not like you, but no one should have to peel their own burnt skin off.”
He pushed off the wall and strode toward her.
“I don’t need your help.”
“It’ll scar worse if you don’t scrub it.”
“One more for the collection.”
Ignoring her wishes, he reached for the rag and replaced it on the melted fabric. Snart rested a hip on the desk beside him, plucked the knife from her hand, and began to cut away the excessive edges of her sleeve. When fabric melted to flesh, it wasn’t like a bandaid you could rip off. The fabric had to be removed slowly so that less skin was damaged in the process. Silence reigned as Snart slowly made progress detaching her sleeve from her body.
“I suppose a thank you is in order.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked anyone for ripping skin off my body,” Snart drawled, deflecting as always.
Sara rolled her eyes and huffed, “you know what I meant.”
She peaked up at him through her lashes.
He was already looking.
Sara would never admit that she liked his eyes. Intense, piercing, the color of the element he favored. Currently not as cold as others might claim.
She tried to remember if this was the first time he had touched her skin with no barriers between them. Or at all, really. He tended to avoid physical contact if he could help it, opting to stand just within her personal space instead. Yet, he allowed her to hold onto his arm and rest her head on his shoulder just a couple hours ago. He gave her his jacket as they were freezing. As they thought they were dying. She tried to focus on the feeling of the hand braced just above her elbow. The one that wasn’t currently pulling the charred sleeve off. His grip was gentle, and his hand was large enough that his fingers wrapped all the way around her arm. Occasionally, his thumb brushed up the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm.
She wondered if he knew he was doing it.
He did.