“You look like you could use some rest.”
originally posted on 9.29.24. kind of domestic and fluffy but not too fluffy because, well, its jacket
He came home covered in blood every. Single. Day.
It was stranger to see his letterman jacket washed and worn nicely over his shoulders than it was to see it soaked in gore—not his, you knew. You were aware of what he did for a living, if you could even call it that. You knew why he disappeared quietly every day before you woke up, picking one out of various masks he'd left in a box shoved into the back of the closet in his room. He was so taciturn you almost wondered if he was being considerate or just unwilling to share himself with you. Not that he had any choice, what with you basically living with him.
What you hadn't understood was how someone like him, with hands eternally muddled with blood, could be so patient with you, be so respectful of your space, or of you, for that matter.
When Jacket stumbled into the recording room, you expected him to kill you. It was a safe assumption at the time, considering he'd murdered one of the mobsters right in front of your eyes.
Damn , you thought, what a way to go out, on some stupid porno set.
You hadn't even bothered begging for your life. Rather, you laid there, eyes following the masked man as he stood over your half-naked form.
“Yeah, just get it over with,” you muttered, exhaustion and tears tugging your eyelids closed. “I won't struggle or anything.”
Vaguely, you remembered being taken to his car instead. He draped his jacket over you in the backseat, which you appreciated and would have appreciated even more if you hadn't been suppressing gags at the sight, smell, and feel of the unidentifiable fluids he'd gotten on it.
The ride home was been silent. He hadn’t looked back once, either. As you followed the blurred street lights past the windows, you sat up and managed to catch his attention.
The car rolled to a stop at the light. You drew his jacket over your shoulders tightly, feeling vulnerable when he finally tossed his rooster mask onto the passenger seat beside him. Dirty blond hair. Surprising, a little unfitting. His pointer finger tapped the wheel mindlessly, and eventually, he paused before giving you a response.
“Jacket? Really?” You scoffed faintly and let yourself fall back onto the seat. Reminded of the situation you found yourself in, you quickly let go of your irritable demeanor. “Okay. Jacket,” you mused to yourself softly.
The rumble of the car led you into a light sleep, and it had shaken you out of it when the engine stopped completely. The door opened upwards, something interesting in all of this mess, and Jacket wordlessly beckoned for you to come closer when you had pushed yourself up against the opposite door. You shook your head. His hand withdrew to his side as he stepped parallel to the door, inviting you out.
His face told you absolutely nothing. A blank stare, maybe a bit tired, maybe even a bit hopped up on some random drug, but relatively neutral. It was shocking that he had even given you the courtesy of choice. Maybe that was just common decency. You wouldn't know. Either way, you took his offer, creeping out of the vehicle slowly, hesitantly, and flinching when he had shut the door behind you.
Jacket let you walk yourself along behind him. You let him lead you. He hadn’t asked for his jacket back, nor had he told you where you were going, but from the looks of it, he lived in the shabby apartments he parked in front of. It was better than nothing, right?
Said apartment did, in fact, meet your bottom-of-the-barrel expectations. The only AC was a wall unit that he hadn’t even bothered to turn on in the middle of a Florida summer, and even that was covered in a thin layer of dust and other unidentifiable spatters of food. A couple of pizza boxes sat in the corner of the kitchen near the trash can, lazily kicked aside by the man lingering cautiously by the door as he locked it. Behind him, the wall was covered in scratches and stains from God knows what.
You weren’t been able to think of anything to say. He only got the pleasure of your wide-eyed, weary stare, but he hadn’t commented on it, opting to shuffle to a door across the hall and giving you one last glance.
“I’ll get you a blanket.”
You nodded. The couch was where you assumed you’d be sleeping, but with how filthy it was, you favored the thought of using the blanket as a mattress cover instead.
From inside the pitch-black room, he emerged again, this time with a knitted white blanket—you didn’t even know if you could consider it a blanket any more than it was just a sheet. You thanked him anyway, trying your best to smile at him, even just a bit. He returned it with a small wave, then retreated and softly closed the door behind him.
A lonely hush had fallen over the apartment. Tears formed in your eyes. All alone in Miami, no family, no friends. Some way to start out. You collapsed face-first onto the couch, curling yourself into the crevice where the back and sitting cushions met. The couch itself smelled odd, like corn chips and dust, but you couldn’t have cared less—at least you had somewhere to crash.
You didn’t even put the sheet over it.
