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The water is warm against her skin, comforting in the absence of arms to hold her. She had those, once– had arms to envelope her, had them quite recently, in fact. It’s funny, in a sad way, how the world wants to keep just… beating down on her.
She had parents, and then she didn’t; she had a family, and then she didn’t; she had love, and then she didn’t. She should’ve known, really– should’ve known that Vander would be as fleeting as he was in her youth, that her sister would spiral with the death of both their father and Isha. How cruel must that be? To lose two people you love to the same thing?
(Vi thinks of the bridge, of her parent’s dead bodies laid out on the floor, her mother’s eyes wide open– she wonders if anyone had closed them for her. She didn’t stay long enough to see, and she doesn’t think Vander went back to give them a ‘proper send-off’ to the pits of the River Pilt.
Vi thinks of the old cannery, of Mylo and Claggor; thinks of an explosion, of Vander.
She thinks of the fight months ago– of pure rage coursing through her body, of grief long buried; thinks of a finger seemingly evaporating out of thin air, a bullet coming so close to her face. Vi thinks of the aftermath, thinks of, It’s her blood in your veins ; thinks of how a gentle– by Vi’s standards, at least –hit of Caitlyn’s rifle butt into her side hurt so bad, how it sent her onto her knees and sprung tears to her eyes–
And she understands. She understands exactly how it feels.)
The water was clear, slowly muddying with the dirt and grime coming off of her; she cards her fingers through the water, lifts her (bare) hand out of the water and watches the way it slips through her fingers. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend like she’s back in Zaun, back in her shitty apartment in cold water that would never heat no matter how hard she tried. Her fingers itch, curling around water and nothing else– the past few days had been hectic, so she had figured the way her body shook, the way her head throbbed behind her eyes, the general mind fog, was due to a plethora of other issues.
She knows, now, that it was none of that– it’s withdrawal. She feels it especially then, sitting in a far-too fancy tub, body soaking in hot water to ease her aches (but burns against the wound on her chest), head back and eyes closed– she feels the need to find one of those bottles stashed under her bed, take the cap off, drink until the mind fog clears and makes her feel as normal as possible again.
In due time, she supposes, opening her eyes to stare up at the ceiling. It drags her out of the fantasy– of the nightmare. It ruins the illusion, breaks the immersion; She finds it hard to wallow all that much when she remembers she isn’t in that shit hole anymore.
It’s incredibly easy, however, to wince at the phantom feeling of a rifle slamming into her side, a reminder of why she was there to begin with. She wonders if the Kirammans keep their liquor cabinet locked up, headache getting worse the longer she goes without. She wonders, too, if they would notice a whole bottle missing. She figures they would, but then again, they have more money than Vi could ever imagine– what’s a missing bottle? It’s for a good cause, Vi huffs to herself, she thinks she deserves a drink after everything with… with Vander, and Isha, and that commune.
Several drinks, then. One for each thing she had taken on the chin. Including the wound across her sternum– the one hastily stitched up before they had made their way to the Kiramman mansion.
(She wonders if her sister is still there– she wouldn’t hold it against her if she wasn’t, but Vi… Vi doesn’t want to think about being away from her after what happened. Vander’s dead– again, they had to watch him die again –and so is Isha, and they… only have each other, now.)
She sighs, tuning back into reality to ground her– to hopefully distract for the sudden bout of chills she got, despite the scalding water.
“–love you,” A voice says from beyond the bathroom door, a vaguely familiar lilting accent. She hears shuffling, hears the thud of boots against wood.
“And I’m sorry,” the other voice– distinct, sweet, hard, Caitlyn –responds, quickly followed by the sound of a door creaking out. “Things are different, now.”
There’s a silence, a one that seems to drag on– and all it does is make Vi feel sick.
“That’s it?” The first voice– that girl enforcer, she remembers, Nolan? –asks, sounding only a little desperate, a little angry. “She comes back and that’s it?”
