a little headcanon story about how König got his bracelet of the arachnid skin
Your wrist aches and you can’t get it out of the grip. The coldness in his gaze burns more than the bitter frost.
“Do that again and I’ll break it.”
You jerk your hand, but he doesn’t let go warningly, he holds it for another second, and then only slightly loosens his grip.
“What the hell?” you frown.
König now looked like he didn't recognize you. He looks at your hand, then at your face and only says:
His fingers feel your quickening pulse. The fabric of the glove scratches the skin unpleasantly. It’s hard to read his emotions on his face, hidden by the mask and balaclava that you tried to pull off. You glare at him angrily and jerk your hand again.
The air seemed to become tense.
“König,” you mutter through clenched teeth, “let me go.”
He looks at you for a while longer, and then releases your hand. Your face darkens with anger.
“Are you satisfied?” his voice lowered, his arms crossed over his chest.
“And what was that?” you give him an equally cold look, instinctively rubbing your wrist.
König remains silent, as if testing you, and only after a while breaks it:
“I don’t like it when people touch me without permission,” his fingers twitch reflexively, as if trying to grab onto something, to defend himself, “if you’re done trying to remove the mask, you can continue.”
“At first you don’t react when your name is called, and then you attack and are ready to break my arms,” you snort irritably.
“You shouldn’t take lack of reaction as permission to touch me whenever you want. But keep that warning in mind.”
“Screw you,” you say angrily.
He clenches his jaw and looms over you as an ebon shadow in response to this behavior, and then raises his voice.
“Screw me, but you'll lick the entire warehouse clean today. Another insubordination - you will do it with your tongue. And now, fifty push-ups.”
You silently look into his eyes. It feels like you are crossing blades, as if testing who has the stronger steel in eyes.
“Eighty,” he says evenly.
Anger makes you feel noticeably vulnerable, and you deliberately replace it with disdain and indifference in your eyes. Raising your chin arrogantly, you lower yourself to the floor and begin to do push-ups. König towers over you like a silent rock, crossing his arms over his chest and watching you do the exercises.
“Don't lift your head. And don’t spread elbows.” a voice is heard from above.
You grit your teeth but don't say anything.
When you finish the last push-up and stand up, he's still looking at you expectantly.
“Since you’ve finished reading the lectures, then I’ll go,” without waiting for any answer, you walk around him, heading towards the exit.
König allowed you a lot. Even more. As soon as you leave, he sighs tiredly. You needed to tell him something, but now pride clouds your mind, and you leave on principle without saying a word about it.
You decisively walk along the hallways of the base and at some point, turn into a weapons storage. You do everything automatically, attach the card, open the desired locker and take out your favorite rifle. A brand new one, received quite recently, somewhat modified, but with a couple of scratches from previous missions. You take out a rag and begin to mindlessly but diligently move it over it, wiping the already clean trunk. You do not pay attention to the shadow that loomed after some time in your peripheral vision, continuing to wipe your weapon even with excessive zeal.
You glance into nothing at some point, without looking at König standing silently in the doorway, leaning his shoulder on the door frame.
The silent presence gets on your nerves, and you put the rifle butt down on the floor, turning to König. Your hand rests possessively on the gun, as if provoking him. Many in KorTac knew about his desire to become a sniper. König is silent for a few moments, collecting his thoughts, before finally breaking the silence with a response. His voice is calm but firm as he says:
“You know that handling a sniper rifle should not be taken lightly. It takes discipline and focus,” he pauses for a moment, studying your confident stance and the way you hold your rifle with the ease of an expert and the way you roll your eyes before continuing, “but to become a true sniper, it takes more than just skill.”
You look at him for a few moments with your mouth slightly open and your eyebrows drawn together on the bridge of your nose. A provocation to provoke emotions and teach a lesson? First a laugh escapes your throat involuntarily, then a second, and then you burst into laughter, shaking your whole body.
“Are you serious now?” you ask, giggling.
No, definitely an attempt to smooth things over. He knows how stupid his line sounds, he deliberately encourages you to laugh, he wants to relieve the tension between you. König is silent, checking the reaction. His emotions cannot be counted under the mask, but by the way his chest sank and his eyes half-closed, you understand that he exhaled with relief.
