Work Text:
Routine is an essential part of doing time. Everyone in prison has their thing: playing cards after lights out. Trading insults in the courtyard. For Vi, her coping mechanism was exercise. Workouts stolen away in the dead of night using the bars of her cell. Those precious moments in the prison yard where she could stretch her legs and move a little. Sparring with an inmate who would give her the time of day, and was willing to put up with the beating they would take for fighting her. It had been, by and large, a solitary activity. A place of meditation where she found comfort within the daily monotony of the Stillwater.
When she finally got out, that penchant for solitude remained. Weight room. Punching bag. Sprints. Stretch. The same methodical routine every evening after work. An hour, sometimes two, to breathe, reflect, and think about her day. Washing away the stress of a life lived hard and fast with sweat, burning muscles, and the occasional bloody knuckle.
Today will be a mite less solitary.
Cait stumbles out of the locker room in workout clothes, still artfully a mess after a long day in the office. And Vi spares a momentary glance, watching as long fingers pull indigo hair up into a practical ponytail.
Today is ostensibly about self-defense. Cait's too reliant on her rifle in a fight, and Vi can't always be there to protect her partner when an arrest goes south.
But it's also more than that. Cait, the self-sacrificing idiot, has thrown herself bodily into work. Tearing apart the organizational structure of the Enforcers at its seams. Rooting out corruption from Piltover's power structure. Neglecting to take care of herself. Sleeping scant hours after her eyes will no longer stay open before diving straight back into work with reckless abandon.
Tobias had asked, well, begged Vi to intervene, to convince Cait to slow down just a hair. Convince her to work 12-hour days instead of 18. And Vi had been powerless to resist the request. Not even she could deny that her partner was suffering. The bags under her eyes are deep, bruise-purple, and ever-present. Her cheeks have hollowed. Almost imperceptible, but impossible for Vi to miss. She's mapped every inch of Cait's features countless times, in good moments and bad.
"Well, shall we?"
Vi snorts teasingly. "Let's see how well you can keep up."
It’s a bit of a boast, a bit of an open question. Cait’s lost a step, a noticeable one, from who she once was. Vi hopes today won’t be too disheartening. The last thing she would ever wish is to heap more stress onto her partner’s plate.
"Cocky, are we?"
"Getting hit in the face is kinda my specialty, Cupcake."
They warm up. Vi running through her usual routine: Some simple stretches to limber up, then calisthenics to get the blood flowing. Cait follows along but ends up gasping for air by the time they finish their jumping jacks. She cuts the warm-up short, so their lesson doesn’t end before it formally begins.
The floor mat at the gym is old, cracked in places, and creaks under their feet as they stand in the center of the padded room. Vi drops naturally into a starting stance, and Cait hurries to mirror her. And then, the teaching starts in earnest.
"The key to winning a fight is keeping your opponent off balance."
She lunges forward to punctuate the statement, and Cait stumbles backward a few steps across the mat. It’s a cheap trick, but Vi fell for it too many times to count as a kid. Better to get the lesson into her head early. On the mat, or in the streets, a fight has no defined beginning and only ends when the other fighter throws in the towel.
"Have a plan. Stick to it. It's hard to stick to a plan after you get punched in the face but, well, that's what separates the good from the great."
That advice had come from Number 247. A tall, burly man. In Stillwater for breaking half a dozen jaws in a Piltover barfight. He’d done time alongside Vi for a few years, before getting transferred to another block. And she’d put the lesson into practice more times than she could count. Whenever someone snuck in a good shot to her jaw or a firm kick to her side, they would all hesitate, let up for an instant to watch her stumble. She caught most of them off-guard when she came back right away with another attempt to seize the advantage.
"You're tall, and have a lot of reach. That'll help you out-punch people. But once someone gets you in a grapple, you'll want to get them all the way to the ground before they put you off-balance."
That one was from Zaun. From taking on the other bands of street-kids desperate for a score. Punch the short ones. Trip the tall ones. Rules of thumb that had served her, Mylo, and Claggor well. Skills that had kept them intact during long days growing up in a bad neighborhood. If only they had all made it out in one piece.
"Punch them in the face, then tackle them to the ground. Straightforward enough," Cait says.
"It's a bit harder in practice."
