Guarded in Gauze
Pairing : 'Giant'!Mello x Tiny!Reader ᯓ★
Synopsis : After a mission leaves you injured, Mello finds you trying to ignore the pain atop a cluttered desk. Sharp words and precise hands follow as he carefully tends to your wound, insisting you stay still and safe. What starts as irritation slowly shifts into quiet care, steadying touches and deliberate movements. Perched on his shoulder, removed from the chaos below, you notice the closeness in the way he moves around you, in the careful attention and unspoken focus that keeps you from further injuring yourself.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, gentle handling). No explicit content (entirely SFW, focused on emotional intimacy). Physical injury (the reader character gets hurt and there’s attention to wounds and bandaging). Mello is his normal-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous.
WC : 2.2k, hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The desk was an utter disaster.
Papers lay scattered in uneven piles, some slipping off the edge entirely. Maps were pinned haphazardly to the wall, corners curling where the tape had lost its grip. A few had fallen halfway, hanging crooked like they’d just given up. Chocolate wrappers—silver and gold—were crumpled together near the side, pushed out of the way but never cleaned up. The air smelled faintly sweet, mixed with ink and dust.
And right in the middle of it all, you. Perched awkwardly on the edge of the desk, trying very hard not to shift too much. Trying very hard to ignore your arm. It wasn’t working.
The pain had settled in now. Not the distant, muted kind you could push aside during a mission—but something sharper. Deeper. It pulsed steadily, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of heat through the injury. Your fingers tightened around your sleeve without thinking, like holding it would somehow keep it from getting worse.
You hadn’t noticed it much before. There hadn’t been time. Now there was nothing but time. Your breathing came out a little uneven, quieter than usual, like you were trying not to draw attention to it—even though there was no one around to notice. At least, not yet.
Heavy footsteps broke through the silence. Measured. Familiar. Getting closer. You didn’t have to look to know who it was—but you did anyway.
“…What the hell happened to you?”
Mello’s voice cut through the room before he even fully stopped walking. When you looked up, he was already staring—eyes locked onto your arm. The moment he registered the blood, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But you saw it.
“It’s not that bad—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Immediate. Flat. Final. Before you could argue, he was already moving. He dropped into a crouch beside the desk, the surface dipping slightly under his weight. One hand braced near you, steady and grounded. The other reached toward your arm and paused. Just for a second.
His fingers hovered close to the injury, barely moving, like he was calculating something. Angle. Pressure. Damage. How not to make it worse. Then his jaw tightened slightly.
“Hold still.”
His voice was still sharp. But quieter than before. More controlled. You tried to brush it off, even as your shoulders tensed. “I am—ow—”
“Then do a better job of it.”
The words came out irritated, but his touch didn’t match. He was careful. Careful in a way that didn’t fit his tone at all.
He adjusted your arm just enough to see the wound properly, his grip firm enough to keep it steady but not enough to hurt. His brows pulled together as he focused, attention narrowing until everything else seemed to fall away.
Up close, you could see the details—the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes tracked every small movement, the precision in how he handled even the smallest shift.
Like this mattered more than he was willing to admit. The antiseptic hit. It burned immediately, impossible to ignore.
You hissed under your breath, your whole body reacting before you could stop it. “Seriously, that burns—”
“Obviously.”
Dry. Almost dismissive. But he slowed down. Just slightly. His movements softened—not obvious enough to call out, but enough that you felt the difference. He worked more carefully after that, more deliberate in how he cleaned the wound.
The bandage came next. Wrapped snug, but not tight. Secured without pulling too much. His fingers lingered just a fraction longer than necessary as he smoothed it into place, checking it like he didn’t fully trust it to hold on its own.
“…You were sloppy,” he said after a moment. Quieter now. Less bite. More weight.
You frowned, instinctively defensive. “Hey, I did what you asked—”
“You got hurt.”
