Work Text:
It’s not too often that the SDN breakroom is an actual place of reprieve during the work day. But here you are, thanking whatever gods exist when you walk in to see not a soul in sight, completely quiet besides the resonant humming of the refrigerator. Collapsing into one of the rigid plastic chairs, you prop an arm up on the backrest to dig your fingernails into your scalp, hoping the sting will distract you from the ache in your jaw. Unsurprisingly, it just gives your brain another reason to scream at you.
Eyes roaming about the room, it’s when they land on the fridge that you belatedly realize you could (and most definitely should) put some ice on your jaw, but the idea of getting back up makes your legs feel like jello. So, instead, you let out a big sigh, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms up while the plastic creaks in protest against your weight. You can grab an ice pack later.
A few seconds pass by, then, as if it were attempting to harmonize with the refrigerator, the door to the breakroom groans, drawing your attention over to see Waterboy timidly peeking in through the doorway, like a groundhog checking for his shadow. Once he sees you there, his raised shoulders slacken and he steps in.
“Hey, what’s up? Comms have been pretty quiet,” you say, sitting up straighter after your stretch.
“Yeah, they’ve…not much is happening r-right now. Robert said—he told me—it’s, it’s been slow today, or tonight.”
“Thank god, I could use a break.” Despite the victory you and Waterboy scored, those Yachties sure put up a good fight, if your aching jaw has anything to say about it. Waterboy walks over to the table you’re sitting at, and it’s only then that you notice he’s holding a little box with a handle. “What’s that?”
“Uh, it’s uh—” He looks down at the box like he forgot it was there, “I-I brought it to fix you up, uh, s-since you got injured.” Fiddling with the box in his hands, he turns it toward you, revealing a vivid red cross on the front. It’s a first aid kit.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s fine.” You glance down at your arms, where your wet suit has been sliced open in a few spots and the flesh underneath shines an angry red. Most of them had already scabbed over during the journey back to headquarters. “That knife guy only nicked me a couple times. I’ll be fine till the end of my shift.”
Waterboy restlessly switches his weight between his feet. “What about, uh, you have one on—un-under your shorts? It’s bleeding.”
Under your shorts? You furrow your brows, head tilting to the side before looking down at your legs and—what do you know? There’s a few thin streaks of blood running down the side of your left knee. It suddenly occurs to you that you had only worn your wet suit during the Yachties battle, since it gave too much drag when you swam in the water. You put them back on for the way back, not even noticing the blood. Lifting the hem of your swim trunks and the wet suit shorts, you reveal a long slice across the outer side of your thigh, shallow but still wet with blood.
“Shit, I didn’t even realize it was there,” you breathe out, only now registering the sharp pain thumping to the same rhythm as your heart beat. Gritting your teeth, you run through your memories of the fight.
Waterboy had split the goons up, swimming around the boat and distracting them, while you took them down one by one. There had been two that stuck together however: some fucker with knives and another fucker with brass knuckles. When you finally managed to kick the knife guy to the floor, your guard was down and his buddy decked you in the face. The force of it threw you against the railing of the yacht, where the downed knife guy grabbed your ankle. You don’t exactly remember anything else he did, though, because after that Waterboy went airborne and slammed his body into knuckles guy. You were glad that those were the last two goons because after he did that you yelled “fuck yeah!” at the top of your lungs and kicked knife guy in the face.
“Yeah, y-you pulled your—it hid—when you pulled your sh-suit shorts down it hid…it.” Setting the first aid kit down on the table, Waterboy grabs one of the other chairs nearby and drags it over, positioning it to face you. With his upper body slouched, he’s almost at the same eye level as you when he sits down, if not still a little taller. You adjust your body to face him as he opens the kit, the lock making a little click before revealing various boxes and bottles.
Much more certain with his actions than before, Waterboy pulls out supplies—a roll of gauze, surgical tape, band-aids, antiseptic wipes—and places them onto the table. He then picks up a rag and raises it to his face, instinctually opening his mouth—before frantically glancing over at you watching him. Cheeks turning pink, he goes over to the sink in a hurry and uses the faucet to wet the rag instead. An amused grin spreads across your face. You want to tell him it would be fine if he used his own water, but you get the feeling he would only be more embarrassed if you did so.
“So when did you learn first aid?” You ask instead when he sits back down.
