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Assistant: Title: Picture of Perfection
        Author: SarcastCity SarcastCity 
        Chapter: 2/7 
        Summary: “Three more - you’ve got this!”Caitlyn straightened her knees, taking a few quick breaths.She could feel Vi’s heat radiating against her back.“That’s it, Cupcake, nice and low. Now, breathe out,” Vi said, and Caitlyn could feel her forearms right alongside her waist. Not touching - never touching unless Caitlyn actually needed help.Vi was always perfectly professional.Unfortunately.Caitlyn blew out a stream of air, sending her her awareness of Vi’s every move, her scent, her breath on the sweat that had collected along Caitlyn’s back, left bare by her sports bra with it“Core tight! Only two more.”Vi’s fingertips were against the bare skin of her stomach and then gone. A tap to remind her to engage her core.Vi was always there.She really was exceptional at her job.And exceptionally attractive.“You’ve got this! I’m right here with you.”Caitlyn's smile at the words vanished as she remembered:Vi was her trainer.She was a client.It didn't mean anything.ORThe AU where Caitlyn is a rich trophy wife, unhappy in her marriage...and Vi is her personal trainer.
        Contents: Chapter 2: The Small Things
    

    


      
        
          Hello and welcome back!This chapter, we learn more of Caitlyn's backstory, and we find out some more about Vi's feelings about her favorite client.Thank you, as always, to F@ck (read her fics!!) for letting me scream at her at-length about plot and ideas and helping me sort out the alphabet soup that is my brain.This fic is for SightlessMouse - based on their completely fantastic prompt - and you should check out their fics too!You should also look at this art that Nappycat did of Caitlyn! https://x.com/nappycat797/status/1647533706977095680?s=20So, without further ado...
      
  

  
  
    
    
  “You got five more, Mrs. Carmichael,” Vi said, checking her next client’s form. She looked good to go, not struggling, not trying to rush it. 

  She was really picky about Vi being late, and the first time they’d met, she’d taken one look at the tattoos and gone, “Heavens, dear, why on 
  
    earth
  
   would you do something like that to yourself? 
  
    So
  
   uncouth.” 

  But she’d given an approving nod when Vi had winked and told her that she wasn’t much for propriety anyway, and since then, they’d had a good relationship. 

  She was a great client. 

  But not Vi’s favorite. 

  Vi’s 
  
    favorite
  
   client was currently making her way out of the gym in head-to-toe cream, expensive and well-tailored clothes hugging and highlighting her figure, but modestly. There was no indication in her outfit - other than the calves her heels put on display - of the powerful body Vi knew was underneath. 

  The long, 
  
    long
  
   lines of lean, toned muscle…

  Vi ground her teeth together, glancing down at Mrs. Carmichael and saying “two more,” before her eyes were pulled, like they always were, back up to watch Caitlyn. 

  She looked different when she got dressed to leave than she did during their sessions. She walked as straight and tall as she always did, but the 
  
    easiness
  
   in her body that Vi was used to seeing was gone, replaced with rigidity. She honestly doubted anyone else would have noticed the shift; Caitlyn was graceful when she was working out - during 
  
    burpees,
  
   even, which should be illegal - and she was graceful now, but her movements didn’t flow as easily. 

  She also never smiled when she walked out the door. 

  She wasn’t frowning, but Vi was treated pretty regularly to the sight of the perfect little gap between Caitlyn’s front teeth, and the almost-blank expression on her face made Vi frown. 

  The ring Vi could see glittering on Caitlyn’s finger when she raised her arm to open the door made her frown harder. 

  She shook her hands out as she turned back to Mrs. Carmichael, hyping her up through one more rep she complained the whole way through. 

  Vi took the medicine ball from her and helped her up at the end of her set, starting to move toward the weight racks, forcing herself to focus on her 
  
    job
  
   and not Caitlyn’s f@ck@ng fantastic legs through the window as she picked up the pace on the way to her weekly brunch with Jayce. 

  Stupid and pointless to think about it. Caitlyn was a client. She was from Piltover. And, to top it all off, she was 
  
    married.
  
   Completely off-limits.  

  She was also 
  
    perfect.
  
   Smart, funny, kind, driven, easy to talk to…f@ck@ng 
  
    hot.
  
   

  Vi slapped her hands together as she and Mrs. Carmichael got to the bench press, forcing a smile onto her face. 

  ______

  Jayce had, in fact, been disappointed that she didn’t have a sordid tale to tell, but brunch had been wonderful, nevertheless. She always looked forward to seeing her best friend, and even though they were out in society, and they therefore had to be on their best behavior, brunch with Jayce was relaxing.