“Well, that’s why we’re here. Isn’t it?”
They start with the basics. How to throw a punch. How to block. The skills that needed to be instinctual. It’s slow going. Pantomiming the movements, then guiding Cait’s body as she repeats the action.
By the end, the frustration is visible. Caitlyn’s puffing with annoyance and exhaustion as she tries and fails to snag Vi with a basic grapple. She finally flops to the mat, visibly spent and mentally drained. And Vi joins her on the floor in solidarity.
“Once I’m back in shape, I’ll show you a thing or two.”
Vi rises to the bait. She throws the gauntlet. Plays the magic card. Baits the hook.
“You’re on, Cupcake.”
“A wager?”
“Oh yeah? What have you got for me?” Vi asks.
She’ll take any bet. Accept any odds. Swallow whatever pride is still left in her body for the chance to give Caitlyn a new goal. To light a fire in her heart for something other than an unhealthy obsession with long-archived incident reports and widespread bureaucratic reform.
“The first match I win, I get one favor of my choice.”
“That might be a while, Cupcake. You haven’t even come close yet.” Vi throws up a cheeky flex to match her bravado. “But yeah, challenge accepted.”
And there it is, exactly what she intended. Something sets ablaze behind Caitlyn’s eyes. The same flame she sees every time some errant official attempts to interfere with an ongoing investigation or an argument with her mother escalates past the point of no return. Once the gauntlet is thrown, Cait never backs down. The fact that Vi is putting a favor on the line matters not. She’ll do it, no matter the cost.
For Caitlyn, it would always be worth the risk.
~
"Cait, no."
Wilted vegetables stare up at her from a fine white porcelain plate. They're artfully prepared, she’s sure. The Kirammanns only hire the best, and every night since she moved into a spare room down the hall from Caitlyn, Vi’s been treated to a continuous parade of fabulous food.
But no vegetables. Never a vegetable. A few carrots in a stew or some asparagus liberally bathed in butter alongside a juicy steak were acceptable, but she’s always been a fan of heartier foods. Beans and rice. Chicken and pasta. Chili. Good meat, and a whole lot of carbs. The one part of growing up that doing time couldn’t deny her. Prison food and Zaunite staples are much the same, there’s just a lot less seasoning behind bars. Solid grub, three meals a day, uncomplicated.
It’s times like these that make her regret being a woman of her word. Make her regret getting Caitlyn started on her current health kick. She was just looking to get her partner away from her desk a little more. Wear her out, and subtly encourage her to get a couple extra hours of sleep to make up the difference.
Vi had no idea such a plan would come with nutritional advice .
She looks down at her plate, then back up at Cait, and repeats the gesture once more to make her displeasure abundantly clear. This insistence that she cleans up her diet feels excessive. Vi had gone her entire life living just fine on the food she loves, why the insistence on a change?
“Come on, Violet. A deal is a deal. Home from the office before sundown, and I get to pick whatever I want for dinner.” The look of disapproval Caitlyn spears her with could wither the bonniest rose, but Vi holds firm.
It had been a foolish statement, made more out of desperation than anything. 18-hour days grinding through a herculean workload that would be better-served spread across an entire team of staffers. But the work was too important, she’d been told. No one else would give the evidence the due diligence it deserved.
Insisting they hit the gym together had been moderately effective at slowing Cait down. A practical suggestion. Extra athleticism never hurt when your job was chasing down criminals, but the strategy had only worked for a couple of weeks. And then Caitlyn was parting ways from Violet at the gym door, trudging back to the office in the dead of night for a few more hours of work before finally grabbing dinner long after midnight.
And so Vi had resorted to bets and bribery once more. Now she was paying the price.
“I didn’t think you would pick, well… Brussels sprouts.”
She spits the last two words like a curse. It’s childish and petulant, and certainly the most foolish complaint she’s lodged this week. But she’s never been one to hold her displeasure in for long.
“Brussels sprouts are a perfectly fine food when prepared properly. Honestly, when have I ever led you astray when it comes to food?”
“The octopus. The artichoke. The sea urchin.”
“The ones you were
allergic to?
There is no way I could have anticipated that. You are well within your rights to complain, but that is no reason to swear off unknown foods forever.”
