Bruises
A/N: I don't...even...I'm not even gonna pretend I know where this came from, but the first line came into my head and it only seemed fitting that I should make it a Detentionaire fic, considering it's been on my mind lately. It's probably shitty and OOC and dramatic, considering I don't write for this fandom often. I did write one way back in like, 2013 or something, and I'm pretty sure Lee was running through the underground tunnels for part of it, maybe searching for Lynch? I dunno, it was like right after the episode where he discovers who RadCircles is, so I HAD to write something for it xD and there was a scene where somebody called him by his full name and his middle name was a Korean name that meant 'handsome god', because I'd found it somewhere and it was too good to pass up xD Lee handsome-god Ping. Oh, gosh. Anyway, so while I've written other stories for this show, I've never posted any of them. I think I also wrote a shitty first-person POV one-shot for the Serpent...? Mayyybe? And then there was one where Lee was receiving anonymous notes? I dunno who was sending them because I never finished it. Probably RadCircles, he's a jerk like that.
It's just a bruise, he says, and he smiles.
I walked into my bedroom door yesterday, he recounts, and it's a lie, and they both know it, and they both laugh.
It's no big deal, he insists, and he never stops smiling. When he thinks Biffy isn't looking – of course he is, this is Biffy, for crying out loud, and he's stealing glances every few seconds, eyes darting from Rumple's newest sweater to his fellow troublemaker and back again – when he thinks Biffy's not looking, he reaches up, movements slow and steady and casual, and he turns up his collar. Biffy watches as purple-blue truth disappears beneath rough, dark fabric.
Let's sync it up, Lee says and stands.
That's my line, Biffy argues.
See you later, Lee ends the conversation before it can begin again.
Biffy never asks, doesn't need to. He never brings it up again.
After all, it's just a bruise.
It's just a scratch, he says and he smiles.
Professional spying is a tough line of work, not all popularity and pretty girls, he jokes. He stands, gets up out of his seat and holds out his phone hopefully. Sync me up?
Biffy can read him like a book. He can see it, in the way he shifts his weight and his eyes dart around the room and look everywhere but at him, he can see it, he can read it. Kid's twitchy, nervous – dying to leave. You're taking my line again, Ping.
Start saying it first, he responds, and he leaves the room.
When the vent closes, Biffy looks out the window. Outside, the trees are bare, branches naked and ugly and brown; the grass is a carpet of fiery color below. The leaves are falling, Biffy thinks, and it's just a scratch.
It's just a bruise, he says, and he smiles.
When Biffy leans in for a closer look, he covers it up. When Biffy asks for the story, he stumbles; his mouth opens, closes; he bites down on his lower lip; he stammers something about a fifteenth grader.
Biffy doesn't need a map this time.
It's nothing, he says and he tries to smile; it doesn't come out looking right. Biffy knows it's a lie, and Lee knows; he looks away, and Biffy watches the smile fade.
He sits quietly at his desk, hands clasped upon the grooved, bumpy wood, and he awaits the arrival of Barrage.
Biffy wants to ask, but he can't find the words.
Lee draws in a breath; he's wearing long sleeves today, and he reaches to roll them up.
Biffy watches fiery pink welts come into view when his right sleeve goes up. Biffy finds the words. What's happened to your arm? It comes out accusing, and he knows it does. He wants to redo it or take it back; Lee's eyes snap up to his, and narrow slightly.
Nothing, he responds. I fell when I was getting dressed this morning – skinned up my arm. That's all. It's nothing. It looks like he's trying to smile again, and they've both forgotten how.
Floors can't leave fingerprints.
When he closes his eyes, he can see slim fingers fussing with dark green fabric; he can remember the purple-blue truth disappearing beneath it. He can see a carpet of fiery colors, and a scratch running down a brown cheek. He can see dark and exhausted eyes gazing hollowly back at him, see thin lips pulling into a tired, sad smile, can see blazing pink welts and floors that can't leave fingerprints. He can see torn skin; he can see blood.
You said it was just a bruise…