â˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘
warnings: just mentions of blood. you getting injured and isaac taking care of you that's all.
â˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘ÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇÂˇâ˘
The fencing hall always smells faintly of polish and metal.
The air hums with the sound of shoes squeaking against the floor, the distant clack of blades meeting, and that sharp intake of breath everyone holds right before the next strike.
You love it here, the rhythm, the precision, the way everything else in the world disappears when youâre focused on your opponent.
Tonight itâs just a late practice round, a handful of other students scattered along the lanes, and Isaac sitting cross legged on the bench at the edge of the room. Heâs pretending to read through a stack of notes, you know, the ones he always carries but never actually looks at during your matches. Every time you glance over, heâs watching, pencil tapping against his knee in time with the movements of your blade.
He never admits it, but he keeps score in his head.
You roll your shoulders, grip your foil, and lunge forward again. Your opponent parries, quick, almost too quick, and you twist to recover, the tip of your blade slipping just slightly off balance. Itâs nothing at first. A stuttered motion, a mistake easily fixed.
But then the world blurs in a flicker of motion. A misstep. A sharp sound, metal against fabric, followed by a sting in your arm.
You hiss through your teeth, jerking back instinctively. The referee calls for a pause, but youâre already lowering your weapon, flexing your fingers, staring at the thin red line blooming just above your wrist where the protective padding tore open.
Itâs not serious. Just a cut. But your head feels oddly light from the suddenness of it.
And before you can even register the pain properly, thereâs Isaac, crossing the floor in record time, not even pretending to keep his composure.
He doesnât call your name at first. He just moves, a streak of dark coat and concern, sliding to a stop beside you. His hand hovers an inch from your arm before he makes himself stop.
"Youâre bleeding," he says, calm, but itâs the kind of calm thatâs holding back a flood.
"Itâs nothing," you say automatically. "Just a scratch."
"Scratches donât make you flinch like that," he mutters. His voice is low, tight around the edges.
Someone brings over a towel, but Isaac takes it before they can hand it to you. He presses it gently against the cut, careful, too careful, like heâs afraid youâll break if he touches you wrong.
You watch him, half amused, half touched. "Isaac, Iâm fine."
He doesnât answer. Heâs focused entirely on your arm, thumb resting near the edge of the towel, eyes narrowed as if heâs analyzing a circuit rather than a person.
"Iâve seen you handle worse experiments," you add lightly. "At least this one doesnât explode."
That earns a sharp exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "You shouldnât joke about it."
"Youâd prefer I panic?"
"Iâd prefer you not bleed."
You smile despite the sting in your arm. "Overprotective much?"
His gaze flicks up, and you can see the mix of emotions there, irritation, worry, and something softer that he doesnât know how to name. "You call it overprotective," he says. "I call it necessary."
You could argue, but heâs already turned toward the small first-aid kit someone fetched from the corner. He finds antiseptic, a bandage, and crouches down in front of you like the rest of the room has stopped existing.
Isaac doesnât ask if he can help. He just starts moving with the same single minded precision he uses when fixing delicate circuitry. The towel is set aside. He unwraps the antiseptic swab, jaw tight, eyes locked on the small cut across your wrist.
The rest of the fencing hall fades to a low murmur, coaches talking, someone sweeping the floor, but it all feels distant. The only thing real is the sound of his breath and the sharp, clean scent of alcohol as he dabs carefully at the wound.
You wince once. Instantly, he freezes.
"Itâs fine," you say. "Stings a little, thatâs all."
He doesnât move yet. His hand hovers in mid-air, waiting for you to prove youâre telling the truth. When you give a small nod, he starts again, even slower this time.
The cut isnât deep, just angry looking, and when the bleeding stops he finally exhales, a shaky kind of breath that makes you realize how long heâd been holding it.
"See?" you say softly. "Still alive."
"Barely," he mutters, reaching for a strip of gauze. "Youâre terrible at self preservation."
"Youâre excellent at overreaction."
He shoots you a look that says try me. Then, with a care thatâs almost reverent, he winds the gauze around your wrist, the fabric whispering as it tightens just enough to hold. His hands are steady again, but thereâs still tension in his shoulders, the kind he gets when a project nearly breaks and heâs pretending it didnât scare him.
You watch him tie off the bandage and smooth the edge flat. "You couldâve let the coach do that, you know."
"I trust my own work," he says simply.
You grin. "Control issues much?"
He doesnât rise to the bait this time. Instead, he sits back on his heels, finally looking up at you. Thereâs a smudge of antiseptic on his fingers and a faint crease between his brows.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Itâs not something he admits easily. The words hang there, small but heavy.
You soften. "Iâm sorry. I didnât mean to."
"I know." He glances down at your hand again, then back to your face. "You just... when you dropped your foil, you looked like-" He stops himself, swallows, and shakes his head. "Never mind."
He sighs. "Like you were hurt worse than you were. And that was enough."
Thereâs a beat of silence. You can feel the air between you settle into something gentler, the adrenaline fading, leaving only warmth.
"Youâre sweet when youâre worried," you say.