That was almost two weeks ago. Since then you haven’t bothered to ask how long you’d be able to stay or what exactly he planned on doing with you. Jacket hasn’t mentioned it either, so you can only assume it’s until he decides he wants you gone.
On the other hand, never did you think you’d be sitting at a lopsided table across from a mass murderer having breakfast. His situation was unknown to you, with the killings and whatnot, but as long as you were alive, it didn’t really matter, did it?
“No… work today?” The late morning light catches on your utensils. You angle it to shine into his hair. You blind him accidentally.
Jacket shrugs and blinks away the afterimage. Then he shakes his head, though not with much confidence. You fold your legs to rest your feet upon the chair you were seated on, leaning forward to take a spoonful of the off-brand cereal he had lying around in a cupboard.
He didn't say much else. He didn't say much, period. The only responses you'd get were the occasional “yeah”, “no”, or “I'm leaving”. The lattermost was reserved for departures later in the day, when the phone would beckon him away from the apartment. Usually, you noticed, he’d leave before afternoon set in. You’d wake up with him gone, and use the time to wander around the apartment, tidying up and going grocery shopping. Jacket was bright enough to at least give you some cash, but only after you had complained about the fridge being empty.
“No more pizza,” you had begged with pleading eyes, sitting cross legged on the couch. He only gave you a confused glance, but returned the phone to its receiver rest anyways. You breathed a sigh of relief.
In fact, he was relatively easy to persuade. You learned that pretty quickly. He didn’t complain when you hogged the bathroom trying to find some semblance of normalcy in your situation, or when you were still sleeping at 12 in the afternoon.
“Do you mind if I sleep in the bed in your room?” You ask abruptly through the thick silence, holding a spoonful of cereal to your lips. You look up at him through your lashes, eyes flicking between your bowl and his own face. The spoon is dropped back into the bowl as you swirl around the oats. “I noticed you have an extra bed, so…I dunno. Just asking.” Jacket cocks his head at you, then glances down to his own bowl, seemingly in deep thought.
Later that day you watch from the floor with an apple as he flips the mattress and lays a new fitted sheet on it for you. To add: this was the floor you had mopped just a couple days ago while he was away, and without a doubt was he surprised to find he was practically gliding across the tiles now. Pleasantly surprised? Hopefully.
The blond steps back to allow you a final view of your new, cozy dwelling. Definitely more desirable than the couch. You turn to him with a genuine smile and rise to your feet.
“Thank you,” you mumble with a piece of apple in your mouth. He nods. The man’s jaw twitches, as if he’s contemplating words about to leave his mouth, then leaves you to decorate the bed as you please.
You can’t help but refrain from cleaning up his side of the room as well. You made it off limits to yourself until you gained some sense of familiarity with the man, but now you just wanted to feel safe–with him, you did, at least knowing what he was capable of, and that was good enough to settle for.
The next morning you mull over how strange it is to be waking up next to someone who, a mere 2 weeks ago, was a total stranger to you. You tossed and turned through the night, still plagued with dreams of the drug house he plucked you out of so suddenly, and barely caught a blink of sleep–evident on your face the next morning.
You turn to your left only to be met with his sleeping form, just about to let the sunshine peeking through the blinds wake him up. He doesn’t notice you scurry out of the room before that happens, uncertain as to whether you were quite at that point yet.
It’s only 7am–way too early for you to be awake, but going back into his room is not an option. His room. Not really yours yet, you note.
You decide to make breakfast instead. Frowning at what’s in the fridge, the only viable option seems to be eggs and a couple pieces of toast with butter. As you fix yourself a simple meal, you consider pulling out another 2 eggs and another piece of toast. The clock ticks, reading exactly 7:20.
As if on queue, you’re met with a bewildered and half-asleep Jacket, hands reaching to scratch eagerly at his hair. He stops in his tracks as he notices the very obvious individual sitting quietly, neatly at his table, having made themselves at home with a modest breakfast. His focus shifts from you, to the plate across from you, then back to you with a familiar tilt of his head.
“You don’t like eggs?” You fold your hands under your chin anxiously and furrow your brows at him. “I can make something else if you…”
A shake of his head cuts you off. Jacket rubs his palms into his eyes. He shambles slowly to the chair, and you watch with curiosity as he slumps into it, shoulders leaned forward . His eyes nearly shut once more as he picks up the fork, which looks more like an anvil by the way he lifts it. A smile of amusement crosses your face when he shoves almost half of the eggs into his mouth. His hand raises after a beat, giving you a half-assed, but well-meaning thumbs up.
