WINTER'S TOUCH
the winter soldier x female!reader [14.9k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); pre-established relationship; angst; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) very brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s beefy and tall); caregiving dynamics (no ageplay; reader takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; emotional vulnerability & intimacy.
A/N: this is such an important story for me and I’m really glad it got so much love and support when it was first posted on my other blog. there are some changes, because I realized some parts didn't really fit the situation. at the very end you'll find a brief explanation about why I removed the smut part. I know it "sells" more than angst/fluff, but I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway 💛
His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.
This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different—and definitely purer—reason.
You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.
The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.
The echo of gunfire. An agonizing cry. The sharp, electric snap of orders obeyed too fast.
He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.
The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.
He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.
They never do.
He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. He didn’t know it was possible for something so human to exist, completely different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.
One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale measured and unafraid.
Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.
Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a trembling hand hesitantly reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.
Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes his chest tighten, yet the sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into your world.
Then, your eyes open.
You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.
“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.
He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… woke you.”
You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his cold wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”
That’s enough—being here.
You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.
“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he rigidly stands where he is.
“Winter.” You call out gently.
He shakes his head. “Dirty.”
You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.”
You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your laptop. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”
That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.
“Or… you can come with me?” He gives you a sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.
In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, but he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment, nor mind.
Standing amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat, makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”
The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now—small, like he’s holding something intense back.
You keep moving, deliberately slow, as you retrieve towels and test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him.
They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.
Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze.
“Do you want my help to undress?”
His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.
“Yes. Just… don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.
“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.
“Yes, please.”
It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt, your hands stopping short as you feel the weight of his head settle, now caressing his back instead.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You don’t seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”
You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.
Unknowingly to you, a faint blush spreads on his cheeks as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the mysterious Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra. A ghost. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.
It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not sting anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.
He knows the sight makes you sad by the way the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadistic bastards. He hates himself for being the reason of your sadness, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.
Another way he keeps failing you.
His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and his ears turn scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well—he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.
With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; abruptly turning around, his eyes frantically fly left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.
“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.
“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, immediately complying. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be a song by your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago... he wouldn’t know. Music is a strange concept to him.
You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… there, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.
The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. It allows him to bring a part of you with him when he is forced to go back there.
“Smells good.”
It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions.
Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and almond shampoo?”
“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.
“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning.
Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.
Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them. To him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.
Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.
Just… to be cleaned.
When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.
“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?
“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”
You tilt your head, slightly confused.
“I want... to do it.”
“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.
That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.
“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. It’s adorable how he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.
When you are ready, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.
Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. With eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he cleans all around. You stay quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.
He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”
So he does. He kneels, the tiles hard on his skin but he barely registers the dull ache. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons—thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath.
The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you as if he has all the time in the world. There’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch confident yet tender enough to never startle, cleaning each toe in the same systematic way he did with your fingers. His eyebrows twitch in sincere concentration, every motion conveying something akin to reverence.
At last, he rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.
When Winter’s finished, he stays where he is, water still dripping from his hair and blue eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks.
The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.
Hope that he’s done well.
Hope that this, at least, was done right.
You meet his gaze with a soft smile. “You did a perfect job.”
You notice the moment your words settle into him, seeping into his bones and reaching the most visceral part of his soul. On the outside, he simply nods, accepting the praise the only way he knows how: silently, but at least the tension he’s been holding loosens its final grip on his shoulders. As a matter of fact, he rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.
“You are clean too.” He utters, quietly proud.
“Thank you.” You smile.
Once you’re out, your hand reaches for his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.
You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.
“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.
You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you simply nod with a knot lodging itself in your throat.
“Alright.”
He dries you the same way he washed you, tenderly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing, bought specifically for him after the first time you met.
His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.
Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.
“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.
You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering on his broad chest just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.
“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that was chosen, not assigned.
He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.
“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.
You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help?”
“With clothes.”
Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. So the fresh pair of pajamas you picked is gently pried from your hands, before he bends down. He holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.
This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate: he follows easily, allowing you to decide where he should sit.
Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, but like setting it down somewhere safe. He is stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.
You kneel on the mattress in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.
For a moment, he’s here.
Then the stillness stretches.
The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.
His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.
“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”
Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He flinches just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.
“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”
You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers instantly fidget with it, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.
“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me, you are safe. Can you tell me five things you see?”
His mouth opens, then closes.
“… Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The—” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”
“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”
He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… your voice.”
You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”
“Shampoo, and… soup.”
“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”
“I—water… from shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”
“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are, good job.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.
His breath catches. Then quieter, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go, “Winter.”
The way it rolls on your tongue like silk sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all.
Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.
Just Winter.
Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Blood crusted into his hair, fingers numb from the snow, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him—remembers the blank space where his name should have been.
“Then, I’ll call you Winter.” You stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s been plunged under water anymore.
“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”
Means he is here with you: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.
The hand caressing his locks stills.
“I know.”
After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside.
“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”
Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”
“Of course.”
He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.
When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.
“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.
“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down, cheeks flushed. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into a bad memory.
He glances at it, then at you.
“You know… I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum, by morning.”
“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.
His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “… A bit.”
“Then we can take care of them so they don’t.” You add, softer now.
He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised at how simple you make everything sound. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.
You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.
“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”
He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.
“You’re doing great.” You whisper. “How are you feeling?”
He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… here.” He says finally.
Your expression softens. “Good.”
Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, or reach for something new, your voice narrates.
“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”
“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”
“I’m almost done.”
The predictability steadies him, causing the rigid line of his spine to soften, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, and it’s enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again—an old reflex—so you pause immediately.
“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing shakily. “Yes.”
You unhurriedly wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist eventually goes lax. By the time you finish, he’s slightly leaning forward, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that his body feels safe enough.
Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.
He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut.
“Yes. But…” His fingers clutch the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.
“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”
You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.
“Alright, let’s go slow, one foot at a time.” You keep mumbling, his steps sluggish and heavy.
The light in the kitchen is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.
“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”
You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You expertly spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back, staring at your hands with half-lidded eyes.
The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you try not to shiver, instead focusing on adding the cheese, then placing the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.
Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.
When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.
“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat.” He agrees silently.
After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.
Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.
Food is… complicated.
Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming... something to manage carefully.
That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.
Things he knows and trusts by now.
Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the rich taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.
You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.
“Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.
“Hot.” He mutters.
“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”
Halfway through, he slows.
The spoon lowers, his gaze drifts to the plate, then somewhere far away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.
“We can wait.”
A few seconds pass, then a full minute. Winter shifts, all breath shallow and pink cheeks. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.
“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.
“Can you… ?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, it’s not the first time he has asked you to feed him.
You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course, baby.”
Scooping a modest bite, you wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.
His lips part, trusting your timing. He swallows, exhales, nods faintly. And you watch him proudly, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.
“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”
When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter hastily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you set everything back on the tray.
“Can I ask you something?” Leaning back, your turn your palm up so it rests on your thigh. An offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders—the left one.”
He tries to shake his head. It’s the instinctive denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He answers a little too quickly.
You never argue, yet you don’t look totally convinced.
“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”
Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars—the way his entire body had locked, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to fight, and how he had forced himself to stay anyway, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was standing in the middle of a battlefield instead of your quiet room. The memory presses in now, not painful, but almost disorienting in its intensity, because nothing had happened, there was only your hands, warm and mindful.
“… Okay.” He agrees quietly.
The corners of your mouth lift relieved, and your hands promptly reach into the drawer beside the couch for a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.
“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. Meanwhile, you pour the liquid in your hands to warm it up. He watches the motion, the sweet intention behind it.
“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”
He nods, shoulders raising and lowing deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.
The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.
“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”
Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.
“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”
Your palms settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as distress begins to give way.
When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. The marks are still flushed beneath your hands, the skin uneven and textured, a map of something that was never meant to heal cleanly. You slow even further, letting your movements grow lighter, more deliberate, using only the soft pads of your fingers as you begin to trace along the edges.
“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”
You keep your touch predictable, circling carefully, letting him feel exactly where you are at all times, the warmth sinking deeper rather than forcing it. The muscle beneath your hands is still tight, but no longer braced for impact, and when you finally move closer, it’s with the same patience, the same quiet assurance. He shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.
At that point you lean forward and press a soft kiss on one of the scars where skin meets something unyielding—brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.
The next inhale is sharp, hands curling in his lap.
“Okay?” You ask immediately.
“Yes…” he breathes. “Again. Please.”
You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with small kisses, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. Your lips are featherlight at first, it almost feels unreal, like they might vanish if either of you breathes too hard. You let them rest on his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sealing the place with care rather than trying to erase what it holds. For once, the metal is simply acknowledged, included. Treated with the same love as the rest of him.
You learned where to touch by trial and error—where his body locked, where it flinched. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.
He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first. When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him abruptly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch on.
His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire while shoulders square as if bracing for brutality. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks—a wordless signal that something else is about to begin.
He hates that his body betrays him even here.
But nothing happens.
No command, no pain, no hands forcing him down.
Instead, he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing his nape. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.
Winter lets out a strong gasp that almost hurts his throat.
For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands on the skull mean restraint, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, sliding gently through the strands.
The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions underneath him, his head tipped forward just enough to give you better access.
Permission, offered without words.
Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose—basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his efficiency. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about—the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you touch it with your usual tenderness, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be cut away, reshaped, erased.
Your fingers linger with unhurried patience, treating each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool of camouflage, an accident of neglect. With you, it’s just something worth loving.
“Today was… kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to bother him.
Your fingers separate a section of hair.
“Mh.”
“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”
You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.
“That… happen often?” He asks quietly.
“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”
Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic to the point his eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to the pleasant tingling sensation at the back of his head.
“Do you remember that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how emails work? Today he spilled coffee everywhere: papers, desk, his shoes... He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor, it was the first time he said more than one sentence.”