Cait sits back in her chair for just a moment, casting another glare of scathing proportions across the table. And Vi smiles teasingly, delighting in the petty drama of the situation.
"Here, come on, try a bite."
Cait leans across the table to spear a sprout with her silver-tined fork. The table is just a hair too wide, and she's forced to stand up a hair and lean all the way across to complete the motion. She's laid out across the table, like a languid cat. And Vi is fighting gamely to keep her gaze locked entirely on the offending vegetable, and not on the abundance of skin on display as her tank top leaves far too little to the imagination.
Fuck, she has it bad.
She’s never had the time to breathe, to take a step back from the ever-roiling chaos of childhood, prison, or the turmoil that has consumed her life since, to truly allow herself the freedom to accommodate her feelings. But Vi is well-acquainted with the emotion playing on her every heartstring. Plucking them one at a time to form a melody that feels all too familiar. A melody that reminds her of the shy smiles she would share with other boys and girls on the street, of long afternoons lounging in her cell daydreaming about the latest cute prisoner across the mess hall, or fighting furiously to avoid blushing when the right person complimented her tattoos in the prison yard.
She’s well-versed in the feeling of attraction. In the raw emotion of a crush. In seeing someone with a beautiful smile, and feeling her heart glow in response.
But compared to the fire that blazes in her heart now, the rest of her passing fancies feel like smoldering embers. None of the others ever had the chance to blossom, for the flames to fan into something more intense. Life would intervene, and the attraction would fade away like ash on the wind. She would be whisked away into another of Mylo’s hare-brained schemes, locked up in solitary after yet another fight in the mess hall, or she’d overhear a scathing comment that made her crush seem far less beautiful on the inside. And then her heart, traitorous and ever-hopeful, would move on.
Every action, every moment, every day, Caitlyn fans the flames in Vi’s heart higher. Puts more fuel into the furnace of emotion roiling inside her. She's noble to a fault, and incorruptible. Willing to break a poor street rat out of prison for the barest chance at justice. Stubborn for all the right reasons. Fighting for the future of Zaun and Piltover in the face of insurmountable odds. Against powers charismatic, corrupt, and wealthy in equal measure. Refusing to yield, to compromise herself to maintain the status quo. All the while remaining just as driven and optimistic as the day they met.
She's hopelessly smitten, and Caitlyn seems blissfully unaware.
Vi takes the bite and is forced to admit: It’s the best she’s ever had.
~
They run through their drills, perfunctorily, mechanically. Cait’s form has progressed in leaps and bounds. The awkward hitch in her movements is gone. Every kick, every step flows like an extension of her breathing. If Vi hadn’t been there every step of the way, she would call the progress impossible.
She knew Caitlyn never accepted less than perfection, but it was another matter entirely to see the dedication in action. To watch her drill, over and over, until a new skill met her exacting standards. Two months of training, and her fighting has gone from amateurish and weak to better than most of the inmates Vi sparred with back in Stillwater.
Vi still has the edge for now. Quite handily, in fact. But she’s proud of the improvements her star pupil has made. Maybe one day that long-ago wager will come due. But for now, it’s time to prove she’s still on top.
They square up for their sparring match. A touchpoint to end each workout. A chance to gauge the progress Cait is making, and to get in a few last tips for improvement. Today, Vi can’t resist a taunt.
“So, how’s that bet coming along?” she teases.
“Better and better every day.” Cait plays with the velcro on her gloves, strapping them a smidge tighter. A bit of superstition Vi’s noticed. Most fighters have one. One last stretch, a muttered invective, or a final fidget before the punches start flying. Vi rolls her neck out. Cait adjusts her gloves. Then they bump fists to start the bout.
The first punch flies her way with no preamble. A quick jab. She catches the blow on her forearms, just in time for Cait to land a solid kick to her ribs. Her feet stay rooted, but half a breath is driven forcefully from her lungs.
Not bad.
Her counter comes with no hesitation.The basic standing kick leaves a brief window for her to step in between the opponent’s defenses. To push them off-balance before their foot can meet the floor again. It’s a bit of a risk, but Vi takes it anyway.
She jabs, and catches Cait’s jaw with a glancing blow, before taking a bold step into the taller girl’s guard to complete the move.