The week after that you propose a new idea to him during an evening that had enveloped the apartment in a fiery orange.
You turn to him and tap a finger on the floor beneath you. The two of you found it was the best spot for a bit of video game time, and with the beds having been pushed together, it could almost compare to the stiff couch in the living room. You found comfort in sleeping a bit closer now, and sometimes abandoned your bed altogether to shift onto his side. Not that he ever said anything about it, even going so far as to let you hog the one massive blanket that replaced the separate sheets on each bed.
An unspoken habit was established to have at least an hour where you would watch him play one of the various games he had for the console beside the staticy CRT television he bought new a few days ago. Sometimes he’d even let you try, guiding you through various obstacles of the colorful worlds on the screen, and you were more than happy to oblige in a bit of fun.
Jacket stares at you. You can’t tell if it’s one of disapproval, or one of interest, because he only continues to leer until you finish your thoughts.
“I don’t think whatever money you’re getting from…somewhere is enough for both of us. I just want to help a bit.”
Jacket shakes his head a bit too fast and turns back to the bright screen. You watch on as his character, clad in yellow and red, maneuvers around what looks to be strange aliens bouncing around the screen.
“‘S fine,” he mumbles, clicking away at the buttons on his NES. He spares you a quick glance before pausing the game. “Don’t worry about it.”
You unravel your legs to rest in front of you, idly flicking and tugging at a string of lint trailing off his pants. “I do though.” He pays no mind when you yank it off roughly.
Jacket hands you the controller. It’s warm from holding it for so long.
“I’ll take care of things,” he finally mutters, pressing a button on the gamepad that unpauses it for you. You hum in response, deciding to take him for his word, and mash at the buttons on the controller just like he did.
4 days later you figure out how to make homemade chicken noodle soup. It wasn’t Michelin star material, but it was certainly better than cereal and eggs and whatever basic ingredients the two of you had been scrounging for in the fridge. Jacket was even willing to help of his own accord. You should’ve realized, in retrospect, how difficult it would be to direct someone who has no culinary skills. Zero.
“Do you know how to cut celery?”
“Okay, well, you have to…” You turn away from the chicken you were shredding. Jacket’s already massacring the vegetable, cutting it unevenly, almost mashing it. “That works, I guess.”
“Still tastes the same, right?”
“Sure,” you scoff with a smile. He taps your shoulder. Presented to you is a cutting board full of what looks to be about 5 stalks of sliced celery. “Oh, wow, that’s…a lot. You like celery?”
He shrugs with a crooked, subtle grin, and squeezes in next to you to dump the contents of the board into the pot. It’s filled to the brim now, and you quickly set the lid on before it boils over.
“This’ll be more than enough for the week,” you say with a pleased sigh, leaning on the white-tiled counter. “You are a great helper, you know that?”
You give him a double thumbs up and a nod of approval. Jacket mirrors you with a goofy, almost mocking smile. He’s shoved back playfully, and before long is cowering in the corner with his hands up in self-defense while you assault him with an extra celery stalk.
June 8th, the calendar in the kitchen says. Only a week later, and you’ve already gotten decorating privileges. Written in the box are a few things: Grocery shopping–need milk , pay electric bill , and laundry.
The two of you have been living in near silence up to this point, something you’ve gotten used to, and have even found comfort in. He doesn’t ask much of you, you don't ask much of him, and both of you are completely content. And on this day, you step out of the bathroom holding a wet towel in your arms just in time to meet him on his departure.
“Work calls.” Jacket plucks his namesake off the hook by the door. As he zips it up, you run a hand through your wet hair unconsciously.
His eyes follow you through the mask as you scuffle up to him, holding the towel between the two of you, almost as a barrier. The answering machine replays a message from a voice you don’t recognize. It’s too quiet to make out any words, and the caller doesn’t sound urgent.
Jacket stuffs his hands into his pockets, impatiently, yet intrigued all the same. Your gaze skims over the large ‘B’ on the left breast of his letterman sweater. You’d never thought to ask what it stood for until now, curiously.
You wring your hands together, then give him a tender, uncertain hug.
“Uh…be safe,” you blurt awkwardly, head tilted up to avoid muffling your words. His eyes are hidden behind the mask he had chosen today–a rooster. It seemed to be one of his favorites.
