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It was a winter day in Piltover when Vi put on a record, turned her grey eyes towards Caitlyn, and said with a soft voice and quiet eyes, “dance with me.”
They were eyes that were always riotous with emotion - eyes that stalked her at times, engulfed her in others. Vi’s eyes were what Caitlyn thought of when she saw thunderstorms - bright and expressive when their wielder was feeling . Caitlyn thought of them, and thought of the hurt in them in that prison cell, derision in her pupils - the snideness that Vi treated her to when they first went to the undercity, the pain in them when she clutched her stomach and gasped out and was so un- Vi that Caitlyn had to do something, be someone she needed.
But they were quiet, now. Vi could afford to re-learn how to be soft, when all was said and done - when they both bore the scars that they’d earned in the war with Noxus. Caitlyn had a long road of rehabilitation ahead of her, of learning to work with half of her vision and to bend with half of her abdomen, and Vi had a lot to work on - a lot of demons to chase, a lot of trauma to work through, a lot of drink to leave behind.
They healed together, and the world healed around them. Caitlyn could throw a tennis ball and catch it, and Vi’s hands didn’t shake anymore from the abuse she’d put them through. The nerve damage in her pinkie fingers only occasionally flared up, and Caitlyn’s abdomen scar was knotted and raised skin that Vi’s lips knew the texture of.
They spent most evenings breathing each other in - exhausted from their healing. Vi was emotionally drained, laying everything out in front of a mental health professional until she felt hollow and exhausted and mellow. Caitlyn had sweat dried on her scalp from working herself until her muscles twitched, the rehab on her part involving a lot of crouching, bending, moving.
“You look hot when you do rehab,” Vi had complained once, “I’m all red-faced and snotty and you’re in stretchy pants.”
“You’re hot too,” Caitlyn argued, quietly, “you’re talking - about your past, about what you’ve been through. I’ve never felt closer to you.”
Vi hummed, resting her chin on Caitlyn’s head, pressing a kiss to her scalp.
They healed together quietly, indoors, where the outside world couldn’t pierce their walls. It was only when Caitlyn declined her third ball invitation - a fissure of anxiety about her eyepatch, her still aching muscles, that Vi decided that they’d had enough of the defenses - that hiding wasn’t something she wanted to do anymore.
“Dance with me,” Vi repeated, swaying to the music in their study. Caitlyn smiled at her from her curled up position in her favourite armchair, shook her head in amusement.
“Maybe some other time,” Caitlyn said, “Goeffery just proposed to Lilac.”
Vi’s flash of a smile was quick, ironic - the book was one she’d suggested because of how hapless the female lead was, all these men throwing themselves at her when she only had eyes for her knight. She’d read it, embarrassed and fascinated, and needed to talk to someone about it.
Specifically, she’d needed to talk to Caitlyn about it, so Caitlyn was working her way through.
But it was a different kind of wall, different shield. Vi knew that Caitlyn had danced at balls - that the Kiramman name had been expected to experience parties and high society and all the trappings.
Vi knew Caitlyn could dance, and heard the fear underneath her words as to what dancing entailed.
“Great stopping point, then,” Vi said, holding out her hand. “One dance, Cait.”
Caitlyn watched her, set the book down, and rose to take her hand.
Vi pulled Caitlyn close immediately in a way she knew Caitlyn loved - the quick jerk of bodies that reminded Caitlyn of how strong she was, how steady. She slid a hand around the small of Caitlyn’s back, entwined their fingers with her free hand, and began to move around the room - fighter’s grace on her toes. Caitlyn kept up okay, but her movements were stiff, her head continually tilting to the left to see on that side of her body.
But slowly, surely, the stiffness melted. Caitlyn’s hand on Vi’s shoulder slid to play with the tresses of Vi’s long hair, fingers working their way through it in a way that made Vi’s scalp tingle, her spine quiver. Their movements slowed into a quiet waltz, their limbs slowing so that they were cuddling more than dancing as they moved.
“What do you call this one in Zaun?” Caitlyn asked, clearing her throat.
“Nothing,” Vi said, “I’m making it up. Good?”
Caitlyn pressed her cheek to Vi’s shoulder, rubbed her nose along Vi’s jaw. “Good,” she breathed, and Vi smiled, twisted to kiss her temple.
The dancing became swaying, holding one another in the firelight while the winter storm raged. The swaying became hands skating up and down one another, comforting, lingering touches that added to the warmth. Caitlyn’s defenses laid bare where Vi was concerned, being held in the firelight and having an anchor to hold her.
“You’re not clumsy,” Vi said, “you’re not stiff with me. You’re gorgeous, Cait.”
Caitlyn pressed her lips to Vi’s neck.
“Thank you,” she said, soft.