Winter breathes out, something akin to amusement. “Poor papers.”
“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him clean it up but he stomped around, shrieking that he could do it himself.”
He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.
“And then the elevator here got stuck. Again.” You sigh. “Well—not really stuck. It just stopped for a minute, but you know I get anxious in small spaces.”
He nods slightly. “I hear weird metal sounds,” he says. “Now.”
You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”
Your fingers let the braid unravel and start again, patient.
“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful sundress in the window, but the color… eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”
“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.
“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that shade of yellow. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”
His mouth twitches. “You… think a lot.”
“Too much.” You agree with a dejected sigh.
You then gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, causing him to exhale, long and slow. The line of his throat lengthens as his head unconsciously tips back, until he accidentally meets the solid warmth of your shoulder. The knot inside his stomach finally loosens, body going lax, trusting that you will support the weight.
When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, combing through the locks.
He could easily fall asleep like this.
The thought never fails to surprise him, because the idea of falling asleep without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it tiptoes at the edges,
A gift.
He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their moviments. Always checking, always attentive.
“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” Your voice is nothing short of a whisper.
“Better now.” He murmurs.
“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”
Your breath tickles his cheek when you sigh.
“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.
His answer is swift. “It is. For me.”
Your hands still in his hair without meaning to, caught mid-motion as the weight of his words settles somewhere low in your chest.
There’s no hesitation in his voice. He means it exactly as it is, and that kind of blunt sincerity hits deeper than you’re prepared for. Your heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it. The idea that your voice, your ordinary life, your presence alone can anchor him like this, can matter this much to someone, feels like a hand squeezing your lungs.
This man, shaped by a life that has taken and taken until there was barely anything left for himself, is offering you four words so simple and yet so impossibly devastating. There’s something unbearably precious in him, in the way he gives without realizing the importance of what he’s placing in your hands. He doesn’t see how his quiet affection unravels you each time, slipping past every defense you have built throughout the years spent here in this big city, alone and far from your family.
He just sits there, unaware, trusting, letting you hold him while you’re the one coming undone.
As soon as you feel the familiar sting behind your eyes, you draw in a slow, entirely too shaky breath, forcing your fingers to move again.
Before you speak, you have to clear your throat.
“Then I’ll keep talking.”
You shift behind him. It’s a small movement, just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but he reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.
His eyes snap open.
The world sharpens instantly, his heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. His hand shoots back, fingers curling into fabric and gripping your sweater at the hem until his knuckles turn white.
“Don’t—”
The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.
You freeze.
“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, tender and grounding. “I just wanted to get your shirt and the blanket.”
Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.
“Sorry.” He mutters.
You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.
When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then you pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.
The blanket faintly smells of your detergent, the scent keeping the edges of him from drifting apart as he grips it reflexively.
You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.
He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest on his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.
But then he feels it.
The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Calm. Steady.
Your breathing.
And beneath that, fainter but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.
Alive.
The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath… The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.
Winter inevitably presses closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own beat gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your breathing.
Meanwhile, you pick the remote and turn on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.
It’s the show you introduced him to months ago—something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast and cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.
It’s safe noise.
“This one… good?”
“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”
He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they bickered at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That’s what friends do, apparently.
“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as one of the protagonists keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.
Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “You care. Is good.”
You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice way to put it.”
You go quiet for a moment, then continue, pensively. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven’t finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.
“They ruined it.” You whine dramatically. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”
Winter exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “A crime.”
You chuckle at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show, as your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.
Eventually, you speak again.
“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”
He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”
“That’s the goal.”
He gathers enough courage to add. “You… make it better. Eating.”
Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”
The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrowing again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the pressure of the blanket holding him together.
This... This is what matters.
Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.
He can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still here with you, safe.
His eyes flutter shut without he meaning to, sleep pulling at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the tension has been sanded down by love and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, still, his mind can’t quite settle yet.
The sigh escaping his nostrils is small but purposeful.
“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” Another nod, suddenly more awake.
You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion and his movements lethargic. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.
Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your body registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with unsurprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.
When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where one of the protagonists worries about menopause.
The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.
He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.
Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.
He pauses, considering, then adds.
Did not hurt stomach.
His handwriting is uneven, but each letter is formed with intent, pressed harder than necessary, as if afraid it might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.
Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.
Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose. She wears it when too cold.
His grip tightens slightly on the pen. Flipping back a few pages, his eyes scan what he’s written on previous nights, focusing on continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.
They notice it before he can do something about it.
A second too slow to pull the trigger, the way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention.
Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.
They restrain him in a room that smells like metal and disinfectant, rough hands pull and prod at his skin, clipped and impersonal voices talk about him like an object.
He fights them harder than he ever has before. To remember.
He snarls, limbs thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.
Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your palms stroking his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees by gloved fingers.
He can’t lose that.
He can’t lose you.
“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please—I can’t—”
They don’t listen.
He twists free for half a second—enough to stumble back, enough for a spark of hope to deceptively ignite in his chest—and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced on the looming chair, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest, and a mouth guard forced between his teeth.
Panic explodes.
He screams.
Your name flicks over and over again in his mind, and he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it can’t be burned away.
The warmth. The quiet. The way your eyes light up when he finally comes home.
He begs fiercely for those moments to stay.
Then the world goes black.
A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and foggy fragments. His head feels hollow, like a forgotten room after furniture has been stripped out.
When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the static noise in his brain fades and the city falls asleep… His feet take him somewhere else.
The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.
His head hurts.
Then, the door opens.
You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you finds the courage to move.
Something is wrong. He could see it flash in your expression—shock, something like grief—and it makes his chest hurt inexplicably.
“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… here.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your vision instantly blurs with tears, because his blue eyes are so... empty, yet he came here. Not by memory. Not by choice. Not in any way that makes sense, but something buried deeper than whatever they took from him still found you.
Crossing the room with measured steps, as if approaching a scared animal, you stop just short of touching him, like you are afraid he might vanish with a single brush of your fingertips.
“Winter.” You whisper.
A flicker, small and disoriented, passes through his expression, like a crack forming beneath the surface. His breathing stutters, just once, and for a second he looks like he’s caught between two places, two versions of himself that don’t quite align.
Then his gaze slips away from you. It drifts unfocused, like he’s trying to escape the weight of the moment, until it catches on something sitting on the coffee table. A notebook, plain and worn, nothing extraordinary, but the sight brings a frown to his face.
Why does that object suddenly feel important enough to be acknowledged?
“That.”
Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at.
“You—” Stopping yourself when your voice breaks, you take a moment to swallow back a sob and clear your throat. “You wrote it for—for moments like this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”
You carefully place it in his hands.
Inside, there are endless pages of his own messy handwriting.
She keeps me safe.
Not a weapon here.
I love her.
The words land one by one, heavy... Devastating.
He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might keep his body from crumbling.
Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.
Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just his ordinary state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.
The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. The chair and the restraints are almost manageable. What haunts him the most is the look on your face when you realized Winter was gone.
He remembers the fear, that’s what stays with him.
After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. From the smell of your hair to the cadence of your soft laugh so you don’t wake your neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him.
He also starts writing more.
The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages, dates, details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.
Drinks her tea too hot.
Bounces her right knee when nervous.
He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without any memory of you terrifies him more than pain ever has.
The fear also changes how he touches you. His fingers linger longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hands rest on your waist a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep.
He never confesses that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest could vanish, leaving nothing but orders.
He also becomes more careful with routine.
If he misses a visit, panic coils hot in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he frantically asks you where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals—a different kind of food, a different chair—he stiffens before he can stop himself.
So you learn to reassure him in new ways.
“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it together. I promise.”
The desperate urge to believe you is there, but his heart won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.
He is still here.
You are still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the exact moment he steps inside.
Your mug is wrong.
For starters, it’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. It’s also a different one—slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sole sight makes something inside his stomach churn.
You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.”
You weren’t expecting two visits in two days, not that you’re complaining.
Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh! The blue one is still in the dishwasher.”
His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
“Okay.” He rushes out. “Okay.”
He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.
Your smile fades into a thin line.
Setting the dishcloth down, you call softly. “Winter, can you sit here for a second?” He hesitates.
“Please.” Your eyes are not as sparkly as usual, and that’s what makes him move, perching himself on the edge of his chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the plates of his metal arm hum faintly.
His eyes stubbornly fix on the floor as you open the dishwasher, pick the right mug, still wet and hot, and set it in front of him. A quiet exhale escapes him before he can stop himself.
“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.
“You panicked.” Not accusing, just stating a fact.
Winter shakes his head. “No. Just—the mug… not here.”
“There was a different mug. It was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”
His jaw tightens, still not looking at you. So you reach out, your hand resting over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”
Winter swallows.
“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”
Your breath catches.
“Didn’t know…” He quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters, but his lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I can’t forget this, I can’t forget you.”
Your other hand tentatively comes up to cradle his cheek, soft but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distress, almost close to bursting into tears.
“Baby,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”
He shakes his head, breath coming out dangerously fast. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out like a waterfall. “What if I walk here but don’t stop and—and don’t see you again?”
You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. His body stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once, tears already wetting your collarbones.
“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces, but they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”
“I’m scared.” He chokes on a sob, barely audible.
“I know, sweetheart. I am too.” You chin wobbles. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush his stubble. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue with a sniffle. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”
Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.
“But you need to tell me when it gets bad, my love.” You add. “You can’t just carry it alone.”
He nods, a small, shy movement. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
You rest your forehead against his, his body still trembling under your palms. Gradually, his shoulders lower, the panic ebbing vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow against the warmth of your chest.
That day, the Soldier learns that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.
On the bookshelf nearby, something colorful catches his peripheral vision. A photograph. His eyes squint faintly, not remembering having ever written about it. Walking with military precision, he retrieves it to study it under the low light. You look younger, standing with a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.
Graduation.