  Caitlyn tried to hold onto that feeling as she pulled into the driveway of her house, tension creeping into her face and wrinkling her brow as she drove into the garage, turning the car off and sitting in silence for a few moments. 

  It always took her a moment - or several - to 
  
    adjust
  
   when she returned home. 

  Well, to her house - the enormous mansion, with its beige walls, and beige carpet, and beige décor had never really been 
  
    home.
  
   Caitlyn wasn’t sure 
  
    any
  
   place had ever been 
  
    home.
  
   

  She’d always felt out of place, somehow, even in her childhood bedroom, with its familiar domed ceiling and large, canopied bed. There truly wasn’t anywhere that she’d ever felt completely comfortable. 

  Unbidden, Vi’s office, with its cushioned mats, soft lighting, and bright artwork came to mind. 

  Caitlyn frowned, squeezing her steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white. 

  
    Utterly irrelevant,
  
   she thought, leaning her head back against her headrest and shutting her eyes, pushing pink hair and tattoos and kind, beautiful grey eyes from her mind. 

  Her husband’s car was sitting in the garage - a change from usual. He was almost never home, which, truthfully, was a blessing. 

  Caitlyn sighed as she released the steering wheel, wiggling the tension from her fingers and fiddling with the rings that had gotten pressed uncomfortably into her skin. 

  Slowly, like her body was reluctant to move her more quickly toward the silence awaiting her in the lifeless house, she removed her keys from the ignition and started to gather her things. 

  She and her husband had gotten married fairly young. Caitlyn had had all her 
  
    rebelliousness
  
   drilled out of her by that point, and her family had been anxious for her to begin fulfilling their expectations that she would inherit the Kiramman estate and continue the matrilineal 
  
    dynasty
  
   her great grandmother had begun. 

  Caitlyn had been to university, she’d lived a bit out from under her family’s close eye. She’d discovered herself, discovered who she was, outside of the label of 
  
    misfit
  
   or 
  
    princess
  
   or any number of the other things that had made it feel like her skin didn’t fit correctly. She’d studied criminal justice, so she could follow in Grayson’s footsteps and become a detective, which she’d been obsessed with doing since she was little, and she’d taken advantage of everything the university had to offer. She’d tried numerous extracurriculars, and taken additional classes in other fields, just to find out what she liked. She’d made an effort to try to talk to other students at the coffee shop, though she wasn’t particularly good with people, so that didn’t go as well as she might have liked. She’d gone to parties - she hated the smell of cheap liquor, marijuana, and too much perfume, but it was a new experience, and she’d wanted to do it all. She’d even had a few fumbling encounters that had left her shaken to the core and wide-eyed, curled into Jayce’s couch for a few days while he fussed and she refused to explain the cause for her upset. 

  So, Caitlyn knew who she was. 

  As soon as she’d gotten out of school, she’d entered the police academy. She’d put up with the nicknames, the staring, the ridicule, the isolation, all of it, and she’d gotten her badge - another step closer to following in Grayson’s footsteps. 

  But she’d quickly realized that she couldn’t make any difference at all as a beat cop with an influential family, and after she sustained minor injuries in an explosion, her mother had put in a 
  
    word
  
   with the sheriff who had replaced Grayson…and Caitlyn had been out on her @rs@. 

  
    Too much trouble,
  
   Marcus had said. 

  Caitlyn had solved the case anyway, walked straight into the station, dropped the evidence on Marcus’s desk, and walked straight back out. He’d since been replaced by 
  
    another
  
   sheriff, but Caitlyn still hadn’t been allowed back on the force. Her accomplishments, her desires, her skill, and her drive were all rendered meaningless in the face of her family’s influence.

  Her 
  
    dream
  
   since she was a little girl had turned out to be utterly impossible. 

  She was a Kiramman, and she had learned the hard way that the 
  
    expectations
  
   of who she was and what she could do were more rigid than she’d hoped. 

  And since she knew what she had discovered and accepted about herself through whispered encouragements and gentle kisses in the dark would 
  
    never
  
   be accepted by her family, she’d had no choice. If she was fully and truly herself, she couldn’t inherit the Kiramman name and all that came with it - the exact purpose she’d been 
  
    raised
  
   for. 

  Caitlyn didn’t have a purpose, after she had been kicked off the force. And the prospect of that failure having been for 
  
    nothing,
  
   of her entire life having been 
  
    wasted
  
   was too crushing to think about. She’d tried, and she’d failed, and the Kiramman name was her birthright and her cage. 

  So, she did what she’d been raised to do. 