“Things are–”
Vi slides down the tub, sinks her head under the water to block out the rest of the conversation. She doesn’t want to listen, doesn’t want to hear, can’t bring herself to listen as she gets talked about as if she isn’t ten feet away from them– separated only by a door. She holds her breath and keeps her eyes open, and she wonders how long it’ll take for her to drown. She can’t exactly find it in herself to care if she does–
But then she thinks of Jinx, of her sister who is somewhere in the mansion (at Vi’s desperate request, and Caitlyn’s mercy– a lot has changed in six months, and Vi likes to think Caitlyn has witnessed the humanity in Jinx while she was with them and Vander), and she kept help but… hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, where she and Jinx are on better terms– sisters, again. For real, this time, not just a flimsy promise while tied up in a broken down cannery.
Sisters, like they used to be.
She pushes her head out of the water, gasping for air, only then realizing how long she had been holding her breath. Her hair, still slick and stained with oil, sticks to her face– and, judging by the way it drips black into the water, probably smears on her face too. She brings her hands up, pushes her hair up and out of her face, slicking it back completely. She lets her hands rest on the edge of the tub– and she looks at them, then. Jagged scars run up from her fingertips, ending just above her elbow; a consequence of her fight with Jinx, when the gauntlets started to malfunction. The hexcore’s lightning seared into her skin, burning it, running jagged and cracked lines up her already scar-marked skin. It’s easy to miss the cigarette burns on her hands, her fingers, now.
She isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing– the absence of a reminder of Stillwater, or the reminder of her trying to kill her sister.
Her fingers curl around the edge of the tub, she closes her eyes– and the sight that meets her in the darkness is Vander, her mother, smiling at her benevolently. Her mother, bringing her hand up to the side of her head in the shape of bunny ears, wiggles her fingers–
“Sorry,” Caitlyn breathes out, door clicking shut behind her. Vi doesn’t open her eyes, just listens to the way Caitlyn advances towards the tub carefully, gently, almost as if she were afraid to spook her. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.”
“No worries,” Vi replies, voice barely above a murmur, fingers digging in so hard against the porcelain it begins to hurt. “I only waited six months, no big deal, cupcake.”
Her head rolls to the side, eyes cracking open– because she wants to see Caitlyn’s face when she says it, wants to watch the guilt, the sadness. Is that bad? She doesn’t care, quite frankly– she thinks she has the right to be a bit of a bitch.
(The rifle slams into her side– it doesn’t hurt, Caitlyn never had a heavy hand when it came to fighting, but the pain is there nonetheless. She steps back, thrown off balance, falls to her knees–)
And the guilt does pass over her face, the sadness is ever present– and Vi finds that she only feels a little smug. Her own sadness, bone-deep and aching, another reminder of what she craves, what she needs, is still there. It doesn’t abate it, doesn’t soothe it at all– she thinks it might make her feel a little worse, actually. It doesn’t bring her the catharsis she thought it would.
Caitlyn sighs, sits by the side of the tub, “Vi–”
“Save it,” Vi looks up at her, eyes suddenly feeling– heavy. She knows, though, any attempt at sleeping will be futile; she’s been restless in the absence of her salve, and she fears she might never be able to fall asleep again without the lingering burn of gin in her throat. “I don’t wanna talk about it, right now.”
“What do you want to talk about, then?” She asks, as if it’s that simple. There are hundreds of things Vi wants to talk about, wants to say– but now isn’t the time, that much she knows is true.
“...Anything,” Vi answers truthfully, shrugging. She shifts her head to rest her chin against her bicep, allowing her to get a better look at Caitlyn. She looks… remarkably tired. Her face is gaunt, bags clinging underneath her eyes so fiercely it actually casts a shadow on the rest of her face, brows seemingly set in a permanent furrow. Vi, despite her better judgment, wants to reach forwards and press her thumb to the crease there, massage it out before it wrinkles her skin prematurely. She figures that isn’t a thing Caitlyn would want– not so young, only twenty-three. That’s for later in life, a life Vi never thought she would see. “How’s your father doing?”
“He’s doing better,” Caitlyn says, voice so quiet it makes Vi almost want to cry. Caitlyn reaches her hand up, cups the side of Vi’s face, thumb soothing over the tattoo and the lingering bruise from her gun. It hurts for a moment, bruise not completely healed yet, but Caitlyn’s touch is so gentle, nearly reverent, that Vi– Vi leans into it, desperate for tenderness after months without. It’s almost as good as the whiskey her fingers still itch for. “Not so ghastly, anymore.”