The moment she steps, the trap is sprung. Cait's leg, still forward from the kick, hooks behind her own, and they go down in a messy heap onto the mat. It’s not the cleanest takedown, but the move is more than enough to get Vi off her feet.
The move comes out instantly. Like it was planned from the start. She's off-balance, uncoordinated, and out of control. Vi’s own words echo back to her as she falls.
Cait stuck to her plan after getting punched. Hell, it seems her plan relied on getting punched. A fool move, and one that usually relied on a bit of luck. But to win a bet, or to win a fight, sometimes a little luck is all you need.
Her shoulder blades slam into the padding, driving the breath out of her lungs.
Cait pounces, batting her guard aside to press down on Vi’s neck. Her arms come up, looking for purchase and finding none. No way to break the chokehold before her vision starts to fade a little around the edges. An arm thrashes out blindly to the side as she taps the mat, taking in a couple of gasping breaths when Cait releases the hold.
Now it was time to pay up.
"Been holding back on me Cupcake. Weren't fightin' like this a couple weeks ago."
Hell, with how much better she fought today. Vi feels had . Duped into a situation she couldn’t win. Cait came in with a plan and laid her out on the mat exactly as she’d been taught.
"I had an excellent teacher, and the proper motivation," she replies.
"So? What's the prize?"
Vi lost fair and square. She would never let her pride interfere with admitting that. It was a bold strategy, and would not likely work again, but a deal is a deal.
"Dinner."
"Brussels sprouts? On a Thursday?" Vi groans. “I thought we had an agreement about the health kick. One night a week, I eat all the vegetables you want. The rest of the week, I get to have my meat and potatoes in peace. ”
"As enjoyable as it is to see you suffer through such quality meals, I propose this time we could do something a mite more romantic. There’s a new bistro down the street from the station. I could… take you out for brunch?"
And Vi is left breathless once more, dumbfounded. left to stare blankly upward at the vibrant, beautiful woman currently pinning her to the mat. This offer was too good to be true, wasn't it? Another lighthearted jab thrown in their ongoing game. Her guard comes up, afraid the hope in her heart will rise too far up her throat and become visible. Afraid of baring herself too fully to one of the few people left in the world who could truly hurt her.
"You have… some quite obvious tells." Caitlyn's smirking now, a prideful little gesture that sends butterflies flitting through her stomach without fail. "While fighting and… other times. I do hope I have not misinterpreted the situation."
She leans in closer, and Vi can feel her heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing to her face. It’s all too much, too close. Twisting and turning in her chest with steadfast refusal to accept what’s being presented to her on a silver platter.
Cait continues, heedless of how her words are setting Vi ablaze with confusion and hope.
“But the blush does seem to indicate that my assumption was correct.”
Blue eyes dip to her lips, and Caitlyn hesitates one last time. “May I?”
It’s all she can do to nod.
A pair of lips meet her own, and Vi forgets how to breathe for a moment. No more room for denial, or dithering, or second-guessing. This is a certainty, in a way she never dared to dream. Cait’s eyes are locked on her own, confident, waiting for an answer. Her world stops for a moment, shifts just a hair on its axis, then resumes spinning. Warmth filling her from head to toe until she can no longer contain it.
And all her emotion bubbles over as laughter.
A full-body chuckle, from the bottom of her lungs, filled with joy she’s never felt before. Caitlyn’s still pinning her hips to the mat, but Vi’s arms wrap around her shoulders anyway, dragging her best friend, crush, whatever she is now, closer. She presses a kiss to the pulse of Caitlyn’s throat, then another, just to prove she can, and a smile like the dawning sun breaks across Cait’s face as she leans into the embrace. Vi’s lips taste of sweat. Her side aches where she was kicked moments ago. Cait’s chin is starting to yellow just a hair where her punch connected moments ago. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Her heart soars. Filled with excitement, with relief, and with the paradigm-shifting realization that her feelings are reciprocated. A scenario she never dared to dream. To be able to let all the emotions she had kept bottled up for months, years, decades. Kept under wraps across a dozen crushes and just as many disappointments. To finally let her feelings show and know they were reciprocated.
“So, that’s a yes then?” Cait asks, her own face flushed with the excitement of the moment.
“Absolutely that’s a yes.”
And Vi has never been so happy to lose a fight.