  She’d contemplated screaming what she knew to be true at her parents on one particularly awful evening spent on a horrendous date at a gala her mother had insisted she attend, and then she’d given up. 

  There was no point in fighting it. No point in trying to go after what she wanted. She wasn’t even really sure what that 
  
    was
  
   after her graceless exit from the force, but her fleeting, fanciful dreams were irrelevant. Her whole life had been about pushing down how she felt in favor of being perfect and polished and 
  
    proper.
  
   

  Caitlyn was Piltover’s princess. The shining example, the gold standard. 

  She was a Kiramman. 

  And Kirammans exceeded expectations. 

  So, Caitlyn had resigned herself to the rest of her life being exactly what the first part of her life had been. She hadn’t protested when her parents had selected a suitor for her. She’d crawled into her empty bathtub and cried silently, for reasons she didn’t even really comprehend - maybe in mourning of the person she’d never be, maybe in anticipation of the person she’d be for the rest of her life - and then she’d gone on dates with him, deciding that she could do worse than a gentleman who opened doors and asked her about her day, even though he focused on his phone, rather than her face, when she answered. 

  They’d gotten engaged after the appropriate amount of time, and a year later, they were married and moved into this house.

  This mausoleum where Caitlyn had entombed her happiness. 

  She’d tried, at first. 

  She had spent time with him at home and tried to find common interests. They were married, after all. Until death did they part. They should enjoy one another’s company. 

  They didn’t. 

  Or, if her husband enjoyed her company, he had a strange way of showing it. 

  He was a doctor, and therefore a slave to his pager. He worked long hours, and when he wasn’t working, he was reading, or staring at his phone, or staring down at his plate, or staring at whatever sport he had decided was worthy of his undivided attention, or doing absolutely anything but talking with or even looking at Caitlyn. 

  She’d planned dates and written conversation topics in a notebook she’d ended up throwing in the yawning fireplace that didn’t seem to generate any warmth after failed attempts at both the dates and the conversation. 

  Her husband had gone along with both, but he asked her minimal questions, and paid no attention to her answers. If she was honest with herself, Caitlyn didn’t particularly care about his answers, either, but she made an effort. Used all her training, and, still, there was silence in the house. 

  She’d even pretended that his 
  
    efforts
  
   in the bedroom, minimal as they were, pleased her. 

  But, it was possible she wasn’t as effective as she’d thought, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even had to pretend. 

  It was almost a shame. She’d purchased an extensive collection of very beautiful lingerie in the hopes that it would help her get in the mood - and maybe help him, too. 

  Caitlyn had long found it darkly funny that those few, clumsy makeouts at university had been significantly more thrilling than anything she and her husband had ever done. 

  But, despite her efforts, he’d eventually left her alone in the silence. 

  And Caitlyn had stopped trying. 

  She still cooked, but that was more for her than it was for him, even if she always made two portions. 

  Even if he went out to dinner with his colleagues and didn’t tell her, or asked their housekeeper to add prepackaged, frozen meals to the grocery list. 

  She spent her days attending charity events only occasionally on the arm of her husband, going to the shooting range whenever she could, reading smutty romance novels when her husband was on business trips, and working out vigorously in the hopes that it would help with her tendency to lie awake next to her husband, staring at the ceiling and praying for the oblivion of sleep, even as she dreaded waking up in the morning to the cage she’d shut the door on herself. 

  And then…almost eight months ago…Caitlyn had met Vi. 

  And, every time they saw one another, Caitlyn 
  
    felt
  
   things she’d long felt she wasn’t even capable of. 

  Three or four days a week, during lulls in the routines, they talked about their childhoods, their favorite foods, activities, movies…

  Caitlyn knew Vi loved cooking shows and feel-good sports movies, and that both made her cry. 

  She knew Vi had three siblings - though, technically four, if you counted Ekko, which Vi did. 

  She knew Vi had scrimped and saved and worked her @rs@ off for 
  
    years
  
   behind Vander’s bar, and that she hadn’t thought she’d ever go to university, but then she realized that she didn’t have to go for academics, and she researched the differences in pay between trainers without an educational background, and the pay jump was large enough that she’d earned a dual Master’s degree in Exercise Science and Kinesiology. 

  She knew the job at the gym in Piltover meant a lot to Vi, since she’d thought for a lot of her life that she’d end up dead in an alley with bloodied fists. 

  Caitlyn’s heart had broken for her then, and a few other times, when Vi had told her about how hard life had been up until just a few years ago. 

  In turn, Caitlyn had told Vi about Jayce, and how she loved him like a brother. 