He sits back on the couch.
Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.
He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Still, he frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.
Watched show. Cheesecake episode is my favorite.
Winter finally closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment his palm rests flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and secured.
He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”
It’s never shaped as a command, yet you nod and stay on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal protectively pressed against your chest as your gaze follows him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately: spine straightening, eyes narrowing and breath recalibrating.
This is another version of him. Not the one who blushes when you call him sweetheart, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.
He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room comes first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice... because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.
The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.
That’s when he stops to listen. The building has a specific rhythm at night, he learned it in his second month here, the same way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours. The distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.
Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.
The windows come next. He just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.
Good.
There are things you don’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong, too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The suspicious absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.
Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and metal laid instinctively in the path of danger.
Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, when sleep turns against him and memories surface uninvited, too vivid and sharp. His body reacts accordingly, with a hand curling at his side as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.
You know the signs, and you talk him back every time, unfailingly.
Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades as your voice tenderly tells him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it. That here, he doesn’t have to worry about loud voices and aggressive hands. That you love him.
You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that, yet his eyes wet at your refusal to let him carry everything alone, at the way you fiercely fight to give him some respite.
It still takes him everything to not pull you back.
Winter’s not only good at spotting things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump because your lower back hurts, your hands faintly shaking when you’re anxious. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment—he just intervenes. Gently guides you to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you observe him with half-lidded eyes, beaming as he lines the edges up with meticulous precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. You can handle it, yes, but he wants your world intact, even in small ways.
He never tells you everything and because of that, his stomach often twists with guilt.
You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. His answers tiptoe around the truth, the sharp edges trimmed to not worry you more than he has already done. He leaves out the blood, the parts that would keep you awake at night, and when memories surface, too dark to contain, he removes himself, stepping away so the weight of them won’t taint your peace.
When you apologize with a small voice and unshed tears for constantly worrying about him, he shakes his head, strong arms already cocooning you in his warmth.
Winter also keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.
He teaches you safety in pieces small enough to not frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there, a careful demonstration of how to free yourself from unwelcome hands.
“Always look peephole first. Even if you wait for someone.”
“Leave lights on when not home too.”
“Don’t say you live alone.”
If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.
“Too crowded.”
“Only one emergency exit.”
And you prepare accordingly.
On rare days when he can stay longer—when missions are short or delayed—he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.
Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to assess the building from a distance. He always makes sure to check on you in his own ways.
So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.
By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have blurred with unavoidable exhaustion. You are now curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but your full attention instantly shifts on him when he sits beside you.
“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “Everything okay?”
He nods once. “Good.”
“Do you want to go to bed?” He hums, promptly following you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you, like a shadow that isn’t meant to be threatening, his fingers still hooked into your shirt. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.
There’s something else he wants to do.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching for the right words without imposing. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly in hesitation.
“Uh,” he starts. Gapes. Then tries again. “We… do face thing?”
You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”
“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”
There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes studying your face with a smile.
“If you’re not too tired.”
His answer is immediate, punctuated by a firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”
It isn’t a lie. His body is drained, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.
The corners of your lips lift in amusement. “Okay. Come on, then.”
The first time you introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.
His blue, confused eyes follow your movements as you adjust the Shrek headband on his head. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.
“What?” Winter frowns over your shoulder, staring down at the two colorful face mask packets.
“These are face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost.” You explain, opening the first one.
Winter’s eyebrows rise in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the foreign object. “Cold?”
“Yep, they’re a little cold.” You carefully unravel the mask sheet.
“Pretty?” You hum in confusion. “My skin pretty like yours with… this mask?”
Oh.
You look up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blink down at you, curious and innocent.
“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”
He tries his best to stay still as you set it on his face, your lips twisting into an amused grin at his grimace when one hem briefly gets caught on his left eye. You carefully smooth the mask on his features, before pulling away to admire your work.
Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.
“Alright?”
“Sticky.” Winter mutters as his eyes glance up at the mirror, studying his face.
You tear open the other pack, giggling. “It’s just for a few minutes, I swear.”
His nose wrinkles at the reflection staring back at him. His face feels wet, and the mask actually forces him to keep his chin up, worried it might suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loves the way you touch him to apply your little products right after. He also can’t deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cup his cheeks to check for any left over cream? He melts into your hold like ice cream under the sun. But it’s only when you lean over him a little at the end to peck his lips that Winter promises himself to never skip skincare.
You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.
“Wolf?”
You nod. “Wolf.”
He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, the fuzzy feeling prompting him to close his eyes and hum under his breath.
You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his following visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.
You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to, drinking all your details in: from the way you unconsciously lean forward to examine your skin, to the small crease between your brows when you floss. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the people they love, arguing about the correct way to squeeze toothpaste. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.
“Okay?”
He nods a little embarrassed. “I like this.”
Your smile softens. “Me too.”
Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.
“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount on your palm.
“Cleans skin?”
“Correct.” You smile brightly, working it on his face carefully, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation of your thumbs circling his cheekbones, and the mild, clean scent that causes his nostrils to flare.
The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.
“This is funny.” He murmurs when you unfold the pattern of a panda.
You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”
He shrugs, lips twitching. “Animals are cute.”
You put on yours while he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each label. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.
“Serum.” Winter mentions suddenly. “What do?”
“Serum helps with a lot of things. Let’s say it gives skin the support it needs.”
He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.
“Sunscreen?”
“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”
He frowns indignantly. “You are not old.”
You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”
With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”
“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”
He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.
He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your eyes light up at his curiosity. He loves this version of you—relaxed and smiling. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he’s not allowed to be part of.
When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.
“Mh, moisturizer...” You mumble absently. “Now where did I put that?”
Your fingers are gentle when you finally smooth the cream into his skin, the movement unhurried, almost reverent. The texture melts beneath your touch, and you take your time with it, tracing along the lines of his face, easing it especially into his forehead and nose, where the skin looks particularly dry.
He leans forward slightly without seeming to realize it, naturally drawn toward the contact. When you finish, Winter doesn’t move.
He waits expectantly, holding completely still. Finally, his patience is rewarded.
The press of your lips is a chaste, little thing, but his entire body locks for a fraction of a second, a slow, unmistakable wave of heat rising through him, creeping up his neck and into his face before he can regain control of it. The kiss ends too soon, yet when his eyelids flutter open, he pushes down the need to caress his lips, still tingling with the memory of your mouth. They part slightly enough for the tip of his tongue to lick them to try and taste you again.
For a moment, he just sits uselessly, gaping as his heart does some embarrassing cartwheel in his ribcage. Then he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn now.”
Your smile is radiant when his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer on your face with precise movements, not caring about the way his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without the urge to hide out of embarrassment.
When Winter hums satisfied, you know he’s finished. Once your eyes open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.
“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.
His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. He simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you—quick, shy, barely there.
You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”
He reaches for your hand with a nod, fingers threading through yours.
The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rustling softly and pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, your arms relaxed at your sides.
Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging motionless at his sides for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, cozy haven where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.
“How do you want to sleep?”
Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much might be a burden.
He swallows, shifting forward, movements clumsy enough that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in action elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now, nor is control. So he awkwardly climbs onto the soft bed, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs, before hovering for half a second and checking your face for any sign of discomfort.
“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.
Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his strength. He would never forgive himself for hurting you, even by accident.
When he’s comfortable enough, his head finally rests on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.
The effect is immediate.
Your heartbeat meets his ear, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.
His body exists in a world that is often abstract—rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But here, your heart gives shape to time, each beat a proof of continuity.
He adjusts his head again, angling his cheek so his lips are directly brushing the fabric of your shirt. The movement of your chest is calming and deep, and without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. His body sinks further when your palm settles between his shoulders, while your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.
“Are you comfortable, baby?” With a simple nod, the fluttering in your stomach eases, and you wish him a good night, punctuated by a soft peck on his forehead.
His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name.
“Thank you.”
“Rest, my love. Tonight, I’ll keep everything else far away from you.”
You keep stroking his back until you eventually drift off as well.
The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom timidly. Winter would have slept longer, lulled by your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises abruptly, and he forces to stay still for a long moment, before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.
“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”
“I can’t.” You mumble, voice tight. “Not today.”
It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.
And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.
Under different circumstances, you’d probably try to bribe Winter to stay under the covers with you, ignore your responsibilities and spend the entire day lazing away and making love. But your situation is not normal, and your body hurts as if a million needles are pricking your skin; the urge to move, to do something to exorcise your heartbreak claws restlessly under your ribs.
You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.
“No, or I never leave.”
You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it’s because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one and only to elicit such a melodious sound out of you.
You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.
Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your waist with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line and your gaze lingers a fraction too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers deliberately brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.
Once you secure the final strap, your hand finds its place on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.
He wants to say something, anything to make this easier… but the truth is, nothing can.
When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit—apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.
Tears burn the back of his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit, a small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.
His blue eyes firmly fix on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before hurriedly stepping forward to tug you into his arms. His face presses into the slope of your neck, desperately clinging to the familiar shape of your body like it’s the only real thing left.
This is what he hates the most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.
And how wrong it seems to walk away from it.
Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.
Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.
When Winter looks at you, he lifts a shaky hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another on your lips.
“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Going to normal work.”
Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to an ordinary job crosses your mind. Maybe in a different lifetime, when you are a wife kissing her husband goodbye. Or a girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend’s arms at the promise of a romantic date. A world where he gets to live his life without vicious control.
Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”
The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.
You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.
“Remember me.” You choke out.
“Always.” He breathes out, hands clutching the back of your sweater.
“I love you.”
Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”
Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.
The first step forward makes his jaw clench, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.
You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to prevent your body from shattering into a million pieces. Your wet eyes desperately wander all over his form, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Still, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this—serene, safe.
He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.
To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.
By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.