The interruption was immediate. And it landed harder than you expected. You didn’t have a comeback ready for that. For a moment, the room went still again. His grip tightened slightly as he finished securing the bandage, fingers pressing just enough to make sure it held. They didn’t pull away right away.
“…You’re a valuable asset,” he added, like the admission irritated him. “Don’t act like you’re expendable.”
You blinked, caught off guard by that phrasing. Then you let out a small huff. “Didn’t realize you cared that much.”
He scoffed instantly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Too quick. And he still wasn’t looking at you. You opened your mouth, ready to push a little more—when his expression shifted again. Subtly. His eyes flicked back to your arm. Then to your posture. The way you were holding yourself just a little too stiff, like you were forcing it.
His jaw tightened.
“…You’re done.”
You blinked. “What?”
“For now,” he clarified, standing up in one smooth motion. “You’re not going on any more missions until that’s healed.”
You straightened slightly, frowning. “That’s overkill. I can still—”
“No.”
The word cut you off instantly. Not raised. Not loud. Just completely non-negotiable.
You stared at him. “Mello—”
“I’m not sending you out like that.”
No sarcasm. Just blunt certainty.
“You’ll slow things down. You’ll make mistakes. And next time it won’t be something you can sit here and pretend isn’t a problem.”
That stung more than the antiseptic had. You crossed your arms—then immediately regretted it and loosened them again. “I’m not useless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
He glanced at you then—brief.
“You’re injured.”
A beat.
“And I’m not dealing with the fallout of that twice.”
There was something layered under that. Something he didn’t explain. But he didn’t give you time to press it. Before you could argue again, the world shifted.
“Hey—”
You barely had time to react before you were lifted off the desk, his grip firm and steady as he moved you like it was nothing.
“Relax.”
And then you were on his shoulder. Higher. Steadier. Completely repositioned before you could process it. You blinked, instinctively adjusting your balance, your hand catching against his jacket. The fabric was warm under your fingers, solid and smooth.
“…What?” you said, glancing down at him. “Why’d you put me up here?”
Mello rolled his eyes, already turning as he started walking. “It’s a safe spot.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Your shoulder is a ‘safe spot’?”
“Less chance of you nearly getting stepped on,” he shot back. “Or falling. Or screwing something up again.”
There it was. That sharp edge again. But it didn’t land the same. Not when his hand came up a second later, resting lightly against your side to steady you as he moved. Not when he adjusted his jacket so you wouldn’t slip. Not when he didn’t even consider putting you back down.
You exhaled softly, some of the tension leaving you as you settled against him despite yourself. From up here, everything felt… different. Quieter. Safer. Even if you’d never say that out loud.
“You could’ve just said you were worried,” you muttered.
“Don’t push it.”
Automatic. But softer than before. And he didn’t move you. Didn’t argue further. Didn’t deny it again. For Mello that was about as clear as it got.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The quiet didn’t feel empty—it stretched out slowly, settling around you instead of pressing in. The only sounds were the steady, muted rhythm of his footsteps and the soft, occasional rustle of his coat shifting with each step. Somewhere farther off, something creaked faintly, but it didn’t reach you fully. Not up here.
From his shoulder, everything felt… removed. Higher. Safer. You could feel him beneath you in a way you hadn’t before—not just the obvious warmth of his body through the fabric of his jacket, but the steadiness of him. The controlled way he moved. The balance in every step, like nothing he did was careless, even when he acted like it was. Alive, in a way that made it easier to let your guard down without really meaning to.
Your breathing slowed to match the rhythm of his movement. The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little at a time. And then a loose strand of his hair had fallen slightly out of place near you, pale against the darker fabric of his jacket. It caught your attention without trying to. Soft-looking. Out of place in a way that felt… strangely approachable.