“Well, I used to slip a-a lot when I was younger—uh, when I was getting out—figuring out my powers. Um, my grandma taught me how to…to do it so I could…do it…” He trails off as he leans over your leg, gently wiping at the blood around the cut and then the dried trails leading down your thigh. His right hand hovers over your leg, like he’s too scared to touch you but keeps in there just in case.
“Hell yeah. You’re like our Z-Team medic, then,” you say, trying to hype him up. He glances up at you for a second, his lips upturned into the smallest smile.
“I mean, I-I only know the basics, really…”
“But you pay attention too, I didn’t even notice I got a cut on my leg. It must have happened after that goon with the brass knuckles punched me in the face or something…” Mentioning it again, you rub your jaw gingerly, wishing you had grabbed an ice pack earlier instead of holding it off. “Nice aim, by the way, you bodied that fucker.”
“O-oh, well, uh, j-just doing my part!” Waterboy sits back up, nearly wringing the bloody rag dry before he notices and sets it down. “Um, l-let me grab an ice pack for you!”
This man is too pure for this team… you think to yourself as he retrieves an ice pack from the freezer section of the fridge. When he passes it over to you, it sticks to his wet gloves and you have to pull at it before it gives.
“Thanks,” you say. Leaning your jaw against the ice pack, you close your eyes, breathing a sigh of relief as the knot in your jaw loosens and the cold numbs the ache in your bones.
That relief doesn’t last long, however, because the next thing you feel is a stinging pain shooting up your thigh. Eyes bursting open, your left hand shoots out to cover your wound, your upper body following with it.
“OW, the fuck is that??”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I-I forgot to say that t-the alcohol might sting a-a little.”
You’re hunching over your legs now, face inches away from Waterboy’s own. He’s frozen in place, hands off of your leg and instead clutched to his chest. When you see his wide eyes staring back, a dreadful feeling washes over you. Immediately you pull away, your hand moving to grip the seat of your chair, nails digging into the plastic.
“Fuck. Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to get in your face.” Shit, you got nailed in the jaw and your leg was sliced open, should a little disinfectant really bother you so much? You anxiously run your tongue over your sharp teeth, letting it catch on the points ever so slightly.
“No, no, it’s…it’s not your fault,” he reassures. “I-it’s going to sting again.” You’re busy glaring daggers at the floor, so you only feel Waterboy’s fingers delicately drawing your swim shorts up your leg; you forgot that you had been holding them up still with your left hand. The soft pressure of his fingertips on your thigh distracts you from the disinfecting process, and it isn’t long before he’s done. A sigh escapes your lips as Waterboy discards the wipe and moves for the gauze. You lift your leg and he wraps a few layers of the gauze around your thigh, finishing it off with a strip of surgical tape to keep it in place.
“There! All done th—with that,” Waterboy says, adding the most timid jazz hands possible as a flourish. You finally look back over at him and chuckle, the guilty weight on your shoulders not quite gone but momentarily lightened. He recovers fast from reformed villains nearly biting his head off.
“Thanks, Waterboy. Feeling all better now, thanks to you,” you say, offering up your warmest smile to try to make up for yelling at him.
Waterboy flushes pink and sits up a little straighter in his chair.
“Oh, i-it’s really no problem…”
The ice pack is starting to make your jaw feel numb, so you set it onto the table. Now with both hands free you take the opportunity to stand up and stretch your arms, letting out a big yawn that makes your eyes squeeze shut.
“Welp, guess that’s enough resting time. We should probably get back out there, right?” Fists on your hips, you assume a hero-like stance, even if it makes you feel a little stupid. Waterboy is sitting there still, having grabbed the wet rag again and now fidgeting with it. When you say that, however, he frowns and—you almost have to do a double take—he gives you a look up and down.
“What about the rest of you—your other injuries?”
You shrug. “I should be fine. I’m pretty sure these ones on my arms have already closed up.”
“And your face?” He points at the side of your jaw you had the ice pack on.
“Well not much you can do about a bruised jaw, you know?”
“N-no, you—there’s a cut on…” Another cut? That goon’s brass knuckles must have been sharper than you thought. You reach up to your right cheek and feel around for the cut Waterboy is talking about.
“It’s uh—no, it’s closer to—” Waterboy starts and stops, trying to verbally guide you to where it is. Eventually he gives up and instead scoots closer, the feet of the chair squeaking against the floor tiles. He’s only a few inches shorter when he’s sitting down and you’re standing up.
“It’s right th—here,” he says, tapping his finger on the underside of your jaw, near your ear, “or a-above here.”