— ⟢ END NOTES: some of you may know that I’m not a big fan of the daddy/mommy kink, I discussed it briefly in a post a few months ago. I still insert it some rare times, because I believe it fits naturally in some stories, but I wasn't really sure about this one. as a matter of fact, I kept re-reading it after posting it and eventually I came to dislike it. I decided to remove it and with it, there have been some changes concerning the smut part. the reason is very simple: the focus of this story is taking care of the winter soldier, studying a different side of him, and yet at some point I felt like the smut became somehow the main protagonist. in the end, I decided to scrap it completely. I kept re-writing it, but then I just realized that a sexual scene didn’t fit all this.
he feels comfortable enough to interact with the reader sexually, which shows a deep level of trust. he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable in a context so fragile and emotionally charged... but I wanted it to happen differently, to convey something different. I already have the scene outlined in my mind, it just wasn't right for the situation. and I guess this opens the possibility for a part 2.
thank you so much for reading 💛
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 5709
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The next few days were awkward as hell. There was no graceful way around it.
You were weak, disoriented and eighty-five years out of place in a motel off some road you did not know. Ben, for his part, had apparently decided that if he let you out of his sight for longer than half an hour, the earth itself might split open and swallow you. So he hovered. Not obviously—he would have died before calling it that—but practically, relentlessly, he did.
The first morning he left for exactly twenty-three minutes.
You knew because you watched the red numbers on the motel clock the whole time, sitting up in bed with your knees drawn under the blankets and your heart doing little nervous jumps every time headlights swept past the curtains.
When he came back, he had a paper bag in one hand, coffee in the other and an expression that already suggested he expected trouble.
“Got you clothes”, he said, setting the bag on the bed like he had accomplished something noble.
You looked inside. Then you looked at him. Then back at the bag.
It contained a tiny skirt, a top that appeared to have surrendered in the battle against fabric, and something he was apparently trying to pass off as a jacket though it looked more like decorative sleeves.
You pulled the top up between two fingers.
“Where”, you asked very slowly, “is the rest of it?”.
Ben leaned one shoulder against the wall, coffee in hand, and had the nerve to look confused. “That is it”.
You stared at him.
He glanced at the clothes, then back at you, and, Ben was Ben, he added, “I thought it looked hot”.
Your mouth fell open.
“Hot”, you repeated.
“Yeah”.
You held up the skirt. “This is not a skirt. This is an apology for a skirt”.
One corner of his mouth twitched.
You pointed at the bag like it had personally offended the Lord. “I am not putting on something that makes me look like I’m selling my body for money”.
That wiped the twitch right off his face. “Jesus”, he muttered.
“Yes”, you said. “Exactly. Go again”.
He did.
Grumbling.
The second outfit was only slightly better. This one featured jeans already torn at both knees, which you regarded with visible distrust, and a sweater so wide at the neck it kept sliding off your shoulder like it had no morals. Still, it covered actual skin, and the coat was real, and the boots looked sturdy enough not to break an ankle in, so you accepted defeat with whatever dignity remained to a woman dragged into 2026.
He had also brought food.
At first you thought it was wrapped engine parts. Grease had soaked through the paper bag in wide translucent circles. The smell of salt, meat, frying oil and something sharp and pickled and chemical and aggressively modern hit you instantly.
You looked inside and found a burger the size of your head and fries glossy with oil.
Your expression must have said enough.
“What?”, Ben asked.
You looked at the food. Then at him. “Do people still have stomachs in this century?”.
He barked a short laugh and sat on the edge of the dresser. “Try it”.
You did.
It was vulgar. It was delicious. It upset you on principle.
You ate half of it anyway.
Ben noticed and looked unbearably smug about it.
“Don’t”, you warned.
“I didn’t say anything”.
“You’re thinking very loudly”.
That got a low chuckle out of him, and for a second the room almost felt less impossible.
The next few days passed in uneven pieces like that.
You learned about smartphones and hated them immediately.
You learned people now ordered groceries through apps and said, flatly, “That sounds lazy”.
You learned televisions could stream anything at any time and said the whole country was doomed.
You learned cars beeped at people now for drifting in lanes and muttered that perhaps the cars were the only responsible ones left.
Ben kept explaining the world in the bluntest ways possible, usually from the motel chair, sometimes leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, sometimes sitting at the edge of the bed if you were too exhausted to sit up on your own. He was bad at patience, but weirdly decent at repetition. If something overwhelmed you the first time, he circled back later in smaller pieces.
You tried your hardest not to lose your mind.
Some moments almost did it anyway.
The first time he showed you a phone screen and casually pinched two fingers together to make a photograph zoom, you recoiled hard enough that he snorted.
“That’s unnatural”, you said.
“It’s a touchscreen”.
“It’s witchcraft”.
“No”, he said. “That was the forties”.
You threw a motel hand towel at him for that one.
By the fourth day, you were strong enough to walk to the bathroom without your knees shaking.
By the fifth, you stood at the window for a full ten minutes just staring at the parking lot and all the wrong-shaped cars in it.
By the sixth, the walls of the motel room started to feel less like shelter and more like a padded box.
That morning, while Ben was standing by the little coffee machine trying to bully it into producing something drinkable, you said, “I want to go home”.
He looked over his shoulder at you. Very still.
Your fingers tightened in the sleeves of his shirt (you were still wearing it to sleep, though now you had actual clothes of your own folded on the dresser) and you said again, quieter this time, “I want to see the house”.
Ben turned fully then, coffee forgotten.
For a second he said nothing. Then he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away.
“I don’t even know if it’s still there”.
“It’s there”.
“You can’t know that”.
You lifted your chin a little. “Neither can you”.
His jaw moved once. That meant you’d hit something.
Finally he muttered, “Even if it’s standing, it won’t be…”. He stopped.
He didn’t finish because there was no way to finish.
Won’t be home.
Won’t be what it was.
Won’t be untouched by everything the world had done since you last stood in it.
You looked at him for a long moment. “I still want to go”.
He nodded once. “All right”.
The drive took hours.
The farther you got from the city, the stranger the world became in a different way. Less glass. More sky. Old roads folded under new ones. Towns stretched wider than they used to, signs brighter, gas stations uglier. Ben drove with one hand on the wheel and the other loose on his thigh, sunglasses on, jaw set, saying little unless you asked something.
When the turnoff finally came, your heart started beating too hard.
You recognized the road before you recognized anything on it.
Trees were bigger now, thick and old where they had once been saplings. The ditch line had shifted. A mailbox was gone. Another stood rusted and leaning. The street itself looked narrower somehow, as if time had let the grass creep closer from both sides.
Then you saw the house.
You stopped breathing.
It was still there.
Built solid, just as people used to build things when they expected weather and years and bad luck and war. Paint had long since peeled to gray, then weathered past gray into something almost silver. One shutter hung crooked. The garden beds were wild with weeds and volunteer growth. One front window was clouded at the corners, another cracked clean through. Ivy had climbed halfway up one side and died there in brown tangles.
Eighty-five years had done a number on it.
But it stood.
Ben killed the engine. For a moment neither of you moved. You just sat there looking at the house with both hands folded too tightly in your lap, as if letting them go loose might make the whole thing disappear.
“It’s really here”, you whispered.
Beside you, Ben looked at it too, his face unreadable behind the dark lenses.
“Yeah”.
You got out of the car slowly. The gravel crunched under your boots. The air smelled like dirt and old leaves and sun-warmed wood. Ben came around the hood and stopped next to you. You stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the place where your whole life had once fit inside four small rooms.
The front door looked swollen in its frame, paint cracked and flaked around the handle.
“It’ll be locked”, you said.
Ben glanced at it. Then, with the smallest sigh of annoyance, he put one hand on the knob and gave it the tiniest bit of supe force. The lock snapped with a soft metallic pop. The door swung inward. Dust and old wood and eighty-five years of closed-up silence breathed out to meet you.
“You never came back?”. You looked up at him.
He looked at you for one long second.
Then he said, “No”.
Nothing dressed up around it. No excuses first. No quick lie. No reaching for war or Vought or the Russians before the truth had a chance to stand there naked. Just no.
The word moved through you quietly and did its damage all the same.
Because from the fifties to the day the Russians took him, there had been thirty years.
Thirty years in which he could have come back once. Knocked on a door. Asked a neighbor. Stood in this street and looked for you. Thirty years in which one apology, one moment of courage, one act of love not poisoned by pride might have changed something.
He had not.
Your throat tightened, but no tears came. Not yet. You had cried too much lately. Now the hurt mostly sat deeper than your eyes.
“If you had”, you said softly, “you would’ve known”.
Ben’s jaw flexed. “Yeah”, he said. That one came rougher.
You nodded once, as if he had confirmed something practical instead of tearing another strip out of your heart. Then you turned and walked to the stairs.
The steps creaked under your weight exactly the way they used to. Third one from the bottom, then the fifth near the banister. The sound hit you so hard you had to stop for half a second with your hand on the rail, breathing through the sudden rush of memory. Bare feet at night. Ben taking the stairs two at a time. Your hand gliding over this same wood twenty lives ago with a laundry basket tucked to your hip.
Behind you, he did not follow right away. He gave you the room to climb alone. That, more than anything, told you he knew what this was.
Upstairs, the hallway was smaller than you remembered. Dust lay silver over everything. The wallpaper had peeled. Your bedroom door stood half-open, just as if someone had left it that way for air and meant to come back before supper. You pushed it open with careful fingers.
The room held. Not untouched, no. Time had gotten in around the edges. The curtains had yellowed. A crack ran down one corner of the wall by the window. The quilt on the bed had gone stale with dust. But the shape of it was still there. The vanity. The narrow bed. The little night desk by your side, tucked under the lamp with the chipped cream base.
You crossed to it in silence. Your hand shook when you touched the drawer pull. You didn’t open the drawer first. You looked at the top. Your wedding ring still sat there.
Small. Gold. Dull with age, but unmistakable. Exactly where you had left it.
