Prompt No.11
Word count: ~1185
Universe: Breath of the Wild
Pairings: Early Zelink
Rating: K
Themes: Needles, sutures/stitches, scars

Stitches

Link moved with such calm precision it was sort of mesmerizing. Every motion was confident and practiced, not unlike it had been when he rescued her from the Yiga a few weeks earlier. The wound stretched red and gaping from his throat to his rib, and he already had his shirt off, the lesion disinfected and dried, and the needle threaded and hanging from his teeth as he deftly knotted the end.

But it wasn't the easiest maneuver, trying to give himself stitches with his nondominant hand to mend a wound he largely couldn't see. Still, it had to be done, and he didn't hesitate, starting at the jagged tip that crossed his rib. He pierced himself with the needle and she grimaced. He hardly reacted at all; it was only on account of their constant traveling together that she even noticed the slightly fuller breath he loosed out his nose, the way his eyes darkened to mask the discomfort stirring within.

Soon he had to go by feel, and the thread went crooked. Zelda scooted forward, hands trembling, and reached to take the needle.

"Let me."

He stopped, looking mortified, the thread hanging awkwardly out of his chest.

He opened his mouth briefly to object, but then snapped it shut. If he didn't already know she was the more stubborn of the two of them he was a fool. And wasn't this exactly the sort of thing she'd been suggesting recently? Something beyond merely tolerating their arrangement? Learning to appreciate one another's strengths, cooperating? A partnership?

She pinched the needle and he relented, his lips tugging down gently. She could tell his frown had less to do with her lack of experience and more to do with the task being beneath her; but she also knew he was conditioned to follow her lead in certain areas, and the precarious, morphing nature of their relationship was definitely one of them.

She settled a little closer, bracing one hand on his bare shoulder as she mentally prepared herself to sew his skin shut. She tried not to focus on the smooth muscle that made up the planes of his chest, so much firmer under her touch than she had imagined—not that she had imagined, certainly, but it was… distracting…

She cleared her throat and got started.

She brought the needle to bear on the edge of the wound, brow furrowed with concentration. She had never, ever done something this grisly in her life. But she was a scientist—which, in addition to making her adept at trying new things, also made her acutely aware of the fact that this cave they had happened upon was hardly a sterile environment—and she had fashioned the very tunic he had cast off earlier herself, so she was at least capable of mending in a straight line.

She took a shaky breath, the needle trembling in her hand, and insisted, "Tell me if I hurt you."

"You'll do fine," he murmured, lips moving gently towards one of those small, crooked half-smiles he had taken to wearing since she decided not to hate him, the ones that made her shoulders ease and her face warm and that she constantly caught herself fixating on because it was still so new and rare and absolutely fascinating to see any emotion on his face at all—

She dipped the needle into his flesh and started threading, the task before her suddenly a welcome distraction. He relaxed after the first few strokes, closing his eyes when she found a rhythm. She was halfway done when it occurred to her she might not be doing it right, that it might leave a scar, and worried for a split second that he might not like it—but one glance at the rest of him allayed those fears. He was riddled with scars already. He probably wouldn't mind one more.

She finished the suture, running her fingertips over her handiwork to ensure it was relatively even. She could already picture what it would look like, if it didn't set right, amidst the rest of the scars, all raised and sunken and pale, like puzzle pieces all over him.

One cut like a crescent moon over his left breast. Another streaked brilliantly down the inside of his arm. He had a mark straight across the side of his neck, like someone had tried to take his head off. There were jagged, milky tears over his ribs, where it looked as though an animal or something worse had sunk hooked teeth into him and ripped as much loose as it could.

She realized she had been staring for a while, and the bemused look he was giving her when she met his eyes suggested he had noticed.

He asked, quietly, "What is it?"

"I was thinking it might leave a scar," she sidestepped deftly, and he nodded, wearing that muted half-smile again.

"I have a lot of those."

She tilted her head at him, letting her eyes wander briefly down the crisscrossing marks and lines etched over his torso. "How did you get them?"

He shrugged, and then his mouth twisted gently when he saw she wouldn't be deterred. "Which one?"

She gestured along her neck, where the thin, perfectly straight line cut like a falling star. "What about there?"

"Grazed by an arrow," he remembered, and then smirked wryly. "That was clumsy of me."

"What about on your arm?" she asked. "That line on the inside."

He turned it over to look. It started clear above his elbow and ended near his wrist.

"Climbing. I lost my grip and scraped along a jagged edge looking for a hold."

"Climbing where?"

"The Dueling Peaks."

She puffed a breathless, incredulous laugh. "Of course. The Dueling Peaks. Did you just cast your gaze to the horizon one day, pick the most ridiculous looking cliff in the distance, and go tearing after it?"

He tipped his head back against the wall of the cave and smirked. "Yep."

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow and moved on, gesturing again. "That one?"

"Training accident."

"Here?"

"Taming a wild horse."

"What about this one?" she asked, absently tracing the angry marked that curved around his shoulder and tapered into his bicep.

When he didn't answer right away she froze, hyperaware of her fingertips lingering on the scar but too startled at her own impudence to pull away. But when she went to meet his gaze, wide-eyed, the half-smile was gone.

All he said was, "Combat."

Her brow furrowed. She glanced at the angry curve again, the way it raised and puckered less stark than most of the others. It was fresher. She swallowed, tracing the crescent on his breast, still pink with new tissue.

"This one?"

"Combat."

Then she ran her fingers again over the sutures she had just knotted, meeting his gaze. "This one?"

His eyes were like ice. "Combat."

And the scars looked different to her then.

Because suddenly she could clearly see the difference between the ones he had gotten from his life before, and the ones he had gotten for her.