A brief pause, then– “I’m sorry about yours, Vi.”
She sighs, eyes fluttering shut as Caitlyn keeps caressing her face, “It’s fine,” She mumbles, despite the fact that it’s anything but fine. It’s not fine, it was never going to be fine– but she was a fool. Faith clouded her judgment, and with the lethargy that came from her lack of drinking, she… had hope. Baseless, foolish hope; blind faith that some herald of healing would actually– would actually save Vander. Her sister was right, in the end, he was just some fortune cookie. It was never meant to be, like everything else in Vi’s life. “I should’ve known.”
Caitlyn’s hand moves, swiping what must have been oil run-off away from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. “You couldn’t have known,” She responds, the empathy so thick in her voice it makes Vi dizzy, it makes her feel sick. Caitlyn, ever the voice of reason– but where was her reason the past few months? Where was her reason when she was Commander Kiramman? “You had every right to think that, maybe…”
She trails off, not quite finishing her thought, and Vi is grateful. She’s thought through enough what if’s, has had seven years to think about what could’ve been. What would’ve happened if they never broke into that apartment? Would Vander, Mylo, Claggor still be alive? What about Powder, would she still be– be Powder, or would she turn into Jinx? Was Jinx an inevitability? What about Vi– is where she is right now an inevitability?
Her eyes open again, still so heavy– but she looks at Caitlyn, and she thinks, maybe this was destined.
“He would’ve liked you,” She whispers, because it’s true, and she wants to– wants to give Caitlyn that peace of mind. “My mom, too.”
Caitlyn looks doubtful, not quite sure if she believes Vi– and Vi gets it, she understands why she can’t quite trust her words. The choices she’s made these past few months weigh heavily on her shoulders, the title, the cape, the power; it's obvious why Caitlyn is so hesitant. It’s why Vi is, too.
(Six months in the back pocket of a warmongering pig can’t be erased in a few minutes– but that’s the problem of future Vi, of Vi who didn’t just witness the second death of her father and a little girl who obviously meant the world to her sister. It’s the problem for future Vi, who hopefully doesn’t crave alcohol like all those people in the commune craved salvation.
She’ll burn that bridge when gets there– but for now, she will revel in the affection she has while she still has it.)
“Not– not Commander Kiramman,” Vi clarifies, watches the way something flashes in Caitlyn’s eyes. “But… you. Caitlyn. From before all of this.”
(Because, fundamentally, they have changed– two different people, but the Caitlyn that Vi loved– loves –is still in there. She can see the glimpses of her past the grief that hangs over her head like a dark cloud, can see her buried underneath the mountains of bad decisions. She was there earlier, rushing to Vi to kneel at her side and hoist her up– she was there earlier, watching Vi and her dysfunctional family be happy for the first time in years, and not take the chance to shoot Jinx.
She’s there, she knows. She just needs– she needs to see the light, again.)
Silence stretches between them like the bridge between Piltover and Zaun, suspended over the Pilt– and Caitlyn, ultimately, is the one who crosses it; an olive branch, of sorts.
“This hair color is dreadful on you,” She says, brings a hand up to wind in the oil-slick that is her hair. “Can I…?”
Vi shrugs, watching the way Caitlyn’s eyes track her movements, “Do what you want, cupcake.”
Caitlyn moves about, picking up bottle after bottle and setting them on the side of the tub. She moves the chair she sits in to be closer to the tub, opens one of the bottles, squeezes out a significant amount of the shampoo into her hand. She’s hesitant to move any closer, to touch Vi– but Vi doesn’t say she can’t, and she’s making no move to leave, so ultimately she pushes forwards anyways.
Caitlyn is never one to start something and only half-ass it, and that becomes abundantly clear in the way she massages her fingertips into Vi’s scalp, almost kneading at the skin there. The pressure, mixed with the way she rubs her head– it’s deeply relaxing, actually. Vi finds shoulders relaxing, tension seeping out the more Caitlyn works her hands in Vi’s hair. It feels so nice, so– so gentle, despite the considerable force in her hands, her fingers, and it makes Vi want to cry with the amount of genuine care she's putting into it. The gentleness she puts into taking care of Vi.