“And you seem to understand this,” you decide to play along with him, teasing him in response.
Something trembled in the depths of his eyes.
“Do you think it's just a matter of weapons? I would have done great if only I had been given the chance.”
You fall silent, looking intently into his eyes. Your eyebrows go up. His remark, similar to an excuse, sounded like a cry from the soul. You knew he wanted to be a sniper, but you didn’t think it would affect him so much, especially after all this time. His words hang in the air. Suddenly becoming serious, you look at him for a few seconds, and after a while you silently nod to the seat next to you, calling him to sit down. König’s gaze flickers between you and the spot you pointed to. After a moment's hesitation, he takes a step closer, heading towards you. Without a word, he sits down next to you, his massive body a stark contrast to your much smaller frame.
Without further ado, you hand him the rifle. He carefully takes it from your hands, his fingers wrapping around the shaft. The weight of the weapon seems to make him feel a little nostalgic, and his touch on it is combined with a mixture of respect and longing, as if he were holding something fragile and long lost. You watch his reaction sideways, watching as he takes the rifle off the safety, checks the magazine, adjusts the scope. All these movements are neat, honed to the point of automaticity. You rest your elbows on your knees, burying your face in your hands, looking away guiltily, not wanting to bother him with it.
“I like this model even more than the previous one. And the sight was finally well calibrated,” you say, as if by chance.
“They finally did something honestly,” König agrees.
He disassembled the rifle with obvious pleasure from the process. You lean back tiredly and stretch your legs, listening to the metallic clicks. As you watch him, you notice how the tension in his shoulders gradually eases. Apparently, this moment of concentration brings him peace. When König hands the rifle back to you, you give him a straight look before taking it from his hands and placing the weapon in the locker. An unspoken peace was concluded.
You leave the warehouse together and König accompanies you with a heavy tread. Entering the dining room, you silently sit down at the table while he rummages through the drawers. The silence is deafening, the aroma of coffee fills the room, and you point your nose towards the kitchen. You close your eyes and listen in silence.
König puts a couple of cups on the table and sits down opposite. Indifferently he pulls off his mask. You had seen his face more than once, but something stirred inside you every time he took it off. You didn’t understand why he wears it all the time, he doesn’t have any serious injuries or flaws on his face to hide them. His face is the most normal, but at the same time he reacted so violently when you tried to pull it off that it confused you.
The ocean depth of his eyes rushes into you, noticing your attention. He leans back in his chair, sipping his coffee, without looking away and as if asking: “Are you satisfied?” You just grin in response, repeating his action. When the cup lands on the table, you decide to break the silence with what you came to him for in the first place:
“There is a package for you. They say it was from one of the hostages you rescued in Berlin.”
König looks thoughtful, then nods slightly, accepting the information, taking a couple more sips.
He finishes his coffee before you do, and then gets up and leaves the kitchen. You slouch, throwing one arm over the back of the chair and smiling sadly at his dry gratitude, looking into your cup. Something was missing. Even though peace had been restored between you, a piece of the puzzle seemed missing. You slump in a chair, sighing as you stare at the ceiling.
But you raise your head in surprise, instantly straighten up after a while, hearing footsteps and again seeing the tall figure of König. He crosses the room and sits down again, placing the small box on the table. Without wasting any time, König opens it to the confusion and interest in your gaze. You watch patiently as he unfolds the neatly folded letter.
“Hello, Colonel,” he begins.
The corners of your lips creep up, and you listen to him read out the text. Shy and sweet formulations, tons of epithets and thanks testify to the young age of the author, which you cannot help but be touched by. A gift was attached to the letter. König takes out a scarlet bracelet, clearly handmade, and examines it.
“Will you wear it?” your smile widens, and you can’t understand why exactly: how nice the author of the package is or because König trusted you, since he decided to show what he received.
His gesture seemed to now burn out all the negative emotions inside that filled you before. He puts on a bright bracelet that contrasts so sharply with his uniform, glinting in the dim light. He twists his hand, looking from different sides.