For a second you just stared.
Then you picked it up.
The metal felt cold in your palm, lighter than something that had once meant forever had any right to be. You remembered taking it off. Remembered your fingers swollen from crying and the motion feeling unreal, like a bad scene in a play you were too tired to perform properly. You had set it here because you could not bear to look at it and could not bear to throw it away.
You opened the drawer with your free hand. His ring was inside. It lay in the back right corner, just as heavy and plain as it had been the day you slid it onto his finger in church. For one wild second it looked less like a ring and more like proof that a whole other world had once existed and expected to continue.
You heard him come to the doorway behind you. Slowly. No heavy Soldier Boy tread meant to fill a room. Just Ben, or as close to him as the years had left. He stopped there and did not come farther in.
You stood with your back to him, your ring in one hand, his in the other.
When you finally spoke, your voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the dust.
“I waited”.
Nothing from behind you.
So you went on.
“For months at first. Then years in stupid little ways”. Your thumb rubbed over the inside of the band without meaning to. “I kept thinking maybe you’d come in through the front door and say you were sorry. Or angry. Or drunk. I didn’t even care which, not really. I just thought one day you’d be there”.
Ben made a sound in his throat. Not a word. Something lower. Wounded. You turned then.
He was leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, eyes fixed on the rings in your hands.
“I should’ve”, he said. The answer came immediately. Like he had been carrying it in his mouth for years.
“Yes”, you said.
He shut his eyes for one brief second. When he opened them again, he looked older than ever in the helplessness of a man who could punch through steel and still not lay hands on the one thing he’d broken most cleanly.
“I thought…”. He stopped and gave a short, bitter laugh. “No. That’s bullshit. I didn’t think enough, that was the problem”.
You watched him.
He pushed off the frame and took one step into the room, then stopped himself there. “At first I was mad”, he said. “At you, at me, at the whole goddamn thing. Then I was busy. Then I was famous. Then I was drunk”. His mouth twisted. “Then enough time had passed that coming back meant having to look at what I’d done”.
The honesty of it hurt, but it also fit him too perfectly to deny.
“So you didn’t”.
“No”. He looked at you directly. “I kept telling myself you were better off”.
You laughed once, softly and without humor.
“That’s what cowards say when they want to feel noble”.
That landed.
“Yeah”, he said after a moment. “Probably”.
The room went still again. Your fingers closed around both rings until the edges pressed into your palm. It grounded you, that small pain.
“If you’d come back”, you said, “you would’ve found an empty house”.
His eyes sharpened.
You looked down at the gold in your hands.
“You would’ve known something happened to me”, you whispered. “You would’ve known I didn’t just leave”.
Ben went completely motionless. All the blood left his face. And there it was. Fresh guilt, new and horrible, layering itself over the old kind. Not just that he’d abandoned you. That his abandonment had helped bury the evidence of what Vought had done. That if he had loved you bravely instead of selfishly, even once, the trail might not have gone cold.
He looked at the floorboards for a long time before he said, very quietly, “I know”.
You turned back to the desk because looking at him was too much. On the far wall, your old mirror gave back a strange picture: a woman in modern clothes standing in a bedroom from another century, and behind her a man who had once been her whole life and now looked like a wound that had learned to walk.
Then you crossed the room to the closet. The door stuck at first. Time had swollen the wood just enough that it resisted, then gave with a dry little groan. Dust drifted down from the top frame in the late light. The smell inside, cedar gone faint with age and old fabric hit you immediately. Lavender sachets long since surrendered into powder.
You stood there for a second with your hand on the knob, breathing it in.
Behind you, Ben said nothing. He only watched.
You reached in slowly, fingertips skimming over hangers and cloth covers and dresses that no longer belonged to any world you understood. Cotton. Wool. One good church dress in blue. A coat with foxed buttons. A cardigan with one cuff still turned up the way you used to wear it while doing dishes. Every piece felt impossibly patient, as if it had been waiting without complaint all this time.
Then your hand found satin. Soft pink. You stilled.
Very carefully, you drew the nightgown out from between two dresses. The fabric slid over your fingers with that same quiet whisper it always had. Time had yellowed one strap slightly and the satin no longer gleamed the way it used to, but it was still there. You held it up in both hands and looked at it.
For one second, the room doubled over itself. The motel. The bunker. The digital clocks and neon signs and all the ugly bright machinery of 2026 fell away. You could almost feel the old floor under your bare feet, hear the rattle of rain at the bedroom window, smell your face cream and his cigarettes.
Behind you, Ben had gone so still he barely seemed to breathe. He watched the way you moved with the gown in your hands. Careful not to tug a seam, careful not to catch the strap, careful even with a thing that had no nerves left in it. There was nothing rushed in you. Nothing hard. No modern bluntness. No jaded carelessness. You moved the way you always had: quietly, gently, as though the world might bruise if handled too fast.
When you finally turned, the nightgown folded over your arms, Ben looked like someone had struck him somewhere internal and left the bruise blooming in real time. His face had gone strange. Open in places he usually kept bolted shut. His eyes stayed fixed on you. Not on the satin, but on your hands, your carefulness, the old softness in you that no tank and no century and no company full of monsters had managed to grind entirely out of existence.
Something deep in his chest had finally caught up with him.
Love.
Real love. Old love. The kind he had felt before he learned how to bury every vulnerable thing under pride and violence and noise. Before Vought. Before Countess. Before the stage lights and the blood and the lies he told himself about what kind of man he had become.
And then came the shame.
It moved over his face so sharply it almost looked like nausea. His mouth tightened. One hand came up and scrubbed hard over it, as if he could physically wipe the feeling away before it settled too deep. He looked down, then back up at you, and his expression only got worse.
Because loving you, truly, in that old helpless way, meant feeling all at once what he had done to something he knew had been good.
Not perfect. Not naive. Good.
You had been the softest thing in his life. The cleanest part of it. And he had put his hands on that softness with all the wrong kinds of strength.
His throat worked once.
“You kept it”, he said. It came out lower than usual. Not quite steady.
You looked down at the satin in your hands. “It was in the closet”.
“That’s not what I meant”.
You looked back at him then. He had not moved from where he stood near the bed, but he looked as though the floor under him had shifted anyway. Shoulders tense. Hands open and useless at his sides. A man who could split steel and still had no defense against a pink nightgown in a dusty bedroom.
Your voice stayed quiet. “No”. You folded the nightgown once, carefully, over your forearms. “I didn’t keep it because of you”.
He nodded immediately, too quickly. “I know”.
But he didn’t, not fully. Or maybe he did, and that was part of what made his face look so wrecked.
Because whether the gown had stayed because you loved it, because it was expensive, because you forgot it, because throwing it away had once felt like sawing off your own wrist—none of those answers saved him. None of them made this easier.
You watched him for a long moment.
Then you said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”.
He gave a short, rough laugh that held no humor. “Because I’m an fucking idiot”.
It was so plain it almost startled you.
The silence after it stretched.
Then, more quietly, with his eyes dropping from your face to the satin and back again, “I forgot”.
You frowned faintly. “Forgot what?”.
His jaw tightened.
“What you were”, he said.
The words landed wrong at first, and he must have seen it in your face because he shook his head once, hard.
“No. Not like that”. He dragged a hand through his hair and started again. “I forgot what it felt like to be around something…”. He stopped. Swallowed. “Something good”.
That made your chest ache in a new place.
He looked almost sick now. Pale under the roughness. A man trying not to throw up on his own shame.
“I treated you like—”. He cut himself off, eyes dropping to the floorboards. “Christ”.
You waited.
He didn’t finish the sentence because maybe there wasn’t a version of it he could bear to hear out loud. Like property. Like punishment. Like convenience. Like something he was entitled to keep no matter what he did to it. You knew all the endings. He probably did too.
For a moment the room was so quiet you could hear the old house settling around you.
Then Ben said, very low, “I loved you”.
The tense of it sat between you.
You looked at him steadily. “Loved”.
His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, there was no attitude left in him at all. “No”, he said. “That’s not what I meant”.
He looked at the nightgown in your hands again, then at your face. And you understood.
Not because he said the words. Ben had never been a man who could hold something that tender out cleanly in front of him. But because you saw it all over him anyway. In the ugly guilt, in the racing pulse at his neck, in the way his eyes kept catching on your hands like he still could not believe they were real.
He loved you.
Still.
Maybe had never really stopped, not in the place that mattered. Only buried it so deep under Soldier Boy that by the time it clawed its way back up, it found blood on its hands.
You did not stay in that room much longer after that. Not because there was nothing left in it. Quite the opposite. There was too much.
Too much dust holding the shape of old days. Too much light falling across the bed where you had once lain awake listening for his key in the lock. Too much of yourself tucked into drawers and folded into fabric and preserved in corners that had not asked to survive you. The whole house felt like a held breath that had lasted eighty-five years and now did not know how to exhale.
So you packed. Not everything. You couldn’t. Even if you had wanted to, there was no carrying a whole life out in two arms and one afternoon. You chose the way people do when they know every object is about to become a decision.
A few dresses. Practical ones first, then one nicer one because some old reflex in you still believed a woman ought to keep at least one proper thing ready. A cardigan. The pink satin nightgown, folded so carefully your hands hardly seemed to touch it. Two picture books from the shelf in the hallway cupboard downstairs—one of family photographs, one of pressed cards and notes and yellowed clippings tucked between the pages. The small jewelry box from your vanity. Your brush. A Bible with your maiden name written in slanted ink on the inside cover. The old fountain pen that no longer worked but had once been your father’s. A little hand mirror with a crack at one edge.
Ben helped quietly. That, more than anything, kept striking you. The quietness of him. No commentary. No impatience. No trying to take over the whole task just because he could carry more. He only stepped in when something was too high or too heavy or too awkward to reach, and even then he moved like a man afraid of making too much sound in a church. He held open boxes while you chose what went in them. Wrapped picture frames in old pillowcases. Took the suitcases down from the top closet shelf and set them on the bed without jarring the mattress.
