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In retrospect, things could be far worse. For one, they could all be dead.
I probably just need time, he thinks with a grimace. Maybe if I’m lucky, I'll heal up properly…
Pyrrha looks no better, curled in a nest of sterile blankets, emerald eyes staring at the ceiling above. Her coronet sits on the bedside table, little flecks of green light swinging from the beryls. A wave of scarlet hair cascades over her back. The Bulkhead hums low and steady beneath her cot. Cool air washes over her shoulders, sending little ripples through her hospital gown.
Jaune swallows. The bandages crisscrossing his torso crinkle as he raises a shaking hand, gauze and stitches and tape gluing his body back together. The painkillers dull his senses, like a pillow pressed against his brain. Jaune knows the nightmares will come later. But as he stands alone before the door, there is nothing to prove that something has broken inside him.
With Pyrrha, there will be no more illusions.
He takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door window.
“Hey, partner.”
“Hello, Jaune.”
Pyrrha doesn’t look away from the ceiling.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Please go away.”
He feels so vulnerable without the solid weight of his armor on his back. Then again, with the deep burns engraved into his skin, it would be best to remain armor-less. Memories of his back colliding into the pillar flash through his mind. As power leaked from Pyrrha’s body, it began to crush his armor like a soda can in a giant’s fist. He was barely conscious when the medics took a saw to his armor.
Won’t do me much good if it gets me killed, he thinks glumly. After all, isn’t that how the old stories go? The goddess reveals her true form, unleashing power never meant for mortal eyes, and in doing so kills her champion.
He takes a deep breath and banishes the fear swelling within his chest. She has been, and always be, his partner.
“I wanted to check in on you.”
“I… I’d like to be alone.”
Jaune pauses. “Y-you sure?"
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Pyrrha makes a little whine. “Actually, please come in. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
He steps into the room, wounds throbbing with every step, keeping his offering behind his back. The air conditioning cools his shoulders, soothing the burns down the length of his back. Still, after his little adventure on the operating table, his legs are about to give out.
“Pyrrha, I… I should sit down…”
Her hand flops, patting the bed. She turns to face him, eyes roving along his bandaged torso to the stitches lining his cheek. “Oh, Jaune… I’m so sorry…”
He swallows as he perches on her cot. Even when her face is a puffy mass of stitches, she carries herself with the timeless grace of a goddess.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
The warrior reclines against the pillows. “How can you say that?”
Jaune reaches for her hand, but she pulls away. Silence falls over the hospital room, broken only by the drone of air conditioning.
“Nora’s recovering,” he says at last. “Ren’s okay.”
Her eyes narrow, searching his face. “You’re hiding something from me.”
“Well… she lost both legs. They say it was the only way to save her life.”
“And Ren?”
“Sleeping now. We had a little chat. He’s… not sure about the one-arm thing and Stormflower. I told him he could always borrow Crocea Mors, but he wasn’t a fan.”
“With all the Aura he channels into Stormflower? It might feel like slipping into someone’s body.” Pyrrha shakes her head, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. “I would know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the classics.” It seems years since he first walked onto Beacon’s campus, Crocea Mors heavy on his back, Crescent Rose plunking into the concrete before him. He screws up his face and pitches his voice half an octave higher. “Not many people have an appreciation for the classics these days – oh, jeez.” He presses his hands against his mouth, and tries to ignore the faint tang of wax and sweet earth lingering on his fingers. “I’m so sorry. Is that too soon?”
Pyrrha’s lips quirk up in a half-smile. Warmth floods his chest, lulling the butterflies in his stomach to sleep.
“Is this coming from the same man who slept through Professor Oobleck’s class?”
“I owe you, by the way. Binoculars.” Jaune shakes his head. “What was I thinking?”
“Back then, Jaune–“ storms flash behind those emerald green eyes “–sometimes I doubted you could think at all.”
He winces.
"You had one job. One job! You failed, and now she is free to run Remnant to the fucking ground. What good is a knight who fails to carry out his duty?" Pyrrha laughs, high and unnatural, the shriek of ravens laughing in the night. "Some hero you are."
Jaune doesn't reply, as the storms disperse and Pyrrha returns to her body.
Pyrrha clamps a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry… She’s a little bitter. I don’t think it’s settled in yet.”
“Oh… I see…”
“It’s not how I feel, Jaune. I told you before, I…”
“I remember.”
She casts her eyes about the room, looking anyone but towards him. Something dead tugs within his chest. He could kiss her. He could run away. He’d be justified in fleeing, screaming at the top of his lungs. He could spend the rest of his life with his partner.
Damn it, why can’t life ever be easy?
Pyrrha’s gaze finally settles on the brown cone sitting by his feet. “What’s this?”
“Well… I got fixed up, talked with Ren, then… I got a little bored.” He neglects to mention the hours he spent, going around the ship, looking for something – maybe pancakes from the cafeteria, or a tiny bunny plushie from the gift shop – anything to break the ice.
“And…?” Pyrrha asks, the teasing lilt coloring her voice once more, proving it is she behind those emerald eyes.
Jaune looks down. His heart hammers away at his ribs, sounding in his ears. He quickly picks up the package and hands it to her.
Pyrrha carefully peels back the layers of butcher paper and tissue paper. A riot of alstroemeria spill onto the bed, five petaled goblets of gold and orange with cocoa streaks in their hearts. Xiphos-shaped leaves sit on the flowers’ stems, sheathes for the reedy stems. Clouds of baby’s breath surround the flowers, like smoke rising from flames.