  She’d told Vi about her parents, and how they were high-achieving, and incredibly busy, and they spent their days trying to make Piltover a better place. 

  She’d had to - because it was part of why she wanted to train - but she’d talked to Vi about learning to shoot, and how it was still the one thing she loved. 

  Knowing Piltover and Zaun’s history - and because it still felt too painful to talk about how she’d 
  
    failed
  
   - Caitlyn hadn’t said much about her time on the force. But…she wanted to. Maybe someday. She felt like Vi might understand. 

  Every time it happened, Caitlyn reminded herself that being personable, and friendly, and easy to talk to was a trait that Vi likely acquired while bartending, and it surely helped her with her client relationships, but…sometimes it felt like Vi understood her better than anyone. 

  Vi watched her face when she talked. Not her phone, or the TV’s in the gym, or the weights, or anything else that might have served as a convenient enough distraction. 

  Vi paid attention. 

  And even if Caitlyn knew that was her 
  
    job
  
   as a trainer, she still appreciated it probably more than she should’ve. Still felt closer to Vi than was entirely appropriate for a professional relationship. 

  Firmly reminding herself that anything more than strict professionalism - and friendly conversation - with Vi was strictly forbidden, Caitlyn opened her car door and took a breath to prepare herself to step back in the house. 

  As she swung open the door that led to the kitchen, she was greeted with yawning, cavernous silence. 

  It was filled a moment later with the crisp 
  
    clack
  
   of her heels on marble. 

  In the house, the familiar sound made her feel very, very small. 

  She didn’t bother calling to her husband that she’d arrived home. He never answered when she did. Shouting across the house was “undignified” and “gave him a headache.” 

  Instead, she raised her chin incrementally, enough to help herself pretend like her breath wasn’t constricting with every step, and made her way to her husband’s office, knocking softly on the doorframe to alert him to her presence. 

  If he acknowledged her, it would be acceptable to speak with him. 

  If not, she would have to hold her questions until later. 

  She’d once waited fifteen minutes at his doorway before realizing he had no intention of taking any sort of break to let her know when would be a good time to converse. 

  She’d been coming to tell him that dinner was ready. 

  It had been cold when he’d come down a half hour later. 

  Today, he was apparently at a break in whatever he was doing, and he turned to greet her politely, as he always did. 

  He was handsome, she supposed, if one were interested in such things. Tall - though not tall enough for Caitlyn to wear heels over two inches - square jaw, thick hair, perfectly tailored clothes. 

  Caitlyn actually found it sort of entertaining that the Piltovan ladies had a tendency to fawn over him like he was some sort of action movie heartthrob. 

  He’d never made any part of her throb. 

  Caitlyn blinked away the thought that she knew someone who accomplished that frequently. 

  She appreciated it when he asked how her day was. But she was fairly certain that informing him that she 
  
    very much
  
   enjoyed her training session this morning would not be acceptable. 

  Instead, she settled on the truth, though an 
  
    efficient
  
   version, which she knew he preferred. “Fine, thank you. I went to the gym this morning and then met Jayce for brunch. He sends his regards.” 

  Her husband nodded and turned back to whatever he’d been doing at his desk. 

  “I was thinking that chicken cordon bleu sounded good for dinner this evening. Is that alright, or would you care for something else?” 

  He grunted, a noise which told Caitlyn absolutely nothing, and gave his usual response. “I’ll be eating late tonight. There’s no need to wait for me, I’ll just get myself something from the freezer.” 

  Caitlyn nodded, though he couldn’t see her, and said nothing else as she made her way, with echoing steps, toward the bathroom. 

  She hoped the housekeeper had cleaned the tupperware, since it looked like she’d be adding another meal to the neat stack in the refrigerator. 

  Caitlyn shook her head, swallowing against the rejection that still raised bile in her throat, even years later, even as she didn’t 
  
    truly
  
   care about dining with her husband. 

  As she shed her beige clothing and left it on the beige tile, a malformed lump in the otherwise perfectly straight-edged house, Caitlyn mentally flipped through her calendar, noting social engagements that would get her out of the house but would require her to don the mask that had felt heavier and heavier as the years went by…and tried not to focus too hard on the fact that she would Vi again in just a few days. 

  In a few days, she would be able to breathe. 

  In a few days, someone would look at her when she spoke. 

  In a few days, what she said - even if it was simply “I’d like more weight” or “I need to adjust my positioning” - would 
  
    matter.
  

  Shaking her head at herself and turning the spray of the water hotter, Caitlyn wondered when she’d become the type of person who relied on the promise of small kindnesses to get her through the day.'
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