Once, your fingers both reached for the same stack of photographs. His hand pulled back immediately. “Sorry”, he said.
The word came so automatically that you looked at him before you could help yourself.
Ben had his eyes on the floorboards. One of the photographs had slipped sideways in the album, and he straightened it with the side of one finger. There was something almost unbearable in the concentration of it, in the restraint. This giant, brutal man who had once moved through rooms like he owned the air itself was now helping you pack your old life in near silence and apologizing for brushing your knuckles. You looked away first.
By the time the car was loaded, the light had gone thinner and cooler. Evening settling in. The boxes sat in the back seat and trunk in careful stacks, absurdly small compared to the weight of what they stood for. Ben shut the trunk with one hand and glanced toward the house. You followed his gaze.
The porch leaned. The windows reflected sky. The broken front lock hung useless inside the doorframe where he had popped it loose. The place looked tired. Wounded. Still upright.
He knew you weren’t going to stay there. You knew he knew.
Not after what the house held. Not after what it didn’t. Not after the years inside it had split cleanly into before and after, and before was dead enough already without forcing yourself to sleep in its rooms.
Neither of you said it. You just got into the car. Ben behind the wheel. You in the passenger seat, coat over your lap, one hand still tucked in the pocket where his ring had been resting against yours ever since you’d taken it from the drawer.
For a minute he didn’t start the engine. The old house stood in the side mirror, half-obscured by overgrown shrubs and years. Ben had one hand on the wheel and the other resting loose over the gearshift. His face was turned toward the window, jaw set, not tense exactly, thinking. Or maybe bracing. With him, the difference had always been hard to tell.
Then he said, still looking out at the yard, “What now?”.
Not where do we drive, not which motel, not what state line to cross before morning.
What now.
What were two people supposed to do with this? With eighty-five stolen years, with betrayal and grief and survival and love that had somehow stayed alive badly enough to wound on contact.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slipped your hand into your coat pocket and drew both rings out into your palm. Your wedding ring. His. Gold worn dull with time, lying side by side on your skin like two tiny pieces of a language you had both once spoken fluently and then spent a lifetime forgetting on purpose.
You held your hand out between you. Palm up. Not offering them exactly. Not demanding.
Asking.
It was the gentlest question you knew how to ask, and the most dangerous one.
Not "do you still love me".
You already knew the answer to that, in his way.
Not "can I forgive you".
You didn’t know that yet. Maybe wouldn’t for a long time.
Something more fragile and more frightening.
Do you want to try.
Do you want to be my husband again.
Not Soldier Boy. Not the man Vought made. Not the one who let the world sand him down into something harder and meaner and easier to market.
The old Ben.
Loving, when he knew how.
Protective, when it came from tenderness instead of possession.
Supportive, when his pride wasn’t choking it at the root.
Good, in the ways that had once mattered most.
Ben looked down at your palm and stopped moving altogether. The whole car seemed to go still with him. Even his breathing changed.
His eyes went from your ring to his and back again, and you saw the exact second he understood what you were asking. Not a romantic gesture. Not nostalgia. Not some soft, easy wiping away of everything ugly that had happened between then and now.
A choice. A real one. And with it, responsibility.
He looked at your face then, as if checking whether you truly meant it. Whether this was pity. Shock. Some post-cryo confusion that would evaporate in better light.
You didn’t look away. Ben’s throat worked. Slowly—so slowly that in another moment it might have looked like fear—he reached toward your hand. His fingers hovered over the rings before they touched. Then he picked up yours.
He held it for a second between thumb and forefinger, staring at the band like it might burn him. When he finally took your left hand, he did it with a care that nearly undid you. Turning your wrist gently. Supporting your fingers from beneath as though even this, this small familiar motion, had to be relearned from scratch.
He slid the ring onto your finger. So gently.
No rush. No claim in it. No arrogance. Just a man putting back something he knew he had no right to touch roughly again. The band settled at your knuckle and your breath caught.
Ben’s hand stayed around yours a second longer than necessary. Then he let go.
You picked up his ring. His hand, when he offered it, was broader than you remembered and more marked. Old scars, roughened knuckles, one faded burn near the base of the thumb, veins standing heavier beneath the skin. But it was still his hand. The one you had held walking to school. The one you had once guided to your waist in a little kitchen and church halls and moonlit sidewalks because you were young and in love and trusted what he touched.
You took it carefully. He watched your face the whole time.
You slid his ring back on, over the knuckle, into place.
For one second neither of you breathed.
Ben turned your hand over in his and looked at the ring like it was the strangest thing he had seen in a century. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. There was no No joke. No Soldier Boy. Only a man who looked wrecked by hope.
“You sure?”, he asked.
It would have been easy to say yes.
It would have been easy to say no.
The truth was harder and smaller and more human than either.
“No”, you whispered. “But I want to try”.
His face changed at that. He lifted his free hand and touched your cheek. Just the backs of his fingers at first. Waiting. You didn’t pull away.
His hand settled there fully then, warm and careful, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. His expression had gone almost unbearably bare.
“You don’t know what that does to me”, he said.
Maybe you did. Maybe that was why your own eyes stung.
He leaned in slowly enough to stop a dozen times if you wanted.
The first kiss in over eighty-five years should have been dramatic. It wasn’t. It was quiet. Tentative. His mouth brushed yours once, barely there, like he was asking a question and still didn’t trust himself to hear the answer right.
When you didn’t move away, he kissed you again, a little more fully this time, still impossibly gentle. No heat. No taking. No demand. Only the old softness, shaken and ashamed and careful.
His hand stayed at your cheek. Yours was still around his.
The kiss tasted like old grief. It hurt. It healed nothing. It made no promises the world could be trusted to keep.
But when he drew back and his forehead rested against yours, you felt something shift.
When he finally opened his eyes, they looked brighter than before, rough with feeling he would hate named too plainly.
“I’ll do better”, he said.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then, because you knew him, because you knew what grand vows became in the mouths of men like Ben, you answered the only way that mattered. “You will have to”.
That got the faintest broken huff of laughter from him.
“Yeah”, he murmured. “I figured”.
Then he started the car, and with both rings back where they belonged, you left the old house behind together.
Summary: After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.
Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like ‘well, yes’. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.
Word Count: 15.4k
Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please
I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms
For most of your life you felt invisible.
Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.
In high school, you first became aware of your…difference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.
Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasn’t said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you ‘an interesting yet quiet young lady’ without you catching on.
You had tried hard to change it, to ‘put yourself out there’. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.
You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didn’t like.
Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.
“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.
You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.
“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.
“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.
It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.
“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.
Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.
You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.
“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.
She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”
She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift.
“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.
You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.
“You set?”
The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.
You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.
“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”
Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.
He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.
There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.
You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.
Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.
Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.
You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.
The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.
You quickened your steps.
There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.
The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.
You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.
You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-
Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.
It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.
“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.
One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.
You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.
Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…
“Please, I’ll do anything please-“
He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”
It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.
You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.
Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.
They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.
You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.
This was not the time to freeze.
The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.
In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.
It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.
Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.
The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.
“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”
This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.
Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.
No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.
You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.
The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.
A little bit more… five, four, three-
You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.
You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.
He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.
Shit.
Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.
This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.
But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.
Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.
He hadn’t decided which.
“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.
“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”
Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.
Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.
The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.
“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”
Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.
He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.
“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.
Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“
Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”
He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.
Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”
A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.
“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”
He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.
Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”
“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.
The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.
Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.
Time to find a little tattle-tale.
Maybe you did have powers.
It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.
No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.
After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.
You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.
But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.
There was something else.
In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.
You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.
There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.
The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.
Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?
It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.
You had to go out into the world eventually.
The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.
You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.
Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.
“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.
You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.
It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.
Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.
It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.
You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.
“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.
More silence from you.
“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”
You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.
Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.
“You should take better care of your things.”
The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.
There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.
“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.
He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.
You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.
“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.
In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.
His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.
Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.
He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.
You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”
He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”
Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.
You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.
The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”
‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.
After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”
It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.
You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.
He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”
You blinked, “Oh, okay.”
Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.
In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”
His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.
You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.
“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?
Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.
He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.
He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.
“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”
You blinked at him again, “Okay?”
“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.
With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.
“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.
You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.
Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.
A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.
You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.
You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.
Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?
You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.
Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.
Nothing.
You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.
You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.
Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.
It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.
You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.
Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.
All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.
What the hell is happening?
It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.
Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.
He did not do things for no reason.
That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?
It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.
As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.
He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.
It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.
He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.
He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.
You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.
His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.
He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.
You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.
His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.
He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.
At him?
At him?
The fuck was he doing?
He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.
He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.
Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.
He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.
He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.
Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.
But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-
He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.
Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.
Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.
He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.
This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.
Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.
You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.
He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.
His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.
He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.
As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.
A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.
Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?
Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.
Not important, focus.
You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.
If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.
It made him angry.
Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.
He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.
Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.
He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.
Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.
Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.
This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.
You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.
You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.
There was something he was itching to do since he got there.
He didn’t show up that day.
Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.
Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.
The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.
A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?
No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.
You didn’t even consider calling the police.
You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.
Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.
You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.
There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.
Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.
Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.
You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.
The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.
Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?
You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.
But why would he clean your house then?
You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.
Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.
You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.
“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”
Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.
Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”
His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?
You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.
You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.
You wondered what he would look like without it.
You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.
“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.
He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.
“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.
His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.
What?
The hell?
Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“
He only stared on with the same solid expression.
You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”
“No.”
You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”
Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”
You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.
There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”
His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”
Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”
He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.
“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.
You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.
Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.
Your only worry was what he would do with you.
“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.
You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.
He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.
It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.
He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?
You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.
It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.
“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.
There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.
So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.
You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.
He was still focused on the food…
No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.
You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.
You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.
The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.
You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.
You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.
The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.
You needed some background noise.
