I am a Shipping Trashbin

This wasn’t the first time he’d shown up at her doorstep, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, and just like so many times before, she’d pretend to mull over letting him in or not. Normally she’d take her time, letting him stand there for a few seconds before finally letting him in.

However, this wasn’t a normal visit. Her gaze fell on the dark red liquid that was seeping through his shirt, hand cradling the wounded arm with care. Biting back any form of concern that she secretly held for the mime, she sighed heavily.

“Fine,” she grumbled, stepping aside and holding the door for him as he stepped inside, “Just don’t get blood on my couch.”

He nodded simply, eyes glancing at the various items in the room that were still in the same place since his last visit. He tried to visit her as often as he could—especially if they weren’t on capers together. He’d never tell her, but despite her harsh attitude, she made him feel warm.

Sheena shut the door and headed towards her bathroom, digging through various drawers in search of her first aid kit she kept for emergencies, “Wanna tell me what you were doing to get hurt so bad?” she asked as she reentered the living room, kit in hand.

As she expected, no reply came from the mime, who had removed his shirt and carefully folded it, placing it on the coffee table. Looking at him now, she always forgot how pale he was. Her gaze lingered longer than she’d like to admit on the bruises that peppered his chest, stamping out the worried look that briefly flashed on her face.

If he noticed, he said nothing, as usual. Their eyes met, causing a forced reassuring smile to slip onto Mime Bomb’s face as he carefully took a seat on the couch, I’m fine, he seemed to say, and yet the deep cut running down his arm and the purple marks on his skin said anything but.

————

Silence made the process of patching up the wound longer than it really was. She wanted to break it, to ask him all the questions that stuck in her throat, but some part of her (the part that cared, she suspected) didn’t want to overwhelm him.

Instead of the many questions she wished to ask, all that left her once she was finished was a quiet, “Idiot…” that wasn’t able to keep out the amount of care she had grown to have for her partner in crime.

He shifted, gently lifting her chin with his hand so that they were facing each other. His face was filled with so much care, so much love that she would never be used to seeing.

“What?” she asked, voice barely a whisper, taking comfort in the warmth his touch held. She watched his hands move in ways she was all too familiar with.

Let me take care of you, he smiled at her, still so gentle.

She fought back a scoff, a small smile slipping onto her face, “Shouldn’t I be the one saying that to you?”

Mime Bomb shrugged in reply, shifting closer, arms wrapping around her with care, pressing their foreheads together.