Author's Note: Hey all, here's the next installment of my White Rose fare.
This one-shot lies within the context of a larger story. Temple is the only other fic out right now that comes from the same AU. It is very, very challenging to write, especially considering how much it strays from canon characterization. Still, I hope they're recognizable.
I should say now that I don't plan to write the full story. I'd rather write one-shots that explain it, bits and pieces at a time.
UPDATE 6/3: I really hope this doesn't come off as trying way too hard to be edgy.
Please, tell me if it looks like it's trying way too hard to be edgy.
Ruby stretches every morning and evening to keep herself limber. The loosening of her joints is like oil in a machine; replenishing it, keeping it smooth and running. It comes as no surprise to her that unconsciously she thinks this way. She is a mechanic, and sees the world through the lens of machinery. It speaks to her in a practical language. Everything has a structure, a physical blueprint that maximizes its purpose.
In creation, nothing can be haphazardly considered. Ruby knows from experience and logic that one part out of place can turn the most intricate vision into a jammed and unpredictable mess. When something stops running, Ruby goes to investigate. She analyzes the object and concludes whether must be modified, rebuilt, or scrapped, and she focuses on the root of the malfunction. Precision is key.
Ruby can stare for hours at the world of circuits and gears inside metal casing. When shopping for home supplies she knows which choice of items are the most efficient, sound, and aesthetically accommodating. She does not, however, understand people. Not in the way her sister does. From when she was very little Ruby could tell Yang possessed an uncannily advanced ability to understand what other people feel. This was blessed with the addition of genuine care, bonding her exceptionally well to whom she was the closest. Ruby always had trouble with that, preferring to remain away from society for the company of quiet whirring clicks as she assembled under the soft glow of a lamp in the middle of the night. But she marvels at the anatomy of the human being, of the way organic material fitted together to create the greatest machine known to the world.
It gets her through mandatory social events. While her sister Yang would cheer amidst the crowd on a Friday night at the stadium or show a suspicious interest in swaying dancers from the safety of a dimly lit audience, Ruby studied how a person's form aids their function. Sports teams played under pounds of protective gear and the brimming energy that readied itself from intense personal training. Footwork on the stage demanded perfection of the relationship between rigor and elegance. And Ruby knows the tiniest slip of the bone, one nerve pinched a degree too far, could result in a horrifically damaged body.
As she exited her teen years she left behind her routine of dangerous escapades, limiting risks and rarely taking them too far. Due to her self-awareness, her unlucky tumbles eventually heal. Still, she comes across people who aren't so resilient. They are slaves to bad backs and joints that refuse to function, relying forever on wheelchairs and crutches and prosthetics made to support a crippled human being. It is one of the few things that make Ruby shudder.
She cannot help any of this. She is a mechanic. She sees the world through a mechanic's eyes. So when she walked into her dorm room one evening of her sophomore year, she could tell something was wrong with Weiss. It was normal for her to be tense and distant, something Ruby noticed at the beginning. But on that night Weiss had climbed unclothed into bed, and while they had planned this, she didn't look at Ruby. She had lain on her back, staring at the top bunk with her arms over her chest and a knee bent toward the ceiling. Her head rolled over to watch as Ruby hesitantly stepped forward. Weiss had cringed when Ruby stopped by the pillow, cringed because she wasn't sure she was doing it right. She spoke not sharply or defensively, but in a pained whisper that wanted Ruby's approval. And that's when Ruby knew something had happened to Weiss, and that all the oil in the world could never completely repair what was broken inside, the missing pieces and parts permanently bent from misuse.
She had not acted. She had bent down to the floor to pick up Weiss's pajamas. She passed them over, silently, their gazes on each other staying still. When Weiss took the bundle of fabric back into her fingers, her face had pinched. Her lips trembled. She dressed herself shamefully, facing the wall, and Ruby put the sheets over her when she was done.
The heiress is not as fragile as she thinks. Weiss is a miracle of a machine, functioning exceptionally well considering whatever assembled her. This, perhaps, is what really compels Ruby to adjust Weiss's body when she pinpoints the need. She leans in to pop a joint, loosen a muscle, and she can feel the tension release when Weiss goes limp on a soft surface. It's almost euphoric. To fix is in Ruby's nature, but it is also a desire when she sees Weiss in pain. She does not know how to say it, so she shows it. And every hum of contentment from Weiss afterward, each exhale from her smiling lips after a night of personal touches, makes the effort worth it.
Ruby does not know what happened to Weiss. But she knows Weiss doesn't work right, and that must be fixed with the greatest, most attentive care. Precision is key.