His knuckles were chapped. It wasn't the first thing she noticed about him – hardly. The scuffed boots; the baggy shirt; the long, rakish hair; the gleam, the danger, in his hawkish stare: those were the things the eye was drawn to. But when she had peeled away all of his armor, when she had kissed his skin raw and softened the steel edges of his eyes, she saw his hands.
One finger was blotched with bruises. Claire stood still for a moment, and then she peeled off one ratty motorcycle glove. Bender made a move to stop her, but she was too quick. Before he could take his hand from hers, she saw the long scar across his palm and the welts crisscrossing the back. His knuckles were a livid crimson. Mottled. Bruised.
"What happened?" she whispered. They stood so close that her breasts pushed into his rib cage as they breathed.
He pulled his hand into his chest. "Nothing."
Gently – so gently – Claire traced one finger across his hand. Another. And another. She curled her fingers softly around his and brought it to the warm flush of her chest.
"What happened?" she repeated.
He looked at her, and then away. She saw something bottomless, something wounded, in his eyes. It felt like a punch or a kick – no, what she imagined a punch or a kick might feel like.
"My father…" he started, then stopped. His voice was rough.
She waited. They breathed.
"My father is a real piece of shit," Bender finally said. His fingers curled into a fist.
A single delicate tear trailed down her chin and dropped soundlessly against his clenched fingers.
Claire leaned her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was fast; her face was warm. She thought she might have a fever.
Tenderly, she took his fist and smoothed out every angry tendon. She uncurled his fingers; she kissed each wounded knuckle in a row, then back again. She took the hurt and the pain – everything she could find – and kissed it, softened it. When she had finished, her lips felt raw.
Stillness tiptoed in. Claire hardly dared breathe.
And then, as he always did, Bender took the stillness and shattered it.
They had kissed impatiently before, but this - this was fierce. He kissed as if her lips were water and he was a man dying of thirst. His fingers cupped hungrily around her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders, trailing sparks all the way back up to bury themselves in her hair. He bent her backwards with his crushing want.
And she kissed back. She realized - somewhere in between the heat and the crush and the dizzying need - that she had never been kissed properly before.
They broke the surface with a gasp. Bender wound his arm around her waist and held her close. She pressed closer.
"When we go back to school Monday," she said raggedly, "and I see you in the hall, I'm going to kiss you just like this." His mouth opened, a skeptical smirk slipping across his lips, but she kissed him quiet. "You have to promise me something, though."
His gaze sharpened – but then his eyes flickered down to the motorcycle glove she still held. His face softened. "Sure."
Claire walked him slowly backwards – pressed him into the cinderblock wall. She tilted her head, smiled, and kissed him: so slowly, so strongly, that she felt that same deep want tremble inside her bones.
She put her hands on his shoulders – for balance; for desire. "You have to promise you'll kiss me back."
Bender looked at the tear glimmering on his wounded hand, then brought it up to brush a gingersnap curl out of her eyes. "I can do that."
Claire smiled.
He slanted closer.
And together they fell into the infinite warmth of want.
Just watched this movie for the very first time. I tell you, guys: I'm in love. :)