You hesitated. Just for a second. Then reached out. Carefully, like you were testing something you weren’t entirely sure you were allowed to touch, you took the strand between your fingers. And started twirling it. At first, it was absentminded. Something small to focus on. A quiet distraction. The strand slipped easily between your fingers, softer than you expected, light enough that it barely resisted as you wound it loosely, then let it fall free again. You repeated the motion without thinking, slow and steady, matching the pace of his steps.
For a moment nothing changed. And then Mello stilled. Not fully. He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t jerk away. But there was a shift. Subtle, but unmistakable. His next step came just a fraction slower. His shoulders tightened, barely noticeable unless you were this close. The rhythm you’d settled into faltered for half a beat before smoothing out again.
“…What are you doing?”
His voice cut through the quiet, low and edged—but not sharp enough to actually stop you. You didn’t.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not ‘nothing.’”
You huffed softly, still twirling the strand between your fingers, watching it catch and unwind. “It’s just your hair. Relax.”
He didn’t answer right away. And that hesitation said more than anything he could’ve said out loud. Because if he really wanted you to stop, he would’ve made you. Instead, he kept walking. If anything, his pace slowed just slightly, like he was adjusting without acknowledging that he was doing it.
You tilted your head, glancing down at him. Up close like this, it was easier to catch the details he usually kept buried. The way his jaw was set—not tense with anger, but held a little too tight. The faint shift in his breathing. The way his focus stayed forward, like looking at you would make it worse somehow.
Not irritated. Not exactly. Just… aware. Hyper-aware. It made something small and amused curl in your chest. You shifted your grip slightly, letting the strand slip free before catching it again, twirling it a little more deliberately this time. “Didn’t think you’d be this sensitive.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally froze.”
“I didn’t freeze.”
“You totally did.”
His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, sharp and automatic. “You’re imagining things.”
“Mmhm.”
The quiet returned but it wasn’t the same kind as before. This one felt closer. Because he still hadn’t stopped you. Hadn’t brushed your hand away. Hadn’t snapped at you to cut it out. Hadn’t moved you. Instead his hand lifted. Slowly. Deliberately.
You felt it before you really saw it, the shift in his posture as his arm came up. It hovered near you for just a second, like he was deciding something—then settled lightly against your side. Not gripping. Not restraining. Just there. Steady and present. A quiet kind of contact that didn’t demand anything but still said enough. Making sure you didn’t fall. Or maybe just… keeping you there. You softened at that without meaning to. Your fingers slowed, the motion gentler now as you continued to play with the strand of his hair, less fidgeting and more… lingering.
“You know,” you murmured, voice quieter to match the moment, “for someone who ‘doesn’t care,’ you’re being pretty accommodating.”
“Don’t start.”
There wasn’t much bite in it.
“Just saying.”
He exhaled through his nose, the sound faint but telling, his gaze still fixed ahead like he could avoid the conversation by not engaging with it directly.
“…You’re injured,” he said after a second. “Don’t read into it.”
“Right.”
The word came out light. Unconvinced. You let it hang there, not pushing further—but not agreeing, either. His fingers shifted slightly against your side. A small movement. Easy to miss. But you felt it. A faint, absent back-and-forth motion of his thumb, like he wasn’t fully aware he was doing it. Not enough to be distracting. Just enough to be… there. Protective. You leaned into it without thinking. Just a little. Your weight settling more comfortably against him as your hand stilled for a moment, the strand of hair slipping loose from your fingers before you caught it again. The quiet stretched once more. But now it felt warmer. Softer.
“…Get some rest,” he muttered after a while, voice lower than before. “You’re going to need it.”
There was something firm under the words. Not a suggestion. Not really optional. You hummed softly in response, the sound barely louder than his footsteps. Your hand slowed completely this time, giving the strand one last, absentminded twirl before letting it fall back into place.
“Yeah… yeah, okay.”
But you didn’t pull away, didn’t shift back, didn’t stop leaning against him. And he didn’t move you. Didn’t comment, didn’t pull his hand away, either. If anything his grip adjusted just slightly. More secure. Like he’d already decided you were staying right where you were.