You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.
“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“
The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.
“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“
The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.
The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.
“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.
He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”
You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.
You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.
He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.
The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.
“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”
To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”
You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.
Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?
You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.
Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.
You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”
He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.
“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.
“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.
What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”
He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”
“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.
“You’re not bothered by that?”
You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.
He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.
With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.
He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.
Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.
Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.
Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.
“Sit back.”
You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.
“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.
Okay, bossy.
You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.
You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.
You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.
It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…
The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.
He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.
You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.
He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”
“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.
Knives arrived more frequently after that night.
He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.
You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.
A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.
As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.
Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.
Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.
Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.
You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.
Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.
To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.
It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.
“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.
Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.
You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.
You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.
“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.
You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.
“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.
Breathe, don’t let him get to you.
“I’m just going to do my job.”
His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”
You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.
You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.
Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.
Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-
“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.
You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.
You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.
I bet knives never had to work in retail.
You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.
He’d probably stab someone on his first day.
Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.
You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.
There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.
“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.
“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.
“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”
He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.
“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.
You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.
The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.
You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.
A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.
You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.
The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.
You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.
The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.
“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.
You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.
He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.
“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.
It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.
Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”
Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.
He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.
You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”
“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.
You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.
He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.
As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.
It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.
You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.
There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.
“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.
The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.
“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.
“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”
And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.
He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.
You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.
You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.
“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”
He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”
You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.
Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.
Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”
“Explain what happened.”
You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.
Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.
By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.
A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.
You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”
He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.
You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”
He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”
There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.
“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.
“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”
You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.
“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.
“An officer.”
“Like, a police officer?”
“No. Not exactly.”
You blinked in confusion.
He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”
You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”
He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”
“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.
He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”
It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.
There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.
An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.
To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.
“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”
You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”
A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”
You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.
Something else. Not you.
“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.
Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”
You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”
A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”
Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.
The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.
Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.
Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.
Or the next day. Or the next one after that.
He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.
You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.
If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.
Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.
You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.
Cared for.
But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.
Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.
It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.
Bullseye.
He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.
You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.
Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.
You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.
Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.
He wouldn’t just dissapear.
Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.
You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.
So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.
You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.
There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.
You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.
Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.
“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.
Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.
“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”
You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”
“Not Jesus, just me.”
You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.
“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.
“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.
“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”
You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”
You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”
That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.
Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.
Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.
“Ben, it’s okay.”
His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.
You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.
Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.
You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.
His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.
It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.
It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.
You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.
“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.
“I do.”
“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.
It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.
“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”
Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.
You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.
That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.
While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.
You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.
He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.
His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.
You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.
Lucky for him you didn’t want any.
In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.
You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.
You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.
His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”
He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”
He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.
He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.
You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.
His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.
It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.
His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.
The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.
You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.
His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.
It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.
His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”
It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.
“So do them.”
He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.
He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.
Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.
You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”
You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.
You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”
Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”
The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.
The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.
It only made wetness pool in your core.
“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.
It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.
“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.
“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.
“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.
He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.
“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.
“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.
“Yours.”
“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.
“Me.”
You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.
He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.
You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.
Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.
His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.
They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.
You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.
Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.
Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.
You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.
His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.
Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.
He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.
“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.
You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.
He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.
You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.
“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”
The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.
You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.
He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.
It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.
The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.
Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.
The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.
Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.
You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.
“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.
So you waited.
Until you didn’t.
His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.
“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.
You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.
Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.
He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.
You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.
His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.
His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.
He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.
You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.
He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.
The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.
All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.
His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.
The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.
His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.
“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.
“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.
He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.
A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”
He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”
“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”
He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.
Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.
“Hey Dex?”
He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.
“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.
A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.
The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.
His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.
“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.
You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.
The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.
“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”
He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.
“I’m with you.”
You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.
Div by: @pixopix
AN: boss makes a dollar, I make a dime, I wrote this on company time. So if there’s any typos or inconsistencies… sorry. It’s minimally edited from my flow of consciousness.
If anyone even reads this, lemme know what you think, is it good? Bad? Just meh? Lmk :D
Nothing changed Levi, he’s always been like this—broody—not so much the forgetful part. But you loved him anyway, and that was enough for him.
It started with the little things, until Levi forgot to shut off the sink one night, ruining the kitchen floorboards.
CW: Post-war Levi x fem!reader, angst, memory and cognitive decline, major character death
A/N: I cried while I wrote this. Happy late Valentine's Day XOXO ~2.2k words
It started with the little things. A forgetfulness masked by old age, and yet it always felt like something more.
Levi Ackerman was anything if not prideful, and yet the confusion that dazed him at times forced him to tell you, his beautiful wife, that he was struggling with something deep, so much so that you urged him to visit the doctor.
He hated doctors. He had enough of them after the Battle of Heaven and Earth. Prodding, pestering, painfully pricking at him to ensure he remained alive until adequate care could arrive. Who would’ve known it’d take weeks?
And so, Levi hated doctors—but he loved you, his wife, so much that he’d bear through another annoying visit. If anything to soothe your mind that this is just him in his old age, that this is nothing more than another bumpy hill before he’d get better.
He saw it all his mind, you’d wheel him to the doctor’s office, just so that they’d tell him the war changed him, and that many war veterans face mental struggles. Then they’d charge an arm and a leg for the “prognosis”. You’d happily give payment if it meant Levi’s just fine—as fine as Levi Ackerman could be, but fine was good.
Nothing changed Levi, he’s always been like this—broody—not so much the forgetful part. But you loved him anyway, and that was enough for him.
It started with the little things, until Levi forgot to shut off the sink one night, ruining the kitchen floorboards.
You’d seen Levi swing through trees to face the ugliest of titans, seen him fight through despite the pains in his body, and yet that first harrowing face of forgetfulness stuck with you.
The doctor’s appointment was moved up from next month to next week.
You wheeled him to the office, hands on the push handles subtly shifting every now and then to pull the graying bangs from his forehead to behind his ear. His hair is getting long, you think. It’s time for a haircut and he hasn’t even mentioned it.
The doctor says that war changed Levi. That many war veterans face many mental illnesses—and yet Levi’s is a strange and unique one, one that the doctor’s heard of but very, very rarely. As if done with the novelty of being “unique”, Levi scoffs at the doctor, limping from the examination table back to his wheelchair.
“Well then, your job is to cure this right?” The doctor’s face is blank and expressionless.
“There’s no cure.”
The walk back to your home is silent, more silent than you think you can bear. Your hands on Levi’s push handles stay put, no longer casting them towards his hair for loving caresses. You don’t want to impose on his boundaries after a conversation like this—Levi wishes you would.
Dinner is eaten silently, deep contemplation overtakes the both of you.
“Screw what the doctor said,” he utters.
“What?”
“I said screw what the doctor said, I just won’t forget. I can’t imagine it can be so difficult.” For some reason, it felt like the easiest solution in the world. You beam at him and the hopeful look in your eyes make him feel warm.
Of course, you think, Levi won’t let you down. Levi who's survived it all would fight this too, and things will be as normal as they can be.
“What’s with the shit eating grin,” Levi asks you one afternoon. You had just come back from the local market.
“I brought you this journal,” and you shove the bound papers into his lap.
“You can write everything you remember, the ladies at the market told me it helps with memory loss.”
“You didn’t—”
“No, I haven’t.”
Levi’s reluctance to let anybody know his illness was debilitating, your friends would definitely care if something were going on. But Levi’s image has already been impacted once—he didn’t want to add another smear to the already imperfect painting.
And so, Levi writes, albeit only in the evenings and when you are fast asleep. He writes of his mother, his friends, his squad, Hange and Erwin.
He writes about you.
Your name, the day he met you, a cheeky soldier with a death wish, as he likes to say. He writes about the day he told he you he loved you and first kissed you, the day he married you. He wrote about it while it was still fresh in his mind, where he willed for it to remain, where he begged for it to remain, for the rest of his life.
Levi forgets your birthday.
It’s a good thing others didn’t, because neighbors and friends arrived to give you well wishes. He kisses you at the end of the night and you smile at him, and you forget about him forgetting.
Levi forgets about the chicken in the oven.
Fortunately, you arrive on time to salvage dinner, some of the skin burned, but digestible. He apologizes, face red in embarrassment. You tell him it’s nothing.
Every morning you inspect the journal while Levi rests, warm with the memories that still persist. Levi’s fighting, you think to yourself, everything will be alright.
Things remain in limbo for a while, with you picking up the pieces of Levi’s forgetting mind and putting them in their place. It remains like that for a while, you reminding Levi of the things he’s supposed to be doing.
Suddenly, so suddenly, you come home one morning to find Levi struggling to stand, finding support in the nearby table.
“Levi,” you exclaim, “what the hell are you doing?”
He seems almost startled by you, but he clenches his jaw in defiance.
“Where the hell is everybody? We need to stop Eren, and I’m just sitting here doing nothing.”
Suddenly, so suddenly, it’s like you’ve woken up and are facing reality for the first time.
The tears slip from your eyes, the hands by your side clenching and unclenching into fists. Levi looks at you with a stern expression, calling your name, but you ignore him as you walk away. You hide in your bedroom.
Levi talks of titans for two days straight, washes the same dishes several times, asks you where Hange and Erwin were, before finally snapping back into reality.
You’re crumpled on your bed and he sinks there with you, head falling into your shoulder. He’s silent in quiet horror, you’re silent in quiet loneliness. He apologizes over and over. You tell him it’s okay.
The frayed edges of Levi’s mind begin to tear at the seams, the gaps in his mind no longer something he can conceal. He wills himself to write. Where there was once lengthy journal entries, now repetitive sentences covered the pages.
We are living in year 86x. The war has ended.
Erwin Smith is dead. Hange Zoe is dead.
The war has ended.
The war has ended.
The war has ended.
Levi forgets your anniversary, Levi forgets to bathe, Levi forgets the route home when he steps out to buy…something—he can’t remember what he was supposed to buy.