(When was the last time someone was this gentle with her? The last time someone wanted to care for her?)
“Your hair got so long,” Caitlyn comments idly, hands running through the longer pieces in the back. Vi hums, not quite sure how to respond– if she even can. “Are you going to cut it?”
Vi thinks about the question for a moment, then, “What do you think?”
Silence, again– something that was always sacred between them, as sacred as the hands in her hair pulling her apart with their gentleness.
“I like it,” Caitlyn admits, so quiet Vi almost doesn’t hear it. “I think it suits you, you know.”
She just shrugs again, uncaring for the most part– she used to hate how long her hair felt on the back of her neck, the way it rubbed uncomfortably against it. That’s why she had cut it in the first place, so that it wouldn’t be so annoying all the time– especially when she’s fighting. The past six months, she hadn’t really had the energy to… do that.
She finds the hair on her neck not so grating, not so much like a collar holding her back. She thinks she likes it, too, actually.
She thinks of Caitlyn and her hair, much longer than it used to be– last she saw her, her hair was parted on the side and reached her shoulders in length. It’s parted in the middle, now, and it touches the middle of her back instead– and Vi… would be lying if she said she didn’t like it. She really likes it, actually, the way her hair frames her face so nicely, the way it looks in that stupid bun, the ponytail– she’s gorgeous, devastatingly so, and Vi always knew that.
She thinks of Maddie, then– wonders if she encouraged Caitlyn to keep her hair long. She wonders why she even cares, in the first place.
(But her mind has always been her worst enemy, and she can’t help the way her mind spins itself into a downward spiral just thinking of the two of them together. She would feel jealous, if she could muster up the energy to be angry–
She just feels sad.)
“What did you see in her?” Vi asks, trying to ignore the way her voice cracks slightly– and she’s grateful that Caitlyn ignores it, too. Her hands still in her hair, having moved on from massaging the shampoo into her hair to actually rinsing it out carefully. She gains her composure, continues to wash out the soap– and Vi refuses to open her eyes. She can’t bear to look her in the face, to show how deeply this affects her, to show Caitlyn how pathetic she truly is.
The silence is almost deafening.
“You,” Is Caitlyn’s simple response, matter-of-fact and so achingly truthful. Vi can hear it in the way her voice wavers, the way she inhales sharply. She can almost see her biting her lip in her mind, that tooth gap on full display. Vi wants to kiss the indents they’ll leave in her lips. “But she– but she wasn’t you. She could never be you.”
And because Vi hates herself, “Why’d you do it?”
“It’s the same reason why you drink,” Caitlyn’s fingers run through her hair, tug softly on it– a silent chastisement. Vi didn’t realize she knew about that, didn’t think Caitlyn would care. “Your sister told me what you’ve been up to.”
Vi sighs, but doesn’t say anything– she opens her eyes, then, meeting Caitlyn’s through her lashes. She looks at her with such a profound melancholia that Vi is almost taken aback by it, the grief there in her eyes, the way her lips pull into a frown and her brows furrow. This time, though, Vi does reach up to soothe the lines from between her eyebrows. She lets her hand drop to her cheek, caresses it, and only feels a little bad at the way Caitlyn shivers from the water cooling on her face. The water Vi sits in is murky, now– nearly black from the oil washed out of her hair, and she should really get out, but the water still feels so nice against her skin.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn whispers, voice cracking and eyes watering. “Violet, I’m so, so sorry–”
“I know,” She answers, voice just as quiet, afraid of breaking whatever fragile line they tow. “I know you’re sorry.”
It’s not salvation, nor is it atonement; it’s a simple acknowledgement. Vi knows she is sorry, but she can’t find it in herself to quite forgive. Not yet, at least, not with everything still looming over their heads. In due time, she supposes.
For now, she lifts herself slightly out of the water, brings Caitlyn’s face down with the hand still on her cheek– and as her lips brush against Caitlyn’s, she mutters, “I know you are.”