He groans under his breath. "Donât start."
"Iâm a scientist," he corrects automatically. "Not- whatever that implies."
"A sweetheart?" you offer.
He groans louder, which only makes you laugh.
The sound seems to untie something in him. The corners of his mouth lift, reluctant but real. He stands and reaches for his jacket, draping it around your shoulders before you can protest.
"Isaac. I can still move, you know."
"Good," he says, guiding you toward the bench anyway. "Then you can walk yourself to the infirmary while I make sure you donât fall over."
"Iâm not going to fall."
"Youâre statistically prone to accidents."
You laugh again. "You made that up."
"I have empirical evidence," he says dryly. "Todayâs data set is Exhibit A."
You shake your head, smiling. "You sound ridiculous."
He glances sideways at you, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. "And yet youâre smiling."
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. "Because youâre ridiculous."
He doesnât answer, just walks beside you, keeping half a step closer than usual as if proximity itself could keep you from getting hurt again.
When you reach the bench, he makes you sit while he double checks the bandage. Satisfied, he finally relaxes, leaning against the wall, arms folded, gaze still flicking toward you every few seconds.
"Just confirming youâre still breathing," he says.
You roll your eyes. "Iâd tell you if I stopped."
He arches an eyebrow. "Doubtful."
You start laughing again, soft, breathless and thatâs the moment when his shoulders drop completely. The tension drains out of him, replaced by something lighter.
For a long moment neither of you says anything. The hall is quiet now; practice has ended, lights dimming one by one.
Isaac glances down at you, a faint smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "Promise me something."
"Next time you decide to duel with a sharpened stick, try not to bleed."
You grin. "Iâll do my best, Doctor Night."
He gives a quiet hum that might almost be a laugh. "See that you do."
The infirmary smells like paper and antiseptic; the kind of place that hums quietly no matter the hour. Youâve been patched up properly this time, neat wrap, official tape, a little "youâll live" from the nurse whoâs seen worse.
Isaac has not moved from the chair beside you since you sat down. Heâs turned half sideways, one knee bouncing, arms folded across his chest like heâs still trying to decide whether to argue with physics itself for letting you get hurt.
You watch him for a beat. "Youâre vibrating."
He blinks. "Iâm not-" He stops when he sees his own knee. Itâs bouncing. He sighs and plants his foot flat on the floor. "Fine. Maybe a little."
"You know, for someone who works with sharp tools all day, youâre awfully squeamish about a paper cut level injury."
"It was not a paper cut," he says, voice perfectly level.
"Tiny flesh wound, then."
He gives you a look. "You lost blood."
You grin, unable to help it. "You realize youâre going to be impossible after this, right? Youâll start bubble wrapping every sharp corner in the lab."
He almost smiles. "Tempting."
"Youâd actually do it."
He hums. "You underestimate my dedication to risk mitigation."
"Isaac, youâre the risk."
That gets a short laugh out of him, quiet, but real. He leans back in the chair, finally exhaling the rest of his tension. "You always have to get the last word, donât you?"
He tilts his head. "Statistically speaking, thatâs never stopped you before."
You scoff, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me, Iâve been right at least once this week."
"About how you worry too much."
He opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again. A pause. Then: "Perhaps."
You smile, triumphant. "See? Progress."
He rolls his eyes, but the fightâs gone from his voice. "If admitting that stops you from injuring yourself again, Iâll call it progress."
Silence drifts in, not uncomfortable this time. You trace the edge of your bandage, watching the light from the window cut across the floor. His jacket still hangs around your shoulders, warm and faintly smelling of metal and coffee.
He notices you tug it closer. "Keep it," he says.
"I wasnât planning to give it back yet."
"Predictable," he murmurs.
"Comfortable," you correct.
That earns another small grin. He pushes himself up from the chair and stretches, a long, weary motion. "Ready to head back?"
You nod. "Yeah. Promise I wonât collapse dramatically on the way."
"Iâve heard that promise before," he says, helping you stand anyway.
"You didnât have to wait the whole time," you tell him as you both step into the empty hallway.
He glances over. "Of course I did, my love."
You smile sideways at him. "That wasnât a question, was it?"
"No," he says, deadpan. "Observation."
You laugh; he lets the sound linger before speaking again."You know," he says quietly, "you make it very difficult to maintain a reputation for cold detachment."
You bump his shoulder with yours. "You can be both brilliant and human, you know."
He sighs, the long suffering kind thatâs more affection than frustration. "I preferred when you were too tired to talk."
The corridor opens to the courtyard, the night air cool and soft against your skin. Somewhere behind you, the fencing hall lights flicker out, leaving the two of you in quiet moonlight.
You tug his jacket a little tighter, feeling his gaze follow the motion.
"Just confirming youâre still breathing," he says again, the same line as before, but gentler now, almost a joke.
You grin. "Still functioning at full capacity, Doctor."
For a moment you just walk side by side, boots scuffing the pavement. He keeps his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed for once. Every few steps, you catch the ghost of a smile on his face, the look of someone who finally let himself laugh, and isnât sorry for it.