“Another one I didn’t notice, then…” You mutter, sitting back down. Waterboy turns around, rag already in hand as he picks out a couple other things (you note the antiseptic wipe this time).
“I-it’s not that bad but we should st-still be safe.” He raises the rag up and you lean forward, resting your hands on your thighs as you tilt your head to the left for him.
The two of you sit in silence as he wipes your jaw. You try staring straight ahead, right at the water cooler near the door, but you can’t help glancing over at Waterboy every few seconds. His eyes remain trained on the rag, lips pressed together in focus. A few drops of water roll down his face. You watch as one roams over his cheek and trails down his jaw, disappearing into the neckline of his wetsuit.
“B-by the way, um, thank you,” Waterboy murmurs. It’s so quiet you barely even catch it.
“Thank me? For what?”
Waterboy fidgets in his seat, pulling the rag away as he tries to find the right words. “Er, well…no one…else on th-the Z-Team has ever r-really apologized for—before…for, uh, things.”
Things? It’s really not hard to guess what he’s talking about. Everyone doubted Robert’s decision to recruit Waterboy to the Z-Team and the poor guy’s first shift was littered with insults, everyone poking fun at his skills or demeanor. Even though you had also questioned Waterboy’s position on the team at first, the shit that some of your teammates said just went too far. You still remember the weird tone in Waterboy’s voice when his first shift wrapped up and he excused himself. Now you really wish you had stepped in like Robert had. You probably wouldn’t have been as smooth as him—he does some crazy reverse psychology shit—but you could have at least told your teammates to shut the fuck up. You yelled at Waterboy so you apologized. Do you really deserve a thank you just for doing the bare minimum?
“Well, yeah, it’s the least I could say for almost biting your face off,” You force out a chuckle even though you don’t find it funny, your eyes finding their way to the floor.
“Heh, heh,” he sets the rag down on the table, “It-it was nice th-though…” When you lift your head back up, Waterboy’s gazing at you, his grey eyes holding a particular warmth that strangely makes you breathless. You find yourself staring back, and maybe it’s because you’d been slowly bleeding out over the last half hour, but you’re feeling lightheaded all of a sudden.
“Um…” your eyes flicker down to his lips and you wish you had a bridge to jump off of, “Yeah.”
Thankfully, Waterboy’s too busy tearing open an antiseptic wipe pack to notice. He must’ve grabbed it while you were looking down.
“Heh, um, this is going to sting a little…probably,” he warns, reaching up slowly with the wipe. You don’t realize but when you lean forward, your face is angled toward him more than it was before. The wipe brushes against your cut but you barely feel the sting. You’re far more distracted by Waterboy and the way he’s holding the wipe, which leaves the heel of his palm grazing your chin, the warmth from his hand permeating through the glove’s material. It feels…nice, and you have to resist leaning into it.
What the fuck is happening to you?
Then Waterboy’s hand is gone, apparently done with disinfecting the cut as he pulls away and returns to the first aid kit, opening a little box and pulling out a band-aid. To your surprise, it has a cute pattern on it: a wavy blue background with little dots or something.
“Is that a kid’s band-aid?” You ask, leaning forward and thankful for a distraction.
“I-I-I think I have normal—regular ones in here too…” He goes to grab a different box but you stop him.
“No, no, wait…” Now that you’re looking at it closer, you realize the little dots are actually fish. A clownfish, a yellow tang, some vague variety of goby, even a little starfish in the corner and—holy shit. There’s a shark. There’s an adorable great white shark swimming around on the cute little band-aid. Suddenly you lean back, crossing your arms and trying to appear nonchalant despite it being very clear you are not.
“No, it’s fine. It’s not my style but it’ll work,” you sniff, lightly biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t smile. Your front isn’t very strong however, as you can tell Waterboy’s smiling out of the corner of your eye.
“I was—I, uh, thought you would like th-the shark…you know, because you’re…yeah.” He peels the protective layer off the band-aid and sticks it onto your face while you’re looking away, his fingers delicately flattening it across your jaw.
“I do,” you reply without thinking. Usually you don’t flaunt your appreciation for cute things, but the fact that Waterboy actually chose that band-aid because he thought you would like it is sending you over the moon. “Like the shark, that is. It’s really cute.” Waterboy’s shoulders relax when you say that.
“Goo—great, um, awesome! You look cute—I mean, it looks—the band-aid looks cute, the band-aid—” Feeling your face heat up, you let out a breathy and theatrical laugh as you try to ignore your heart threatening to jump out of your chest. It must be working overtime to make up for the blood loss…right?