To avoid your pained gaze, Levi’s wheelchair permanently lives near the window in the corner of the living room. Away from disturbing you, away from being near you.
Things remain like this for a while. You wait—for what, you don’t really know. You watch Levi scramble day in and day out, until he finally stills, hands in his lap, staring outside the window.
After months, you inspect his journal, wanting to feel hope, wanting to remind yourself that Levi’s fighting, that he’s trying.
The last journal entry was weeks ago. All that remain are scribbles. Levi remembers the routine, but does’t remember what he’s supposed to do.
The doctor says there’s nothing left to do, and so you watch your husband implode. And oh you wouldn’t wish this on your worst enemy. To watch the man that loves you forget you. To watch as the man you love forgets everything.
Levi’s exhaustion is apparent from where he sits. He holds his teacup, fingers feeling weird where they were. Why does he hold teacups like this?
But only when he forgets your name does your own world implode, the bits and pieces of your self floating, with nobody to piece you together.
He doesn’t sleep in your bedroom anymore, only married people do that. In Levi’s mind, he’s respecting you, an unmarried woman, and so his permanent spot by the window also becomes the spot where he sleeps.
The doctor gives him a couple of more weeks, but it’s months of confusion, months of gazing into nothing, grasping at far away memories.
Where’s Erwin?
Where’s Furlan and Isabel?
Where’s my mother?
You remind Levi that they’re gone, but that they’re waiting for him. Wherever they are.
You wait. For what, you don’t know.
It’s months of self hatred, before for a moment, Levi finds relief; clarity.
You catch him staring at you one evening, when you’re cleaning the dishes of tonight’s dinner.
“You remind me of someone I used to love,” Levi tells you.
Your heart catches, blood freezing, before you smile, a shaky breath escaping you.
“Yeah,” you respond, “used to?”
Levi stays silent. You’ve long gotten used to the silence and the quiet contemplation, but for some reason you are compelled to look at him.
You are used to his lost gaze, used to the permanent furrowed brows that are always deep in thought. Is it your lover trying to remember you? The fighter in him, still combatting the destruction of his mind?
You look at him like a teacher looks at their student, the answer at the tip of their tongue, the knowledge in the deepest part of their mind, waiting to be brought out.
You are used to the defeated glance of despair, the quiet confusion that tells you help me.
You are not used to, however, the look that now graced Levi’s face.
Recognition. It startles you. It startles him.
He calls your name and your breath hitches. You can’t help the tears that slip. He says your name, over and over again and you walk over from the kitchen counter to his spot by the window, toppling over his wheelchair in an embrace. Your face falls into the crook of his neck as he wraps his arms around you.
“You married me,” he says quietly, “why?”
You’re quiet, not trusting your voice to not fall and break down, but force yourself to speak anyway.
“I love you,” you say, voice hoarse, “that’s why.”
Neither of you say anything else. His face falls into your shoulder and he breathes you in—you smell familiar, look familiar too. Perhaps Erwin and Hange can tell him later who you are and why you’re embracing him. You’re just too warm to let go right now. All he knows is that you’re his wife—his beautiful wife.
For the first time in a long time, Levi wheels himself into your shared bedroom and sleeps next to you. For the first time in a long time, things feel normal.
That chilly evening, Levi left your world.
It wasn’t his world anymore, no—hadn’t been his world in a long time. His permanently furrowed brows have relaxed, and finally his face appeared peaceful. You were glad. Even if you sobbed quietly for him to come back, you were glad.
All that was left was to wait.
You waited.
You waited for death.
Your gray hair swayed with the breeze one fateful morning. Something clicked within you, something about the peace that morning made you smile an all knowing smile. What’s with the shit-eating grin, you could almost hear Levi ask you.
That night, neighbors and former comrades surrounded you, their children in another room to spare them the pain and grief that came with death. You were glad that they didn’t have to see you. At a young age you had been a witness to countless deaths at the hands of titans and the world, let them salvage their innocence for a bit longer.
You were in delirium. You were drifting, memories and glimpses of your life flashing before you, it all felt so real. Your parents, the scouts, the war. The most prominent moments though were the ones with Levi. It was then you realized that you had almost forgotten what he looked like before his injuries. You had almost forgotten what he sounded like before illness overtook him.
Captain Levi Ackerman. A symbol of hope.
Levi. Just Levi. The man you had fallen in love with.
You smiled fondly as you felt the tendrils of your mortality begin to blur; the feeling of peace filled you, it felt like falling into a deep sleep. And the peace continued to lull you, leading you to nothing and infinity all at the same time.
You wandered, away from the cries of the world, and suddenly, a silence.
Then, you saw him. Your face broke out into a beaming smile.
“Levi,” you called out to your lover, your feet moving automatically to reach him.
There he was, his vision clear, his limbs intact, not a single layer of exhaustion on him. His face broke out in a small smile and he called out to you; you felt whole again.
Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who's the predator, and who is prey.
Song Inspo: “Lost on You” by the Cubaneros (originally by LP)
AN: Oh, here we go! Get ready for another Boys AU. And in the immortal words of Cher, we're actually turning back time, to the '80s, no less.
Series Tags/Warnings: (18+ only!) It's the world of The Boys, so angsty and messy, with morally gray and downright charcoal characters, including Soldier Boy, of course (and even the reader herself). Smut, language, misogyny, violence, drug use, and other chapter-specific tags.
🎙️ Listen while you read:
YouTube || Playlist Posters || Spotify
Interrupt the flow, they better not dare..."
Chapters:
⟡ Part 1: Siren Song
⟡ Part 2: Foolish Game
⟡ Part 3: A Deal is a Deal
⟡ Part 4: Better Shape Up
⟡ Part 5: Eminence Front
⟡ Part 6: Drowned and Spellbound
⟡ Part 7: Welcome to the Jungle
⟡ Part 8: For Whom the Bell Tolls
⟡ Part 9: Free to Be You and Me
⟡ Part 10: I Need a Hero
⟡ Part 11: Heroes and Monsters
⟡ Part 12: A Fire in the Blood
⟡ Epilogue: As Good as It Gets
Series complete!
⋆˙⟡ Tag Lists || Fic Library Blog ->
(you can follow and turn on notifications)
Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!
The nightmares never left him. Not really. He could drown them in booze. Bury them under blood and fire. But they always came back.
Tonight, they hit him harder than usual.
He woke up swinging — gasping, snarling, soaked in cold sweat — fists striking at invisible enemies.
It took him a full minute to realize where he was.
Not the jungle. Not the war. Not in some goddamn lab, strapped down and screaming into the dark.
He was in the shitty motel you found for the two of you. A dump, sure — but it was safe. Safe because you were there. His breathing tore in and out of him like a broken machine. His knuckles ached where he’d punched the headboard. Splinters of cheap wood stuck to his skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to get a handle on himself. Tried. The mattress shifted beside him.
You. You were still there. Your warmth seeped into him, even across the narrow gap he’d put between you — because he didn't trust himself not to ruin you if you got too close. "Ben...?" Your voice, soft, still fogged with sleep.
He turned his head — barely — enough to see you propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes blurry but alert. Worried. Always worried. He hated that he made you look at him like that.
A lie so obvious even he hated hearing it.
You didn’t call him on it. You just shifted closer cautiously until your hand hovered, uncertain, over his arm. An invitation, not a demand. It shattered him. He twisted toward you — grabbing your hand, pulling it against his chest like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.
You made a soft, wounded sound at the back of your throat and curled into him without hesitation. And for the first time all night, Soldier Boy breathed.
You ran your fingers gently through his hair — steady, soothing strokes — and he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed.
He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. But fuck if he could make himself let go.
"Ben," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It's okay. You're safe."
The words hit harder than any bullet. He shook his head minutely against you. Safe? He wasn't safe. He was a walking bomb. A fucking monster.
But you — You made him feel something. Something besides anger. Something besides that endless, gnawing hollow inside his ribs. Something real. The only thing that felt real anymore.
"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice cracking open. "Christ, I'm sorry."
"For what?" you asked, blinking up at him.
He looked away — jaw tight, throat working like he was swallowing broken glass.
"For... this," he said finally, bitter and raw. "For being... me."
You sat up slightly, bracing yourself on one hand.
The motel lamp cast a soft halo around you — made you look almost unreal.
Like something he’d dreamed up.
"You don't have to apologize for surviving," you said simply.
He huffed out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob.
"Survivin'?" he echoed, voice twisted. "That what you call it?"
He dragged a hand through his hair, rough and shaking.
"You don’t know the shit I’ve done, sweetheart. You don’t... you wouldn’t look at me the same if you knew."
You reached out and cupped his jaw — gently but firmly, forcing him to meet your eyes.
"I know enough," you said, fierce and soft all at once. "I know who you are now."
Something cracked inside him. Deep and jagged and bleeding. He surged forward — grabbing you like he was afraid you'd disappear — burying his face against your neck, arms locked tight around your waist. You held him. Without fear. Without flinching. Just held him.
He didn’t realize he was shaking until you started murmuring nonsense into his hair — soothing, rhythmic sounds — rocking him slightly like he was something fragile and precious.
Ben had been called a lot of things in his life. Hero. Weapon. Monster. Mistake. Never precious. Not once. And hearing those words coming out of your beautiful mouth broke him.
"You don’t have to fight alone anymore," you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of it. "You have me. You’ll always have me, you, beautiful boy."
And it broke him. Utterly.
He clutched you tighter, like if he let go for even a second the whole world would collapse around him again.
"You’re the only thing that feels real," he whispered against your skin so raw, so broken that it barely sounded like his voice. "The only goddamn thing."
You kissed his temple. And for once, Soldier Boy — Ben — let himself believe it.
--
// PLEASE GIVE THIS A REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED\\
*•. The Other Woman .•* @sunkssdseraph-27 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
izzy806
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
