Smeller Bee's small body tucked in the curve of Long Shot. Burying her face against his chest, her tears smeared her facepaint.
Is it something I did? Long Shot's hands brushed through her hair. Did I hurt you?
She shook her head, but couldn't stop her body from heaving another sob. Clenching to him, her fingers digging into his back, red marks forming as the short nails slid on the skin. But all she felt were his hands caressing her head and the muscles in her arms tiring. "I can't," she gasped for air, "hold on any" gasp, "longer."
A series of sobs followed as her exhausted arms fell limp. But Long Shot's hands continued stroking her head. Then, a moment later, he was sitting up, her small form cradled in his arms, his face lowered so that his nose touched her forehead. You don't need to. I've got you.
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The first time had been forceful and passionate. Clothing had been thrown off carelessly. But now, almost shyly, Smeller Bee was unwrapping the forearm guards. The unwrapped portion was spooled as each round of his arm came undone, revealing the bubbled scars beneath. Her fingers ran over the uneven yet smooth skin that ran along the underside of his arm until the pads of her fingers touched the palm of his hand and he held it tightly.
Looking up, the back of her free hand grazed his cheek, brushing away the single tear that escaped his stoic expression. His hand mimicked the gesture and she leaned her cheek into the touch. It was the hand of an archer, power in each finger, yet the sensitivity to know the shift of a single heartbeat could change the course of an arrow.
"Sometimes I think I'm a terrible person." He brows raised in question, knowing she didn't really think of herself as a terrible person. "Sometimes I'm glad those horrible things happened. Because--"
His fingers held her lips. Looking into his eyes, she knew that yes, sometimes the scars were worth it.