“I thought these looked nice,” he says quickly. “Shopkeeper said they were astro… alstroe… lilies of the Incas.” Jaune bows his shoulders in defeat. "Flowers for friendship."
There’s something in the air that eases as Pyrrha looks at the flowers in her lap. Something more human, perhaps, that washes away the holy terror who tried to rip the raven-haired woman to shreds. With the soft smile on her face, Jaune can almost forget the ache in his back.
“They’re lovely…” She casts her eyes about the room. “But where will I put them? Did you bring a vase?"
He palms his face, though his muscles scream in protest. “Knew I was forgetting something….”
Pyrrha laughs and places the bouquet on the bundle of armor. “I’m sure I can forgive you this time.”
Jaune hums in response. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down. It’s a good look for you.”
Her hand goes to her hair. “Oh! I… I’m not that fond of it, I must admit. It gets everywhere.” She shakes her head, sending scarlet locks dancing over her shoulders. “However, they’ve banned me from wearing my coronet until my treatment ends.” Her slight smile fades as he looks at her. “My… Semblance was not behaving. I… Apparently it was fused to my skin. They had to knock me out to detach it.”
Something rustles within his chest, like leaves caught in a breeze. Unease, for one, that her powers could betray her so easily. But there is uncertainty carved into the lines beneath her eyes where there were none before. It draws something painful and tight from his gut.
“Here.” He motions forward. “We could try something new. Why not a braid?”
“You know how to braid?”
He clicks his tongue, feeling more and more like a normal teenager than a Huntsman in training. “Seven sisters. Seven proms. You pick things up.”
“Well, all right.” Pyrrha moves the covers off the bed, looking at him expectantly. Although he knows that she touches his back, he feels nothing. “Lead on, partner.”
“I gotta get behind you. Hang on,” he says, settling on the pillows beside her.
He falls into his element as he combs through her locks and separates them into three thick strands. Jaune goes over the combinations: too much hair makes a heavy, uncomfortable braid, and he has no inclination to cause his partner further pain. Pyrrha hums beneath his hands as he parts her hair, the vibrations traveling up his fingers. He decides on three braids: two to crown her head, and one to trail down her back like a swallow’s tail.
“Jaune, not so tight please?”
“Give me a second, partner.” He winds a lock around his left index to keep it in place, then plucks a fire-hearted flower from the bunch on the table.
She cranes her head to take a look, but he playfully taps her thigh.
“No peeking!”
“What are you doing?”
“Creating art.” The knight weaves it into the plait and ties it off with a rubber band. “At least, I hope so.”
Pyrrha makes a soft, content noise and leans back against him. A loop of hair falls free from the braid, flopping onto her shoulder.
Jaune sighs. “Stay still. It’s so hard to braid when you’re jiggling around.”
He gently tugs on the end of the loop and pulls it back into the weave. The champion settles into his lap.
She smiles, and reaches up to touch his cheek.
Her hand freezes mid-air.
He feels a prickle of frost, melting beneath his thumbs – the soft cry of I don’t want to die and a ragged scream as flesh rips beneath teeth and claws–
Pyrrha breaks away and cradles her temples. “I’m sorry… I… you didn’t hear that, did you?” she asks with big, pleading emerald eyes.
He considers his hands. What can he tell her? He has seen too much for one man to pretend that nothing has changed. She has clawed her mark into his back, in burns that will never heal and nerves that will never regrow. He has watched legends rise and seasons change and men become monsters only to rise once more. In the span of a day, he has watched his home collapse, and his teammates cling to life, and the Grimm drag Beacon to the ground.
Now would be an excellent time to stick his head outside the window, scream for a bit, then collapse on the floor sobbing.
“I’m sorry.”
Pyrrha turns away. The finished braid hides her face.
“It’s not that,” he says, silently vowing to never tell her the extent of his injuries. He doesn’t want his partner to suffer for something she could not control. “Pyrrha. You don’t have to hide her from me. I know you two are completely different people.”
The champion is silent for a long time.
“I just… this is my body, Jaune. I want to… I want to decide what happens with this.” She rubs her shoulders, as if to banish the chill of the air conditioning. “I shouldn’t be selfish. She’s hurting, she’s barely clinging to life… I shouldn’t complain.” She rubs her eyes. “I did sign up for this.”
He has nothing to offer her. Jaune places his hands on hers, hoping she’ll hear him loud and clear: you are here. We’re partners. We’ll get through this together. He thinks of lazy nights in the dorms, Pyrrha stealing looks at his comics from her bed; night air kissing his bruises as she sends him tumbling to the ground once more; the sway of her dress about her ankles as she twirled through the dance floor.
“I wish you could love me,” he thinks he hears her say.
There’s a soft swelling within his heart. As sure as the stars will rise, he looks at the woman before him, and wonders what he did in a past life to earn the honor of walking by her side.
She’s human, he reminds himself. She never wanted to be put on a pedestal.
“I think I could,” he says as he finishes braiding her hair.
She turns, lips slightly parted, a pool of cranberry red spreading up her cheeks. Neat lines of black stitches trace the curve of her cheekbones. A smattering of burn scars blotch the underside of her chin. She is wartorn and feral, a wolf licking its wounds after the hunt, the Huntress chasing the fat harvest moon. She is pancakes soaking in syrup and whetstone against Milo’s edge; the sword at his shield and armor at his back.
Something clicks inside Jaune as Pyrrha reaches out, a tentative hand placed on his lap. An offering, of something that could be.
“You… you could?”
“I think so,” he says, and presses a quick kiss to her lips.
The delight that spreads up her face is more than worth all his wounds.