He doesn’t return it right away, but when he does, it catches you off guard just how tight he holds you, with one hand behind your head and the other on your lower back. You turn your head so as to not crush your nose, and you can feel his chin resting on the crown of your head. It’s too intimate to not be intentional, and yet, as usual, it isn’t mentioned when you pull away.
“I will.” His voice is stifled through the fabric. You smile sheepishly, then hold out your pinkie.
He wavers for a moment, then raises his own finger to intertwine it with yours.
Jacket wasn’t able to keep his wordless promise, because that morning, little did he know, was the last he’d see of you–alive, at least.
Prior to this job, he’d gotten a message that was different from usual; kill a single man. Not a floor, not a building. A single man, face concealed under a teal biker helmet and a lot more confidence than he should have had. The way he held himself reeked of ego. Jacket didn’t particularly care, but if it meant it would make his job difficult, he’d need to pull out all the stops. As he came face to face with the biker, it was easy to remember why he didn’t just let himself get mauled here and then. Someone was waiting at home for him, someone important–the biker could never understand that, and therefore, wouldn’t have the same determination Jacket would.
Apparently the helmet-clad boy wasn’t as dumb as he looked, and put up a fair fight, swiping with impressive speed at anything he could reach. Dodging his swipes was becoming more of a chore than a task. He couldn’t swing forever, Jacket realized, but damn was he taking forever to burn off all that energy.
The biker even had the audacity to call his opponent ‘dead meat’, and as lame as that was, for a second he almost believed his words when his knife grazed the sleeve of his jacket. Nothing more than a scratch, but still a little frightening.
So when they both mutually decided enough was enough, forfeiting their weapons in favor of coddling their wounds, each inwardly thought they’d spared their opponent by crawling away, bloodied and bruised, but alive nonetheless. He’d never failed an errand assigned to him before, and he hadn’t intended on letting that happen today, but that damn helmet guy was just too good, too competent to let himself be knocked to the floor via a pistol flying straight at his face.
Jacket knew, however, the biker didn’t have someone to go back home to, someone to relieve him of his wounds and take care of the weeping gashes in his skin. It was something to look forward to after an exhausting day on the job, if you could even call it that when the money he got was picked off corpses around the building.
Going up the stairs today felt strange. His footsteps echo louder than usual; it's just a bit colder tonight. In fact, it was strange to suddenly have someone put a hit out on him, considering he knew almost no one in this giant city.
Something was off, he knew, and he figured he’d ask you if any shady business had taken place around the building or if anyone had visited earlier.
He wonders if you left the door unlocked with the way handle twists easily to the right. He also ponders if you had let something go rotten in the fridge, by the smell lingering in the apartment. Then it hits him.
Someone did pay you a visit, and he’s greeted with two things: a man in a rat mask, and another surprise–your corpse.
A tiny part of him isn’t surprised. Some harm was bound to come your way sooner or later, but Jacket never imagined his chance to tell you what was to come would pass him by so easily.
As he stares down the mess of blood and brain matter, his shock turns to dread, then to anger. At least the bastard had the decency to give you a clean shot, so he can assume you didn’t suffer long, if at all, and that was the most he could’ve hoped for.
But this isn’t what he wanted for you in the first place. You didn’t deserve this, or ask for any of this. You were blissfully unaware from the start.
When he took you away from the filthy people who were using you, he had only wanted the best for you, really. He planned to support you first, himself second, and let you go should you ever wanted to leave. But you never did. Jacket hadn’t ever met someone who showed genuine interest and pleasure in talking to him, other than his military partner–who, like you, was dead before he could say goodbye.
He forces himself to rip his attention away from your battered body to the man who had made himself right at home, arms thrown over the back of the couch like he was an old friend just in for a visit. To say the way the murderer sat on his– your couch so comfortably irked Jacket was an understatement, as if he’d somehow defiled the ghost of you that wept on that couch, laughed on that couch, spent their last moments rising from it to answer the door only to be greeted with the barrel of a gun.
Jacket doesn’t notice nor acknowledge the gun in his grip until he gestures to Jacket with it and finally says something regarding the situation.
“Ah, there you are…” the rat begins, tapping his fingers against the headboard of the couch. Jacket’s hands clench into fists, but the rat pays them no mind. “I was wondering when you'd be getting back. Well, let's get this over with then.”
Before Jacket can even reach for the pistol he left near the door, the armed man heaves himself off the couch with a sigh, raises his arm, and lifts the gun level with Jacket’s head.
“You look like you could use some rest.”