“Aw, shucks—” you playfully punch him in the arm “—no take backs. I’m cute now, I guess.”
Waterboy chuckles awkwardly, shoulders up to his ears and his face a bright red. He’s noticeably more wet than he was earlier, beads of water gathering on the ends of his hair and dripping onto his goggles. It doesn’t look like he’s ever going to recover from his own anxiety unless you try to nudge him along.
“Well, thanks again, Waterboy. Don’t know what I’d do without ya. Probably bleed to death or something.” You smile, rubbing the back of your neck as you lean back and hang your left arm over the chair’s backrest. The dusting of pink over Waterboy’s face remains but he gives you a look of relief with the topic change.
“My please—pleasu…you’re welcome.”
He picks up the collection of used alcohol wipes and bandage packaging, standing up and walking over to the trash can on the other side of the room. The second he turns away, you heave out a silent sigh and bring your hands up to your face, pressing your fingers against your cheeks in an effort to cool them down. You go to lean back in your chair, but you feel restless all of a sudden, so you sit back up. The first-aid kit still lies open on the table. Since all these supplies were used for your sake, you decide to make use of your energy, standing up and moving to look over the first-aid kit. You pick up the gauze and the surgical tape, ready to toss it into the box, until you realize how organized everything is, and you are totally lost as to where to put anything.
“Hey, how do you want this thing organized?” You call over your shoulder, your eyes glued to the row of bandage boxes but no gauze rolls in sight. You swap out the gauze for the box of band-aids, something you can put away since you’ve at least found where it belongs. It isn’t until you slot the band-aid box into a random spot in the row that you even realize that Waterboy has returned.
A gloved hand reaches out from behind you and points at the box. “Uh, that box a-actually goes at the end with the rest of the kid—uh, p-patterned ones.”
Waterboy’s presence hits you like a crashing wave, pulling you under and stealing the air from your lungs. You flinch, your head bumping into the junction between his shoulder and chest, hair clinging to the moisture in his suit even when you pull away to glance up at him and—god you forget how tall he is. Despite his usual bowed posture, he still stands a full head over you and, with the two of you this close, you would have to crane your neck way up to even see his face.
“Um”—you dart your eyes back to the first-aid kit—“So it goes right here?” An affirmative hum resonates from the chest behind you.
One by one, the supplies are tucked into their respective corners of the first-aid kit, Waterboy pointing to where each one went with you following his instruction. It turns out the gauze was hidden in the bottom level of the kit; you totally didn’t gasp when Waterboy lifted up the top layer of supplies to reveal them.
“Well, I was trying to be helpful but you ended up doing all the work…” You chuckle to yourself, latching the first-aid kit closed and setting it handle up on the table. Waterboy shifts to your right so the two of you are now shoulder to shoulder—really shoulder to head—and he picks up the kit. Your back suddenly feels cold without Waterboy behind you.
“I-I mean, it’s my first-aid kit anyhow—way, anyway. Plus, it w-was like we were working…together again! Like, um, how we worked t-together against, fighting against the Yachties. Teamwork makes the dream…work…right?”
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” you affirm, stepping back and raising your fist for Waterboy to bump it. Waterboy’s eyes light up and he quickly raises his own fist to meet yours.
And the smile gracing his face, like sunshine and summertime...it would be one of the great wonders of the world if you have anything to say about it. The way it warms your heart, makes you want to reach up and hold his face and—
A tinny voice cuts through your thoughts, the speaker in your ear coming to life.
“Waterboy, Sharkbite, you guys rested up?”
You snap back to reality, the question acting like a life preserver saving you from drowning in the ocean of sappy thoughts that had flooded your mind. Muscle memory kicks in quicker, however, one hand tucking itself into the pocket of your swim shorts and the other tapping your earpiece to turn the mic on before you even know what you’re going to say. It’s only when you turn away from Waterboy, focusing your gaze on the door to the breakroom, that you’re able to gather enough of yourself to respond.
“Yep, we’re rested and ready to go. What’s the prob, boss?”
“Got a flooding problem with your names on it.”
Oh. You find yourself turning around again and sharing a look with Waterboy, the corners of your mouth curving upward against your will and your heart racing in your chest. Another flood of sappy thoughts threaten to spill over when you see him smile again.
To whatever gods exist, you pray that you make it through the end of this shift without having a heart attack.